A piece of my time

This is my first short story.
it is highly influenced from the planescape setting, but doesn't relate directly to it.

please note that english isn't my native language.
any comments will be appreciated

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I got a gun. It's a good thing to have gun when walking the realms of thought.
M16, blessed by angels, kissed by muses, ripping evil a new one every now and then.
Sad thing is, death doesn't have the certainty it used to have.
When you killed someone he was gone, kaput, never to be seen again, be it your mother or child.
Now, some jerk may just dream your father out of his grave, and the whole he-did-she-did circus
will just start over from where it's been.
There's a catch, of course. You just have to believe stronger, to dream stronger, that the death you
made will remain so.
Or making enough collateral damage, that no one will remember the details of the
one you wanted
dead. Dreaming back a whole city is an expansive affair.
Or the most common method: dreaming hard, believing hard, and killing anyone who
might think otherwise.

In the end, all those methods are simply different manifestation of the same thing:
the power of one's will.

Not your own, of course. You don't really allowed to have one any more.

Its was those damned scientists. They closed on the truth too fast, and discovered we are all just passing

thoughts in the mind of the dreaming God.
And then the fuckers talked too loud, and woke his up.

Being an aware paradox isn't very comfortable idea. The stock market reacted, as
usual in the face of the unknown, with panic, and run away. Getting it back took almost a year, as it found out that grazing on the leaves of eternity was a much more pleasant thing to do than the constant rising and falling, and didn't want to return.

God thought it was funny. And laughed his ass out.
Burning atomic fire fell on the cities, burning people alive, black to the bone,
and then rising them
over and over again, leaving them unscathed, but with a detailed memory of the incredible pain.
That's his idea of humor. Just a friendly pat on the shoulder: ΓÇ£the stock market thing! Ha! So funny! Rising and falling like a snake!ΓÇ¥ I'm not making this
up. Those where the screams of the tormented ones, when they burned in the atomic fire.

He is like a retarded four-year-old, with omnipotency.
A very bad combination.
A God of vengeance and mercy? ha. A fucking retard that thinks he have a sense of humor.
Good thing that the Jews were ready. They had their holocaust. Is was His fucking gesture of goodwill.
Burning children and gas chambers. He just wanted to tell them they where doing
OK.
It took them some time to understand his message, so he sent his avatar, George Lucas.
'Luke, i am your father' you think?
No, think again.
We should have known Jar-Jar Binks was the new Christ. It fits the pattern perfectly.
The point being, that the first one is was a hoax. A practical joke. The fall of
the roman empire, a thousand years of ignorance, bloodshed, and disease; see what I mean?. God laughed his ass on this one. Witches burnt, heretics burnt.
Joan de-Ark burnt.
Half of the Moslem world torched itself in denial. Their vision of God didn't include a sense of humor.
The Europeans have sent an ambassador, tried to negotiate. Funny thing is, as god is everywhere and in everyone, they could never find the fucker, so the Pope
took an enema. Worked better than they thought.

The Americans probably don't know it happened. I don't mean the the ones who matter - after all, their scientists started most of this mess; their brainwashed citizenry been warned, and then sent to another
commercial break. They're slowly finding out, through leaks and breaks in the media, and too many of them are trying to appease God by burning the Negroes. Sad
thing is, it would have worked, only that God doesn't like to be told the same joke twice.

I put on my clown-hat, take the gun, and hit the streets. God usually ignore clowns. He think they're funny, so they burn. Good thing that I got my asbestos suite under my coloured garments.

I got to meet my dealer, an arch-angel named Rafael-IXXX (he chose it himself. For some reason he thinks it reflects upon the divine comedy of being. Poor bastard).

Rafael deals in sanity.

Sanity, as we found out the hard way, isn't the clear, logical view many of us thought we had, before He awakened. It a different thing entirely.
Sanity is a black-hole, nothingness. The escape from the laughing madness of God.

