So apparently, today I’ll be playing video games with God. I say apparently because I’m not sure how much you can trust a dream where God is squatting more than you at the gym, and then claims while flaunting his heavenly gains that he’ll also whoop you at Mario Kart. It sounds like useless jive I know, but it felt so real! Can I describe poetically just how much? Let’s try this; as real as the dried crust at the corner of your eye, leaking out like sins from the guilt in your wet dreams. THAT REAL. Anyway… I’ve finished my Weetabix and peanut butter slices of whole grain toast, and now just waiting for Mr. Bruce Almighty to show up. Then again, Mr could be a Mrs…I’m assuming the Cristiano Ronaldo-like figure dropping it like it’s hot in my dream was just my subconscious’ representation, of the deity now 20 minutes late.

The doorbell rings…

“Finally!” Rushing downstairs, skipping two or three steps with the grace of an antelope I arrive at the front door. A large silhouette could be made out beyond the small translucent window in the door. With a deep breath, I open it.

“Hey, sorry I’m late bro, but you know black people,” the six foot figure in front of me said casually in a voice only slightly deeper than the average male. I was instantly confused and just stared unnecessarily at him, like you do at those old people struggling to perform menial tasks. However, before I could apologise for my lack of social skills he says, “Relax, you haven’t bared witness to anything special, no need to call Archbishop Tutu…or Mr. Farage.” I just picked a form that even a bounty like you would feel comfortable with.” A mischievous grin appeared on his face, he didn’t look like a ripped, Portuguese guy with HD eyebrows, but that playful brotherly banter about my caucasian tendencies suggested that it was the same entity from my dream. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, I was able to instantly relax as instructed. His presence felt like that especially cosy corner of the teddy bear you always put your mouth on as a kid, but without the smell of stale saliva. Without any procrastinations I led him upstairs to my room, also known as the arena of a thousands smack downs. He followed quietly and calmly; during our ascent up two flights, I didn’t look back in fear of our eyes meeting in an awkward homophobic moment. Yes I’m still that guy, but much improved though. I remember when kids in school used to shout ‘that’s gay’ to any and all male to male interactions. Not even sharing Ribena with a fellow pretend Power Ranger was safe.

As we’re about to enter my room God, or Black Jesus (as I started to refer to him later on) remarked on the poster on my bedroom door, it was of the iconic moment the two African-American athletes stood with their black-gloved fists raised at everyone’s favourite German mad man in protest. “Nooice,” he says imitating a Key & Peele Sketch.

“Argh you not one of them are you?”

“What? A hilarious person?” I couldn’t help but laugh a little at his quick response. Was God actually a humorous man? I thought to myself. I guess anyone who creates that insatiable need for the sensual space between a woman’s legs, and STD’s simultaneously, has to be.

We walked in, my room was very presentable, anime figurines dusted and assembled by order of power level, bed covers laid and fresh, and no random underwear laying suspiciously on the floor like road kill. With of course, the ergonomic beauty that was the Nintendo 64 placed ceremoniously on the cleared carpeted floor. The two alien vessel shaped controllers sat provocatively just in front – one red, one blue, but both equal instruments of digital anarchy. I promise these aren’t just adjectives used for the sake of nostalgia ultra – have you ever seen the perspiration on a grown man prepared to risk it all on a green shell in the final lap of Mario Kart? Opponent ahead nearing the end of a long straight before the penultimate bend? Enemy at the rear with a mother-loving red shell? Trust me, rocket launches have been completed under less pressure. I had two ‘gaming’ chairs prepared for us, one was the real deal with in-built two hundred watt speakers, sexual black leather, and enough massage tekkers to turn your lumbar into liquorice (yes, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing either). The other one though…barely fit for a whoring peasant. You can guess which I offered to him, and he gladly accepted the gesture with an arrogant smirk. “You can have it back if you can beat me,” he said just before placing himself down. He had the natural Axel Foley type swagger you would expect from someone who created all things, but did he have the skills to match it? The title is a giveaway, but I had to get you beautiful people interested in my story somehow.

 “Who’s player one?” I asked rhetorically, assuming the universal house rules applied.

“I am the original player one.”

 “Ha. Funny, but house gaming rules have been sacred since 1990; you can use the blue pad with the decrepit analogue stick.”

