85. God of the Game

Jimmy’s set up a conglomerate. It’s a corporate takeover. All my neon lights, cheesecakes and sausages now bear his mark, his logo. The soldiers of his empire are marching in to my kingdom in a showy military procession of order, discipline and uniformity, whilst overhead the air force shrieks in an honorary formation of victory. Of course, I yielded willingly.

My boyfriend’s banner is red with a white circle and two black thunderbolts crisscrossing at the middle. In truth, it approximates the Nazi swastika, but with more graphic menace. Jimmy admits he was, but is no longer, a fan of Adolf Hitler. They are both painters. But Jimmy’s more talented, and way more handsome. Jimmy’s also not a failed artist. Adolf is. That’s why the Austrian-born resorted to political despotism. Jimmy need not succumb to such primitive methods. He conquers by means of his art. During our heart-to-heart sessions, our intimate confessions, Jimmy says he was upset with Hitler. A little pedagogical rejection caused that boy to drop the brush and pick, in lieu, a fascist flag. Such a wuss! Adolf Hitler could have been so much more than bemoaning that he was not an anonymous wanderer painting a picturesque, romantic, classical and historical Italy in 1942.

Jimmy flutters. Jimmy laughs. Then Jimmy lets in on a secret. I am curious, it sounds like hot gossip. My ears are perked. Jimmy says he’s got Hitler in the cellar; his first conquest, the Third Reich, the dictator, now just a prisoner. Forever a prisoner. Jimmy laughs some more. I join in.

Jimmy says he’ll take me go see him.

On the way down to the cell, Jimmy describes Adolf’s world. He’s a terrible architect. He was told by teachers that he had talent in this department, yet lacked the raw skills needed for the specialization because he did bad in earlier education; he was doomed and ruined to be a nondescript imitator. I don’t know if he regrets having not studied harder, but Jimmy says, see his designs and you will cringe. That’s how horrible they are.

Such an imposing man, you would think his afterlife would be grand. But he just likes to be shitted and urinated on all over! Scat and watersports. Rumour had it, but is now true, that the fuehrer was a bisexual amphetamine addict, a sexual fetishist suffering from monorchism and syphilis, and an indulger togging up in ladies’ lingerie. For those in the dark, a monorchist is a man possessing only one testicle. Colourful character this Hitler, but now he lies in bed, drugged out; and thanks to Jimmy, the highlight of World War Two’s number one antagonist, and arguably Villain of the Century, is to be crapped upon and peed all over. Behind bars Adolf sits, and Jimmy taunts his ancestry – son of an illegitimate child, Anti-Semitic Adolf Hitler’s grandpa was a fucking Jew.

Jimmy recounts the story. It was real easy trapping the dead fuehrer in the afterlife. All Jimmy did was to leave a lollipop spiked with his favourite narcotic on top of a pile of dung in a manner it resembled his lost testicle. Hitler leapt with glee, and his future after suicide now belonged to Jimmy. But enough on such an absurd personality. The life to pass, I rode on Jimmy’s iron horse, his motorcycle; charging into battle. I was in the sidecar next to him actually, shooting machine guns, waving axes and clobbering those who dared oppose with a warhammer. Mostly they were just raids and plunders. Villagers were terrified of our imminent attacks. He would burn huts down and rape pretty girls. I urged him on. It was nicer to be a cheerleader than the victim of forced intercourse.

When the empire was substantial, I stayed home and bitched about the house. I was queen bee in Jimmy’s absence. He was on crusades, expanding boundaries to faraway lands - like Alexander the Great and other conquerors of history.

You can say, in loneliness, I became Babylon, mother of harlots, robed in purple, gold and scarlet; but mostly, scantily clad. I drank blood, and was a lustful vampire. Orgies were frequent in the castle. Kings and merchants crawled to my throne to perform the adoring act of cunninlingus. In return, I, the goddess, the high priestess, blessed them, and their nations and businesses flourished. As long as they worshiped Jimmy and paid their tributes that funded his expeditions, they prospered. Go out of line, and a fate like Hitler’s wait.

I think I do a good job running the kingdom. Better than Jimmy. Guys, they’re all about war. Boringgg... Power can be intoxicating; fact! But ambitious men know of nothing else other than to attain it, (o’, the glory of battle), but shrug, they know little how to exploit it. That’s where a woman comes in; spending hubby or boyfriend’s money to plush up the place. Home sweet home for him to return to. That’s why Adam needs Eve. If she’s not around, he won’t know the difference between office (garden, in Biblical rhetoric) and house. Everything will look the same. Eden will be monochrome and one-dimensional; though he’ll probably be saved from the Fall.

