Monthly Archives: October 2017

I. see

After hitting his head against the outside wall of the Bodega Market — hat tossed aside in the action — Jacob I. managed to wander, dazed and confused, into Audrey’s Bar just around the corner. The Bakers later reckon that if the big 420 sign they’d just deleted from that very wall was still present when he exited the portal, the impact could have killed him, what with the many sharp, hard edges of its three involved numerals. Or at the very least, put out his eye, which would have been just as disastrous. Jacob I. was lucky. Fate brought him here.

A familiar face awaited him in the bar. Furry Karl had returned.

They both stared at each other for a minute, trying to gauge the situation. Karl had just “woke up” himself; it would take several days before he was back to his old, jabbering self. He couldn’t remember what beer was on tap or just in bottles. Never mind the liquor, although the license went through yesterday (thanks for the speedy work, town council!).

Finally Karl had gathered himself enough to get the obvious question out of the way. “What’s with the giant peeper, bud?”

—–

It also took several days, but the Wall of Jasper representing foggy perspective would fade away as well.

Collagesity has turned over a new leaf.

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It’s perch for God’s sake.

Mr. Babyface direly needs to find his nephew in Hana Lei and attempt to talk some sense into him, but he can’t seem to stop studying this Big E provided with the apartment.

“Ahh, what the heck,” he says, prying himself away from the object. “Time to take the plunge…”

—–

“Me Gods, what a mess. A Messiaen Mess.”

He turns around in his tracks, staring into the heart of infantile Hana Lei. “Where *are* the stoneheads?”

He walks down to take a closer look.

The band now known as Lamb were all gathered at Chunkies playing Guess That Fish when Paul heard him grumbling to himself on Swingset Knoll beyond the door. There could be no mistaking.

“Uncle… *Babyface*??”

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sacrifice

Third time’s the charm, as they say. He was up and running considerably quicker this go, right on the heels of Tiny Tina. He would not let her beat him to the dark wall again and send him back to the grass free Joint Joint, awake and cold sober. Jacob I. was going to the other side tonight.

He made it!

But not without losing a valuable friend and ally in the process.

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sugar houses

“The sugar house on the corner of William Street and Duane Street in lower Manhattan was used as a prison by occupying British forces during the American Revolutionary War,” states old-time cop Ricky Bendicky, originally from East Bennington. “Out of 2,600 prisoners of war captured during the Battle of Fort Washington in November 1776, 1,900 would die in the following months at makeshift prisons. At least 17,500 are estimated to have perished under substandard conditions of such sugar houses and British prison ships over the course of the war, more than double that of casualties from battle.”

“When did it become the police station?” asks rookie cop George Carver Washington, Gaffer George as his fellow officers had started calling him after he accidentally shot himself in the arse last Thursday.

“Built in 1763 by William Rhinelander,” continues Ricky, “the sugar house was a five-story brick warehouse originally storing molasses and sugar next to his own residence. The old warehouse was replaced by the Rhinelander Building, which retained part of the original wall from 1892 to 1968, and received reports of ghostly prisoner sightings. The site is now occupied by the headquarters of the Gaston-Berry Police Department, near which one of the original barred windows was retained.”

“Fascinating,” coos young George. “And how about Utah?”

“Sugar House Prison, previously the Utah Territorial Penitentiary, was a prison in the Sugar House neighborhood of Salt Lake City founded by territorial governor Brigham Young in 1852. The 180-acre prison housed more than 400 inmates. It was closed in 1951 due to encroaching housing development, and all of its inmates were moved to the new Utah State Prison in Draper. The site is now occupied by the headquarters of the Gaston-Berry Police Department.”

George pauses, then: “And that’s where Hidden Village comes from?”

“Yes,” answers Ricky.

“And Greg Ogden and Gregg Oden?”

“We’ll see.”

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eyeing

A next logical candidate for deletion on Baker Blinker’s property to make much needed prim room was Carrcassonnee over in the Temple of TILE. But Baker Bloch better confer with his female counterpart before going any further.

—–

He looks over at Collagesity East’s Kidd Tower as a preface.

“6 prims is all you have currently, Baker Blinker. Mr. Babyface rezzed a tiny version of Big E on his upstairs table over there and the wall map he was comparing it with at the time vanished before his very eyes. The renters — *your* renters — need more prims to rezz stuff. We have to have a cushion of say… let’s say 20 or so.”

“And Rocky hasn’t even come to town,” ruminates Baker Blinker.

“Nor Greg Ogden, although he should be here tomorrow. We should get that cushion up and running before he arrives.”

“What about Gregg Oden?”

“He’s not going to return, although he’s out of jail. *No one* stays in jail over in Gaston more than a day, it seems. Prison breaks are a given.”

“Hmm. So it will be the more normal looking Greg(g) showing up tomorrow.”

“Appears so. We need to talk about the town in some depth.”

“Yes,” says Baker Blinker with a smile. “I would consider it the best small town in Second Life.”

“Me too,” adds Baker Bloch. “But we’re a bit biased.” He looks toward the opening to his right. “Ahh, the garson with our food.”

—–

I’ll just give a summary of what was decided by the two town owners at this meeting. First, the 420 sign on the side of the Bodega Market had to go — logical choice; 6 prims saved right there.

But scrounge as they did, The Bakers couldn’t find anything else of significance in Collagesity East to delete. Both pairs of eyes then turned back to Carrcassonnne in Blinker’s part of Collagesity North.

“We have no other choice,” Baker Bloch offers, standing in front of the damaged deity. “For now.”

“Sorry old friend,” they said jointly before deleting the likewise 6 prim object.

And then its All Seeing Eye.

A 20 prim cushion exactly now.

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back to

“You know you’ll have to return, Jeffrie Phillips.”

“I know. Blackstars.”

“Garson on the impossible stairs. Leading you nowhere like you were outside.”

“I *was*.”

“Police take turns.”

“Art and crime together,” states a third.

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aim backwards

There he is, Tiny Tina thinks. The miserable sod. Time to get him out of here before it’s too late.

Tina approaches. “Mr. Oden,” she pronounces clearly upwards. “Mr. Gregg Oden.”

Gregg looks down, spots her. “I’m Gregg Oden. I drink…”

“Yes, yes,” Tina interrupts, hands still on hips. “Is that all you have to wear out of here?”

“I have some watercolors. Would you like to see?”

“Can you *wear* watercolors out of here?” Tiny Tina chirps acidly, making Gregg pause. She blows out a minuscule puff of air. “This will have to do, then. Get up. No time to lose.”

“I’m Gregg Oden?” he says while rising off the jail bed.

“That remains to be determined. But we have to get you out of here. If they found out what you *really* were there would be tests after tests. And we don’t want that.”

She sprints across the floor and back to the open door of the cell. Gregg takes steps to follow. “You’ll have to move faster than that, Mr. Oden,” she shouts upwards and forwards while waiting. “Burt’s on a coffee break. He always takes a coffee break at 3:45am sharp. He always returns at 4:00am sharp. So *move*.”

“Too late,” Tina whispers as loud as she could, peering down from over the top of the stairs. “We’ll have to kill him.”

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