“Looking for cheap advantages already?”

 “Advantages? I’m facing off against God, what bigger disadvantage is there? Or can’t you handle the pressure of an away tie?”

“We’ll see, turn on the game and let me bless this house with my greatness.” We both laugh boyishly, and after a couple of seconds performing the mythical cartridge insertion ritual (something known to anyone who’s owned an N64 game for more than two years), the game starts up and our battle can begin.

Thirty minutes in and I’ve already won three Grand-Prix’s to his one. Feeling very good about myself, I smugly watch him try to decide between Mario and Bowser in an effort to change his fortunes, then begin to ask some more prying questions. As the Yoshi island race intro plays out, I start. “You feeling okay? Not sure I’m comfortable making you take any more L’s to be honest, you startin’ to look a bit like Meek Mill’s Holy Ghost.”

“It’s not me, Princess Peach is garbage.”

 “Speaking of Princesses and Peaches, is sex before marriage okay?”

“Do you think it’s okay?”

“Well to be honest, yes. I mean don’t you think that as girls aren’t being sold off into marriage for half a dozen goats as soon as they have a solitary pube anymore, and now people can marry at like thirty, they can’t be expected to wait until then to bump and grind?”

“Firstly, who said I thought sex was just for marriage?”

“Hold on, let me just caress you with this red shell first.”

“You clown.” He responds with a kiss of the teeth.

“You know, the Christian man-dem, they’re always trying to preach and control the masses, when they can’t even keep their house in order. They have copious priests knuckle deep in toddlers, cover it up, and then try to tell me that the sweet consenting love I make with bae is wrong. I just don’t get it.”

“My son’s mother was conceived outside of wedlock…”

 “Yes, but that was an immaculate conception.”

“How nice…” He responds suggestively, while trying to keep a smile at bay – like you do when hiding the phone your friend’s frantically looking for.

“YES, First place! How does it feel?

 “Bruh, you’re still last overall.”

“But did you see that last lap?? I called forth the spirit of Schumacher to help me express that driving excellence. I think you should genuflect to it.”

 “To one aaaalright lap in an overall dead Grand Prix performance?”

“Why not? Would you not be proud of acquiring a beautiful woman to bed, even if your last three looked like plague-ridden Orks? Remembering that Orks are pretty diseased to begin with.” Fighting the laughter erupting in my stomach I reply,

“Make Beyoncé appear in front of me right now, ready to shun Jay Z’s millions for my overdraft and boot cuts, ‘n’ I’ll genuflect my knee into oblivion for you.”

“Why must you have something first before you show me respect?”

“Nothing in life is free, sir.”

“So why should the promise of the afterlife be? Why not have rules on pre-marital relations as one measure of eligibility?”

 “Because surviving this messed up world long enough to die of old age without becoming a sociopathic riddler, a p**** grabber or Baine is enough of an achievement.”

“What happened to your faith in humanity?”

“Brexit.”

“I see, that was a weird one…and also Trump…it’s possible that the man in the mirror could have a lot to say on those matters.”

A few moments pass; while I dissect the connotations of his statement, I understand that this God is the type who prefers you to achieve understanding through introspection than any spoon fed enlightenment. This led me to the decision that conversation topics are better kept light. Especially during Mario Kart, I could try and bring them up again when we play a more appropriate game, like Resident Evil.

“I’ve only got time for one more Grand Prix.”

 “Time? Surely, time ticks at your behest, oh great one?”

“Not while I’m in my Black Jesus costume.”

“Fine, let’s do a time trial competition instead, no weapons, no excuses.”

“Excellent, this is where I shine.”

 “You haven’t shone since the Old Testament mate.”

With that last little jibe, I selected Toad and begun my Time Trial on Koopa Troopa Beach. Fifteen more blissful, victory saturated minutes went by, where, in-between his distinctly mortal lap times, we joked and discussed everything from runny fake tan, to Pokémon Sun & Moon. With it, all culminating in why men have an empty space between ball sack and anus when he could have easily fit an extra inch or two of penis there. Needless-to-say, many soul-nourishing laughs were had during his visit, and who knows – if I ask nicely, next time he might bring MJ with him and we can have a three-way ladder match on No Mercy. Until then, it was Goodbye and Amen to God aka Black Jesus.

 The End

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh

 

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© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2015. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.