89. God of the Game
Planet Muthafukker
The fate of Sharon is lost at sea. Jimmy’s time travelling tidal wave of a feat had forced me to improvise. Sucked into my own creation. No more the god outside watching the telly screen, directing players. Can’t change channels now, I’m interacting with breathing effigies made in my own image. Reminds me of Jesus Christ. But his visit to the Third Rock was purposeful; mine, in the clouds and mists of afterlife is a sham.
Go on rampage. Fuck your fears. Become Frank, seize Jimmy’s empire.
And so I do. I ravish Sharon, my young, ripe and beautiful daughter. All the years of self-control erupts in a single volcano. All that false piety stagnant in reservoir becomes too forceful of a burden for the dam of morality to withhold. I gush out, I gush forward, and I gush onto Sharon in generous cheesecake flavours. I protect her, I ravage her; I am the evilest motherfucker. If the gods are angry, let them come burn me. I announce a challenge, a fight to a fiery hell.
And the evilest motherfucker needs his Jezebel, his Babylon; the mother of harlots. Together they will set the titans ablaze, commit incest and all other abominable sacrileges in the holy of holies; whatever devils may craft.
Slay your offspring in exchange for a goddess. Fair trade. For Sha-Rronne’s rebirth there must be sacrifice, and the offering is one from your own loins. Figuratively. Sharon does not struggle; she does not put up a fight. Passively the teenage nymph submits, succumbs; but who wouldn’t, if one realizes the passage after dagger and blood culminates in the reunification with a goddess; only insolent fools, or souls already purchased and redeemed for salvation by another deity, would turn down such a charitable, knocked-down and discounted offer.
Sharon’s nubile package lies unwrapped under a plastic Christmas tree, on a marble tombstone, and a familiar knife is raised above her thick breasts. (In my pants I had it all the while, for Vesper had advised never to leave home without. Jimmy ceased it in my capture, but I regained the weapon - sticking out as if a comb from his jeans’ back pocket, the job was effortless with him dead, and faced down.) An identical blade to the one that plunged Jai-I, the one that tried to pierce Rogol the Beast’s head; the one with a connection to Leper and the Gunk, developers of Hell the Game, foundation of a heaven, the MMORPG Syurga’s real estate property prices are based upon. Cold steel slices perfect meat, and Sharon is served as sushi. Colour coded plates denote the cost of each delicate dish, referring to various portions of her rack. Rice balls, a cut of Sharon slapped on top, and she’s sent out together with wasabi and soya sauce on a conveyor belt for a random dinner crowd.
My muse, o’ Sharon, inspiration for my perversion, amorous and playful sacrifice, fawn of my desire prancing in an enchanted forest; here comes your end, my darling, my babe, my sweet little girl. Shared out amongst strangers, an insignificant finale for the fate of a female child; but the rise of a goddess emerges from the faeces of those who partook of adolescent flesh. Steamy, stinky vapours ascend to heaven, a sweet odorous offering, and Sha-Rronne, asleep outside the confines of time, awakes to the digested aroma of her young ghosted flesh.
She’s exalted at the pinnacle of Jimmy’s eternal empire, now mine; and I lay at her feet, prostrated as a worshipful dog, bestowing adulation. Sagacious Sha-Rronne, she is in the form I first encountered her, which is a conflagration of feminine characters morphing in and out of her lofty being. Femme fatale to freak show, I recall that night in ZOO.L.A.ND, how she called to me. I was checking out prostitutes in a pseudo bar, fights were underway, and I’d just been tricked miserably by a she-devil to masturbate in front of her fiends.
“Pause,” Sha-Rronne states, “Rewind. Zoom in. Watch how we met.” The still frame is anchored at my monkey mug of an orgasm. She brings the cursor south to the firing freeze of my thing, then zooms in further to the cascading seeds. “There,” Sha-Rronne declares, “the little bugger that started it all.” Magnification at 12,000x shows a cheeky sperm soiled on the floor of Jai-I’s cyber land.
Sharon, when she was just an infinitesimal cell, just joined to the ovum of ZOOL.A.ND.
“Why...it?”
“Random,” was Sha-Rronne’s reply. “You called, I came.”
“I called?”
“Somewhat.” Sha-Rronne shrugged, “I’m a goddess. I just want to have fun.” She hums the Cyndi Lauper song.
So she zips a beeline to that chanced big-headed, long-tailed swimmer; immaculately impregnates the programming codes of Jai-I’s virtual world...and, bingo! Her pheromones permeated in the club, and I was mesmerized by that scent. That’s when Sha-Rronne materialized, and I caught the tantalizing glimpse of the triune she-god – Mother, Lover and Bitchy Pubescent Whore.
“Remember your fantasy when you came?”
“...Ai...”
“That’s right. You were dreaming of your Sanguine Lover; the love you would do to her, the mad sex both of you would share, the emotional leap of the spirit through the passage of a kiss, magnificently freeing your frustrations into a heart-shaped void.
