The last of town’s apple trees would have to be moved, along with the last amphibian (Brazilian Bill).
Richard and Paula too.
The town Rodeo could be slid over to the old Appalachian Spring. For Billie was coming.
Baker Bloch was aiming for a 2 week stay but it might be longer, Gods willing. Mr. Babyface had already come from across the sea. Greg Ogden as well. How about the upper 8 floors beyond the 4 inhabited ones? Kidd Tower has a fairly long history in Collagesity and, before that, VWX Town. It had its beginnings in the Sikkima sinkhole — late 2012 or early 2013. Buildings also remember their history. And now one has come alive as a flesh and blood creature. We’ve lost Terry, true, but another fills his footprint. Not a man, not even a big boy. Not even a boy.
Mr. Babyface wasn’t much of a swimmer, much less a diver. But he figured he had to give it a go since the board was here in — wherever this is. Little Chicago? Middletown even? Or a remnant thereof.
The beach of the city was small but cozy. Mr. Babyface could sometimes spy passing warships in the distance. Because, yes, there was a war going on. Apparently the Axis and Allied powers of WWII never really made peace, but just moved their battles to computer games and virtual realities. He may get involved in the fray as well soon, but he has to choose a side. His grandmother was a full blown German, but his old dog Pogo he loved so much came from Kansas, USA. Mr. Babyface himself hailed from deepest Africa; neutral territory in the Great War. His half aunt on his father’s side was Japanese. Could go either way.
The Shamon Palace, he thought while looking across the water and cleaning nacho fragments from between his teeth with his tongue. He’ll go there tomorrow. Someone to meet in the bowels of the island, he’s been told. Caucasian Tommy Brade has been sent back to the woods to be with pals Satan Santa, Cookie the Crumbler, and the rest. Someone new again. Billie Jean Kidd had told him this.
Billie Jean Kidd seemed to know everything about everything.
Deep in thought, he almost misses a passing ship. “Ahh, there’s one,” he says, spotting its motion as it glides beyond the island from his perspective. “Looks like the Rising Sun.”
Greg Ogden can’t figure out how to start the painting he wishes to do. It’s all so beautiful as is…
One thing he knows for dead sure is that it *won’t* be a watercolor — oil is his choice of medium. No opening exposed for that Greg with the extra “g” to return to the picture. Stay back in Gaston you old varmit!
Gauging the sun and understanding he can’t delay any longer, he pulls out his tube of Winsor and Newton Permanent Green and gets to work.
The next day he does the same.