93. God of the Game
“Well...you know what to do,” RZ scowls.
Sha-Rronne opens a chat-box with me in a wireless spirit connection. Tie me up, she types.
Oh...ok, I replied.
Use your instincts, boy; appeared the words on my screen as encouragement.
So I obey the will of the goddess, stripping the schoolgirl off and knotting her down on the sacrificial altar, which is the rusted iron slab beside the prolific old clock. Sha-Rronne, under Sharon’s disguise, does a bit of acting on her part, pretending to be shocked and terrified of the whole charade.
“We don’t have much time,” RZ mumbles to himself. “Do you have it?” he then speaks to my face.
A blank; but then it registers - the weapon, Leper and the Gunk’s dagger. I swagged it out, a priceless booty, always present and prominent throughout my adventures. RZ grabs it from me; guts Sharon like it’s a scenario from a wet fish-market.
Sha-Rronne’s acting is award winning material.
He speaks an alien language, a rumbling chant of a foreign tongue.
Sha-Rronne’s role is just plain silly now. She acts like dead.
In RZ’s hand is a human heart. It goes ‘be-boop’, ‘be-boop’, ‘be-boop...’, but a dissatisfaction flitters across whatever’s visible on Hairy’s hairy face. He was hoping Sharon’s - or Sha-Rronne’s - life-beat would be more substantial, more divine, but instead, it’s similar to every other woman’s tempo. The disappointment, nonetheless, wasted him not. With the magical tip of the blade, he punctures the organ, and immediately the rhythm stops. He then jerks down, and it is now twinned cloves in his black and wrinkled hand. Held captive, those two halves, prisoners behind bars wrought from sharp talons.
One is supposedly mine, but that idiotic glutton, he gorges on both! Then he laughs with a full mouth. Right then, it chimes twelve.
But nothing occurs!
A wild disposition made of obscene anger drills RZ’s countenance. He looks at the jewel studded knife, and then he screams at the top of his voice, “WE HAD A DEAL!!!!!!”
Silence only replies. To add to the insult, Sharon sits up; the cavity bobbing at her abdominal front. His eyes are in horror of her, and Sharon merely folds and stuffs back in her entrails, appearing all demure at the ghastly task. With a lazer finger, she solders up the mess RZ had caused.
It is unclear what happens next. But if you can imagine what it would be like seeing your entire life’s dictatorial dream dashed in a few seconds, it would be realistic to accept that Hairy RZ went completely bonkers, running out of the castle fortress round-eyed (rumour has he could never blink again), clutching a looted blade encrusted with precious stones, shouting, “We had a deal! We had a deal! We had a deal...!” over and over and over again.
Some say he now roams the arid mountains scourged and scorched by dragons encircling the citadel, but others claim he never left the building. At night, when the haunted sounds of animal holler are at their loudest, the villages around the old rock tower also echo the anguished shrieks of a madman being pecked, bitten and crushed, as if to death, by these ethereal beasts. Then, next dusk, the bawling repeats, scaring inhabitants out of their wits, forcing mortals off the land. Planet Muthafukker (which rhymes with Mad-Old-Fucker – tourism brochures suggest this was how the realm arrived at its name) remains a ghost town populated by ghouls, phantasms and all other evils; and forever it retains its two-dimensional hedonistic facade for the holidaying fun of those unfathomable ids larger than the egoistical universe.
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.