Being the literal creatures of his though, Sanity mean oblivion, utter and total
annihilation, vacuum, doom. Erasing a tiny spot from the mind of God. They are
all different things, and there's a guardian angel assigned to each.

Rafael-IXXX gets us sanity, and I resell it.
Raf cleans God's bathroom. Thats where Sanity comes from - the moment of clarity when God
releases his bowels. We eat shit and die. Most of us had enough. We long for it.

I guess it's just another of God's internal jokes.

The other way is using the gun.
Raf blesses my gun 'blessed he the gun whose bullets will slay the worthy'.

Today Raf's Michael Jordan, and I pay for his Sanity with the usual token. Don't
worry about my morality and sexual disposition ΓÇô they are redundant, or obsolete. it's all the same . Yesterday Raf was Brittney Spears, and i felt even dirtier than today. He kept singing that same song over and over again.
Laughing at me:' straight from the choirs of heaven!`.
God had them angels singing `oops. I did it again` for the last fifty millenia.
Another one his jokes.

The fucker loves existential paradoxes.

I dream a new eye socket in the middle of my head, and store the sanity Raf handles me. I'm going to sell it to the Americans. They're the best buyers, as they
are only allowed to dream whatever on the television..

It was called some stupid acronym, that law, with the words Family, Children, and The American Way, somewhere along the lines. I can't remember what it was. I guess God got bored from watching American television, and forgot. It doen'st exist anymore. They just call it the law. Without capitalization.

Kiss my gun, Raf.
`literally or metaphorically?`
Literally. we had enough metaphors for today.
`It won't work. I don't believe it'll work, you won't believe it'll work. Theref
ore, it will not work`
kiss it anyway. It makes a good thematic line.

Raf kisses the gun. I go and visit The Harlot, a muse. She sells the weather report to the highest bidder
on the national television. The muses are charged with cleaning Gods mental superhighways (that could be another metaphor, but for the car wreckages). The junk
God got stuck in his upper functionalities is amazing in scope.
There's a victor. He offers the soul of his unborn child. Cheap bastard.
The harlot removes her top, exposing a decayed pair of breasts:
`Today we're going to have a dreamfall, starting five-minutes from now. Sound the alarm, eat your relatives, dance the funky chicken. It will do you no good, as usual'.

I'm a magic beanie. I'm the hundred-headed hydra from the lowest pits of the abyss. I'm an elephant, big and gray.

I'm Duke Nukem Forever.

I hate being video-game heroes. Too many people believe in them.
It makes you feel alive, full of purpose. When the weather will return to normal
, all that belief will just fade away, and I'll have a horrible, and fatal, crav
e for sanity.

I walk through a room full of Dukes. The gun in my hands feels happy, and I can't find bubble-gum anywhere. I shoot rockets. I shit spam. I open cans upon cans
of wupp-ass. The world is my playground, and I shoot, scream, give dollars to the babes, and kill kill kill kill, dancing like a butterfly above a flower.

The weather is back to normal, and history has changed again. The father of our
nation, Duke Nukem Forever, is waving at us heroically, scantly clad marble babes are holding his ankles in silent prayer.

I salute him with my middle finger.

The Harlot looks bored. I ask her : how many millenia have been lost? How long did the storm last?
She answers: `It's relativity-business, long-lost-lover-of-mine, therefore, there was nothing before, and there will be nothing else then what the current history dictates. Until the next storm, and the other, and the blizzards and gales sand drifts of wind from His mind.

Kiss my gun, Harlot, and wish me the best.

`It wouldn't work. You don't believe it will, and I believe in nothing'
I will pay for your kisses, Harlot.
`give me a child, and then another. Fertilize this womb, and then again. Love me
for a thousand years,
and than, forget me. Pay me with a million unborn children, dig me a grave, dance upon it'

I fuck her. She chose a body of a seventy years old. I have to oil her from top
to bottom for her skin to hold on to her bones.