Jimmy likes it whenever he comes back, convalescing from combat; tells me stories of the campaign reclining on fluffy cushions eating Roman Ruby grapes. But often too soon he’s got to return to the battlefield. The troops await their leader. And when he leaves, I drink a glass of wine; reminiscing.

This is way superior to being a sex object; though I sometimes miss being a toy - less responsibility, getting thrown about. Now, I’m the boss. I lead. I am dominant in the bedroom. I am a control freak, a desperate and paranoid housewife. Does Jimmy know I fool around? I sleep with dicks, big and small, rich and poor, gorgeous and grotesque. I’m a nymph, I confess; but back then, I didn’t have a choice. Papa forced it down my throat.

Nowadays, I have the authority to refuse. But I don’t. Rarely. I fuck any juvenile or senile I see. Animals too, cute or beastly, they are not spared. Why, should I feel guilty? Jimmy fucks his armaments. And who knows what he does beyond the door of my presence. What you sow is what you reap, lover boy.

I consulted a psychiatrist once, and he theorized my behaviour was the revenge of a repressed childhood. Stripped, humiliated and made powerless by daddy and his cohorts, I now reverse the roles and buff in pride. I didn’t like what I heard, so I had the shrink executed. But not before I gave him the time of his life. The pleasure I bestowed was so divine he eagerly died and regretted marrying his wife.

Most men do, if they are honest - regret marrying their wife. That’s why Jimmy and I never tied the knot. I never walked the aisle, and there was no nuptial contract, no matrimonial vows. I am just Jimmy’s mistress. His top whore. Do I prefer this arrangement? I mean, I guess it’s easy, slipping in and out of love to our convenience. But do I want more? Does Jimmy want more? He oozes this plasticized cool whenever conversations breach the topic of a formal family; says, and I agree with every word that proceeds from his mouth, that we’re not mortals. Only humans are bound by the law of marriage. Even the Bible states, angels do not marry, nor are they given in marriage. And we are of much higher office than angels.

But one last thing he requires of me to be totally free. Jimmy says, after an eternity, that I still carry a whole load of luggage. I am perturbed. He is about to do something serious. Jimmy’s always got this look before a showdown: a subtle narrowing of the eyes, tightening of the cheeks and the pouting of lips. His forehead wrinkles o’ so lightly. Jimmy snaps his fingers, and two trolls bring in a filthy, chain-bound individual having his head stuffed in a sack.

Jimmy begins. Says he is disappointed. After an infinite amount of time, he’d expected more; expected me to be free from my past. But obviously, I’m still stuck in a rut. It’s time to play his hand. He says I’m no different than Hitler. Everlasting life is up for grabs, is before our very eyes, but we return to shit, we return to vomit.

I dissent. It’s offensive to link me to that pathetic man. For one, he was a person of influence reduced to the inner ghost of paraphilias. I, on the other hand, was an abused maidservant who ascended to the position of power.

Jimmy slams a table. Shouts that it makes no difference. Why am I Babylon, mother of harlots and queen of heaven? I was about to fire up my nuclear reactor to launch a tirade of defensive missiles when Jimmy shuts my silo down.

No more am I clothed in regal colours and royal hues. I’m just plain old Sharon again, sixteen years of age; punk attitude meets Japanese schoolgirl anime.

Remember who is king.

I do. I exist because of Jimmy. He overruns my eternity, controls my afterlife. But he said he’d always loved me. In order to take his side, and together, be like a spectral Bonnie and Clyde, robbing and murdering everyone’s dream, I have to first be the sacrifice. They that keep their life shall lose it, while they that lose their life for my sake (whose? Jimmy’s?) shall find and keep it. It’s the same governing principle in all stratums of truth. I have to make a choice. Up till now, he’d proclaimed for me liberty, the independence to do as I wish. `Cos he knows me, he knows me well. Knows I’ll go up kicking and screaming if I don’t have my bloody way. So he lets me, hoping I’ll make the correct call. But I don’t. If it were anyone else, Jimmy states, he would have implemented marshal law a long, long time ago. Take complete control. Instead, he hands over half his kingdom, the peaceful half that I may show off and fuck around.

Jimmy doesn’t accuse me of infidelity. Can’t blame me for actions he’s guilty of himself. That’s beside the point. In fact, Jimmy loves it that I’m promiscuous. Makes me so much more appetizing. What’s wrong is the core. I’m putting on pomp as a cover. The psychiatrist was right; Babylon, mother of harlots, the queen the whole world fucks and no one respects is the same young girl daddy raped. I’d not changed, I’d just inflated my deathly misgivings an ominous amount. Look here, it doesn’t matter if I’m having my vagina dug out or I’m cutting off cocks, or I am in ownership of the most exquisite piece of pussy in the entire universe, I’m still giving daddy a blowjob after blowing off his face! And I’m crying and gorging down cheesecakes.

AI generated art prompted by author

All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.