Free God of the Game (Dreamstate) by Kit Yan

yellow dripped thick, seeping out to his thighs, pulling the napkin to the floor together with the underweight man, his stance struggling with the load. Everything was wrong. A mutant baby too tall, too thin; bald too, but not in an infant way. Patches of hair remained on the head as if mine bombs ate a field; the rest looked like it’d been rudely torn away. His scalp was stained with dried blood, and his engorged eyes were as if he were about to cry. They were vacant, staring blankly to beyond.
        The mob pelted him w ith manure; pig entrails wrapped round his throat. He stood trembling, absorbing it, accepting this fate that could not be changed. I could smell the decay from here. The sexy tart pushing her nipples too far…pushed her luck too far…I felt it, the two buds, stiffened, and impaling into my chest. I kissed her again as if suckered by her sting, the next victim inviting faeces to the face. A big satyr stepped forward, shouting obscenities into the ear of that poor man. He cringed, his eardrums exploded, a phizog of pain shot past his nerves to the brain. Next, the huge brute shat down his throat. Everyone copied, and then peed on him. Menstruating women made him suck their tampons, before ordering him to swallow. He whimpered on the floor, a perverted contentment, and his humiliation was complete when he was commanded to banquet on his own vomit as well as the pudenda and foetuses which were smeared on the ground.
        Her evil eyes invited mine; she gave a wicked smile, drawing the crowd to consume me, like zombies to fresh meat. The horde surrounded, but I had other plans. Eat this! Blue vapour filled the room; a traceless odour cut s the air. The inebriated revellers stumbled, my seductress stumped. Leisurely, I led her to an enclave for two, even as mass hysteria builds.   
     
     
     
    17
     
        Gods are cruel. That’s because we already know the fate of men. In the eyes of beings with temporary lives, our actions are brutal and merciless. But we know better. All that has been made cannot be unmade; all that exist cannot cease to exist. Life which is born will carry on living in one form or another, even after death, even after many deaths.
        But short-sighted worms cannot comprehend this dilemma. For them it is only guess work, their luck after. It helps much for the inhabitants of Syurga and the omniverse that divine creatures live side-by-side, giving hope of existence after expiration, after the candle had been snuffed out. Unlike my bastard time on Earth, a pure guessing game. Faith we called it. We didn’t have a clue, only a gut feeling. Providence the children now have. Lucky. Blessed. They have a chance to take on any form at the point of death. Question is, which? There are infinite variables, and like a Russian roulette, they don’t know their doom. It lies in the hand of the god who created them, or in the cog of an eternal machine.
        I guess the lack of knowledge screws the brain. The fear of pain, or the manner of demi se, what will they be afterward. But a tantalizing arousal is present simultaneously next to the morbid and macabre. They pang for their extinction, the blowout. So great is this excitement that even now we return, time and again, to experience death, to reincarnate. Gods debasing themselves unashamedly…like sex…like masturbation…like food and water…like art and entertainment. We need it no matter who we are; this masochistic gore.
        Mortals need not fear. When we inflict great suffering, and when we bring an end to breathing, we harvest the souls. What we do with the soul is our business, but even if you manage to envisage the most gruesome hell…you’ll somehow still enjoy it. An orgasmic torment blossoming in the deepest and darkest tar pit.
     
    She was under my spell. Obediently she got on her knees to fellate me. Her plump succulent mouth on my plump succulent cock. I made her work back, back to my balls, and on to my