A thousand years pass. We return to the moment we left. She kisses my gun.
I soak her with gasoline, and torch her with my cigar. She burns and laughs and
we are happy.
She kisses me with burning lips, scaring my cheek.
`I thank you for those pleasure of flesh, long-lost-lover-of-mine, now move along, there's nothing to see here. Meet me again tonight`

I dream a home, and walk through the country-side as a city bursts into atomic fires. God is happy, and his laughter is for all to see.

I'm going to kindergarten with a chainsaw. Promises must be kept. Half an hour later, a bath, new clothes, and a new cigar. I'm done. And the hearths of a hundred children are sitting in my refrigerator.

There's no place for the beer. So I throw out several old men. Let them rot. Their thought are good for nobody.

One shouts in protests: 'I'm a math professor! My though are the priceless secrets the universe! You cannot waste me like that!'

I chew on his head for several minutes. Gummy. His skin is bitter and got the scent of mushrooms.

It won't work. I'm sorry, the universe in shot. It's all about Creation now. Your facts doesn't hold any more.

He runs away crying, spilling his ancient blood on my carpet.

I pity the fool. He holds on to a dead dream. And it's market value isn't as high as you might except.

You see, with the uncertainty of death, you're left with no constants. God is among us, and we're all in Heaven now. One won't die as long as his remembered. On
e will never grow old.. There is never shortage, as long you can dream it up.

We're left with memories, experience, and birth a commodities.

Those hundred children? Their parents will dream them back. If they won't, it wouldn't matter. They won't survive anyway, if there isn't anyone left to dream th
em back. Unless He will interrupt, and decide to remember them himself. He usually doesn't bother. Unless he thinks it's funny.

I sell their pain. Not because it's extraordinary, but because it has the smell
of newness. After enough time has passed, new experiences are hard to come by. I
have committed suicide a thousand times, only to come back as a passing though
by a long forgotten friend, or run out of bullets while trying to erase my memory from their heads.

For a two-year old, the sensation of being ripped apart by a chainsaw is quite a
fresh thing. You can smell it on their souls. When you collect them, it stays for a while, comforting the old-timers.

About birth? You can sell the newfound souls, you're children. You can also sell
the promise of possibility, your million unborn children. Being a male is definitely an advantage in those markets.

I just hope that given enough time, enough children will be born for His infinity to collapse. We just ain't so sure about it's relative infiniteness, and those
old bastards in the fridge just couldn't work it out fast enough.

Calculus my ass. They doesn't work when the rules keeps changing all the times.

I've been in the resistance, when it was still popular.

We've tried to kill God, by building a pocket of temporal stability, for an attempt to burst his infinity.
It seemed easy at first. All we had to do was to maintain a constant torture shift, with new, ever inventive ways of inflicting pain. The fresh sensations formed a focus of belief. belief in pain, as well as in the possibility of change.

Inside the halls of torture, the most brilliant mathematical minds ever dreamt worked day and night, to calculate the infiniteness of God. We just had to get the relative power, and then head on to the hatchery, creating enough souls to breach the mind of god.

We lasted in pain for a ten-thousand years, maybe more. Kidnapped children, raped grandmothers, molestation, humiliation etcetera feeding the structure with new
pains, making it stable, real.
(comedy could have worked as well, but we ran out of jokes. Besides, humor was God's area of expertise, and he grew us an aleph-1 resentment).

Than one old bastard had a revelation. All wings and glory and the mercy of God.

We hunted her down. But, as the cliché goes, the damage was done. That single mathematician manages to single handedly collapse reality around him. For a moment he believed in Mercy, and Healing, at the eternal joy of His glory, and as the
pain died, so did the our localized stability.
Poof! Ten-thousand years of labour gone up in flame.

God laughed for a long time. He got us, the bastard. I'm still ain't sure he was
the original source of the idea. It would fit his style..

I kept some of mathematicians in the fridge. They might have come useful. But now I had a promise to fulfill, and there was no place for the beer. Weighting my
options. I threw them out to rot. But you already know this.