“Somehow that yearning latched on to zygote; the mould set, she was cast as the actress to play your female lead. She was like a leech,” Sha-Rronne bitched, “even I could not get rid of her. Without your wanting, that is.
“And boy,” the divined one pointed at me down there, “how you wanted her to stay.
“But enough of this whimsical caprice; now to loftier matters. Remember this?”
Sha-Rronne breaches my mind. Ripples transcend off my brain pulse and on to material plane. One can observe the rings of air floating out. My attention is hooked on a line in the original screenplay Jimmy conveys: Don’t be afraid, RZ is waiting on the other side.
What’s the significance? Full name Hairy RZ; except for his quirky experiments and bug eating manifesto and dragon farm in Part 1, he has yet to show up in the sequel. Jimmy’s fault, had he not tampered with the timeline and abducted me into celluloid. But now, every frame after Sharon and Jimmy’s confrontation is merely an audio-video distortion. The sound is of a digital blah vomit, and the image like semen under microscope.
“No worries,” Sha-Rronne assures, “sure we can cook something up. Improv, as jazz musicians do.”
A Dizzy Gillespie tune kicks in as if it is the end credits; but instead, it’s just the opening song, for at the end of the dark tunnel, a kaleidoscope presents itself.
Dogs bark, cats screech and reptiles hiss. A decrepit signboard reads: Welcome to Planet Muthafukker, most hedonistic getaway of the galaxy.
White Zombie and Gorillaz are playing, the epitome of cool. Sandstorm boils in the horizon, and the roar is the engine of motorbikes and modified ATVs. They fly past us on the deserted desert road. Someone’s got Appetite for Destruction on mini-compo, and the vibe is an infectious, in your face, fuck-you kind of fun and joy! Catchy. A psychedelic flyer advertising a carnival waltzes in the wind as the loud punks vanish to the East together with the double-time outro of Paradise City.
Law of Planet Muthafukker: Everything is garish, gory and luminously lighted. Everything is 2D, paper drawn; a cartoon, an animated series.
We arrived at the party, two hours after battling the sun; its rays are a legion of hurtling angels. They came at Sha-Rronne and I with flaming swords, sabres that shoot a devastating array, products of nuclear fission. We blocked with psychic shields, invisible force fields. Sha-Rronne is having a blast. I, intrinsically moody, did not hail the ambush with the same enthusiastic tenacity. Regardless, I fought on, side-by-side. We make a good team; hacking off the wings of cherubs, substances composed of cosmic gale forces whirling in the universe. The celestial appendages disintegrated, and those amputated angels, they plummeted to the ground like injured wild ducks gunned in game seasons. It was a breeze from then; all you had to do was annihilate crawling creatures of extraterrestrial flight. No escape, thousands exterminated. Obliterated. Ceased from existence and sent home gnashing teeth, tail between legs.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I shouted at the painted sky, “Pansies! Send someone our own size.”
Twilight. A bonfire is born. Excitement level warming up. A single-street town, old cowboy outpost; caricatures check us out from behind bars, bordellos, banks. Demons pick their teeth, maggot ridden zombies; and in place of horses, fluorescent out-of-shaped, bug-eyed, beer-bellied, hairy ogres. Skulls shaded by sombrero stare via hollow sockets.
Sha-Rronne indexes a brothel, “Go have fun. I got business to attend. Look for you when I’m done.”
I nodded.
Inside, it’s an acrylic version of my Horny Hound. Comic pale blue and green Mona the Moan, Fanny Wong, Lolla Lollipop and gang greet my entry. Surprised to see Lolla, I said, “Hey, aren’t you with Vesper?”
“Who?,” came her reply.
I enquired no further. At the far end, I spied a foul, perspiring yellow fellow under a black top hat and raincoat.
“What is your preference, sir?” Asked Fanny in an Oriental charm.
Honestly, I’d none. Not in the mood after battling damned heavenly hosts. More tired, actually. But, I’d never had sex with an, or as an, undead cartoon before; so heck, why not.
Picked my preference and was led to a gothic, burlesqued theatre. Contrary to the opera box, I was seated at the centre of stage, instead. As a performing furniture! A nude statue showpiece the drama revolves. It was a full house, for the white gloves of gentlemen stood out from the sombre coats they were wearing as ghostly claps upon dark waters. Upper-class ladies in feathers were more stuck up than the dead peacocks which attired them.
Drum roll. Axl screams, “Take me down to the paradise city where the girls are green and the grass is pretty.” Wait. That sentence is incorrect. Too late. The chopper bike crew that overtook us is back. Where’s the chick I paid for?
The only supple, Photoshop augmented grade-A piece of meat in a sea of rotting flesh, sure that is to cause a bomb. She falls from heaven, a trap door opening above followed by a beanstalk of light. A thud. She is in pain, but in no hurry to feel hurt. For the panic is even greater in this lower coliseum. A pasty pink pixie possessing budding horns and vortex areolas struts out. She is our emcee for the night. With clouded irises and sclera, the nipples start to spin, and she shrieks, “Let the show begin!”
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.