87. God of the Game
Frank. Frankie I call him at times. Frank was my best friend on Earth. He was a bad man on death row. But that’s another story, and that’s all you need to know for now.
The analogy; Jahr’s analogy. I got it wrong again. Jimmy as Daddy. Not Jimmy is Daddy. So nothing’s in error. I just confused myself.
Thus, let me elucidate once again. Jimmy is not Daddy. Jimmy, or should I say Frank, is the actor playing Daddy (and Jimmy, too) in Sharon’s story. A technical discrepancy I overlooked.
I comprehend now. Jimmy wants to be real. He engineers an elaborate plot to free himself from my script. Jimmy’s an evil and ungrateful Pinocchio – that wooden puppet wanting to be a genuine boy.
And the only way to fulfil his diabolical ambition is to kill the director. Me. It’s not enough to overshadow the worlds of the dead, the dimension of dreams; he wants now to rule real life. Rule perhaps, the future of the Illuminati, Elizabeth Amber’s D’Arcy, ZOOL.A.ND, the tapestries of JC, Syurga, Leper and the Gunk’s MMORPG...the list scrolls unrelenting to an omniversal abyss.
However, here’s the crux. He can’t annihilate me. It would be purposeless if I die by his hand, for he possesses not the power to alter the fabric which suits him up in the screenplay. Sharon’s the lead; for him to be free, she must be the one who executes his plan.
Sharon’s heart will break realizing Jimmy’s an asshole. Jimmy’s just as crude and predatory, if not worse than daddy. Her knight in shining armour is just a jerk using her. Like every other male she is acquainted with. Up to half his bloody kingdom, the peaceful half, he gives her to administer as she wills; bullshit! He had his spies on her all that while, scrutinizing her subconscious and unconscious, coming to conclusions, drawing the connections to Sanguine Lover, and the great goddess Sha-Rronne lounging at the back of subliminal wormholes.
Here’s the analogy again: Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft. Lara Croft may be Lara Croft as a person, but Angelina Jolie (though fake) definitely stamped her mark as Lara Croft in the film universe. Her character, her signature; if, for example, Megan Fox were to play Lara, a different heroine would, naturally, be on foxy parade. Jennifer Aniston? Lara would be crying over blunders and ex-boyfriends, and the only secrets she’d solve are breaking with Brat and Rachel’s hairdo.
Sanguine Lover would have unquestionably, or even unknowingly, rubbed her aura on Sharon, and Jimmy would have, doubtless, sniffed it out and pried at the director’s chair through my ex-lover’s sense of sight. An opportunist like Jimmy, sure he is to recognize a prospect if he stumbles across one.
And from whom does he inherit this trait? Frank, of course; the actor cast to play the eccentric artist cum murderer and paedophiliac father. At what level the two personalities are allied is obscure. From the descriptions above, I’m sure you’re aware they’re separate entities.
Now enters the next enigma: how the hell did Jimmy capture me? I can’t confirm on this, but remember what JC said about my own reincarnations I’ll meet in future? And my James Bond doppelganger? My suspicions of his hospital could be true. And if I were to pinpoint an exact moment Jimmy kidnapped me, I presume it would be during Detective Lingam’s screen time. I was the actor. I played that cameo in Sharon’s movie and a lead in JC’s tapestry. In that link, coupled with the fact I was under Anesidora’s spell, Jimmy, or rather Frank, could have conveniently crossed over the timelines as Jim Franko, Sergeant Siva’s gay pal, and stole my DNA. He didn’t have the power then, but in Sharon’s sequel, when he is plainly a vengeful spirit unbound in the eternal consciousness of the dead, he easily steps back to the suicide-climax when the cops surrounded the diner, and in the aftermath of the electrocution, hopped on to a pensive Lingam stupefied by the miracle of the ashen pubis sprouting innocence and purity in the form of the fresh lily, entered my soul, hyper-jumped into Tapestry 13 with me reprising the Detective’s role (albeit Siamese twinned to the Sergeant), projected himself as the homosexual, snooped around my mural, and, somehow stole and stealthily exited and returned home to his realm of unbridled ids with a piece of me.
The Jack of Asses card may save my soul. That’s the angle of my defence. Work Sharon against Jimmy, show her what a heartless bastard he is. I said, “Sharon, do you know who I am?”
“You look like my daddy...but it can’t be.”
“You’re right, I can’t be. And Jimmy’s not the gentleman you hope he is either.”
Jimmy smiles that bogus turn of lips. “Sharon, where’s your sense, dear? Are you going to believe me or this liar? Look at him; your eyes don’t deceive you. It’s your dirty father,” he comments on my appearance, “He’s back to screw you again.”
“But daddy’s dead. I killed him,” Sharon double stares us both.
“Yer dead too, honey,” came his reply.
I got to do more. Jimmy’s way convincing. His version is so much easier for Sharon to swallow.
He adds, “Yer dead, he’s dead. He’s come to reclaim your soul. Luckily, I found him first. Why do you think I’m at the outer edges of the empire? Searching for him,” he answers his own question, “making sure he doesn’t have the opportunity to fool and hurt you again.
“I love you, Sharon. Only you. But this time you got to make a final decision; the man who abused you your entire life, or me, lover of your soul. Only you can send him to oblivion.”
“I’m not sure if I want that fate for him, Jimmy...he is after all...still my daddy.”
“I’m not your daddy,” I interjected, “and your boyfriend’s a liar!”
“Hear how desperate he is, baby; but if you let him live, he’ll do to you more than all the torment he did you on Earth. Your call. On the other hand, you can spend forever with me. I’m out there working my butt off, working to build us a future. I do it all for you, honey. Come,” he stretches his hand, “let us rule over our kingdom, forever.”
“Jimmy, I can’t. I just can’t. I dunno why, but I just can’t kill him. I can’t kill him again.” Sharon cries. The Smith & Wesson Model 29 drops to the floor with a heavy thud, and she buries her face in the palms which used to cradle the death contraption.
I sense an opening for action. Jimmy’s gruel brainwashing over the vast lands of time had not wholly bleached Sharon’s aptitude for judgement. I swung at the gun; and with the speed of thunder, pop a hole in Jimmy’s forehead. In slow motion, the bullet tore his brains, and his eyes parted to the sides, to where his ears previously were. Jimmy dropped to the floor face first, feet in the air. He’s wearing Nike runners I’m suddenly aware.
Sharon screams and screams and screams and screams. Nonstop - a horn blaring into my eardrums. I can’t take it. I shout, and I’m aiming Jimmy’s antiquated firearm directly at her. Sudden silence, except for the squishy sound blood makes spurting out from ruptured arteries; and all I can think of is Clint Eastwood as Harry Callahan; not Clint Eastwood is Harry Callahan.
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.