This was the night Andy Warhole, iron hand ruler of White Horse Village near the southern shores of Blue Feather Sea (aka Little Sea aka Big Sea), learned about usurpers Your Mama and Raggy Too over at the concert area next door. They didn’t intend to pay the tariff for importing songs! Well… all of California will suffer for that. And anyone who has to suffer through Mondays. Words of love, those are. Tough love.

“I’ve seen them in the night talking to white horses. I knew you’d find out sooner or later. So I intervened. I beg mercy,” he gruffed, pecking his paws against the wooden floor while rebalancing.

Mercy, thought Andy Warhole, iron hand raised and then repeatedly pounded against the non-iron one. They could ruin *everything*. All his future plans. Future plans for the past. “Ross C.,” he demanded. “Wake up Ross C.” The robot sprang alert. “Yes sire,” it clipped metallically. “Eggs and bacon and livermush as usual?” Warhole emitted air. “No, this *isn’t* breakfast yet, Ross C.” He shook his head and then indicated Mamaduke, the dog of Your Mama and perhaps Raggy Too. “Tell her, hound, what you’ve told me.” Perhaps she can actually earn her money now as a robot from the future, an *expensive* robot with all the perks, most of which he afterwards found lacking or absent altogether. A *defective* future robot he soon realized he had on his hands. After the seller had conveniently slithered away back into the web of time.

Mamaduke repeated the issue at hand for Ross C. Her thinking lights began blinking on and off rapidly. Bleeping and blipping noises emitted from the general area of her head. Soon she had a calculation. “Kill then,” she clipped out. “Kill them all.”

Made sense to Andy Warhole. Good job!

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a cube revealed (Blue Feather)

“War-HALL,” he exclaimed from his chair opposite Ross C.’s, or at least the one she stood behind. “Not War-HOLE.”

“I will correct that in my programming, sire.” But she never did. To her he would always be a hole with capital letters. She’d served him too long.

“Anything else Mr. Warhole?”

He sighed. “No. You may retired for the night. *Behind* your chair again.”

“As you wish, sire.” Her lights went out as she slumped over in place.

“You again (!)”

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Baby Kate

They stared at each other across the void. In the background, Tracy and Tracy try to figure out what went wrong. The patterns, the patterns!

“It’s no use,” Tracy Austin 01 desponds. “We can’t get through.”

“Go on,” the second Tracy urges, head upright. “It’s worth a second try don’t you think?”

“It worked!”

The correct reality locked in. The patterns are able to be heard now. Yippy!

“Dot dot dot,” she translates, playing her trump card. “Dot dot…”


“War!” she then screams toward mommy while bolting up.

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fantasy man

“There, there Sport,” Uncle Barnacles rattled. “Ship’s gonna come *any* day now.”

“It’s been *five years*,” his hound speaks droopingly. “I’m tired of perpetual motion.”

“There, there. Now, now.”


Black Rain (old ship) will do for now. Craighead Phillips, wearing a combined option 1 and 2 look until the polling’s closed, applies facelight and heads to sea. Patterns he’ll examine today. Maybe walk on the bottom but maybe not. Bottom writing.

“So long, Unk!” he shouts back while steaming forward.

“That ship ain’t going *nowhere*,” Sport slops. “Corralled.”

“Five years,” Uncle Barnacles slips. “Any day now,” he then adds, rocking and staring while the ship also rocks in place.


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“And I have multiple options for my looks.”

“Ah hem,” she laughs liltingly. “So do I.”


“If the voters choose option two,” Tracy Austin continues, “then I will look like this.”

“Better adjust the poll to reflect this,” Craighead Phillips suggests.


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Craighead Phillips stares at a current picture of himself and wonders: Is this really the *me* me?

Because he has options.

Option 1

Option 2

Vote now! Which is *your* favorite Phillips?

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no title

It was a momentous day. August 8. Eightyeight. The day I found out Dark Side of the Rainbow couldn’t have been created by Floyd. It was instead created by…


Phillips strolled into the room, interrupting my writing. Fresh from his little house in the small woods tucked away in the tiny corner of town. He bounded toward me; clung on to my leg. I hoisted him up. Stared at his little face, his little eyes. 88 lost its grip on me. I turned back toward Your Mama and Raggy and the god dog at the center of it all. Something submerged, something surfacing, submarine-like. Must get Your Mama a ham submarine when I stop by Baker next week. For she is in Baker now. Probably for good. But I diverge…


Back to your little house you go (!). Now where were we?

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