“I’m worried Hucka Doobie,” spoke Baker Bloch to what was obviously his closest confidant these days, with Baker Blinker over the hill and far far away back in Chilbo with Karoz. He points to the newspaper with the missing piece.
“This plot is more full of holes than a Swiss Cheese Mountain in Ant Town.”
Hucka Doobie looks over at him with, love? She is more aware every day that he is the one. The chiseled face, the sloping debonair hat that originally came from a Rhinestone Cowboy. The leftover traits from his father Spaced Ghost, including the power bands and the, well, she’s heard rumors anyway.
“Listen to that music from the gramophone,” she said, trying to distract. “It’s called — ‘Melancholy’. Originally etched on a 4×4 magic square but in 1961 committed to a round piece of wax and released to the world. 365 singers for 365 days. And those *bells*…” She listens again, lost in a trance. Nap time, like when you meditate but can’t shut off your thoughts.
“It’s very nice, Hucka Doobie,” Baker spoke plainly in his announcer-like voice, just made for a tv or radio show. Just like his dad. “But we have *problems*.”
Hucka Doobie looked at him again. No love in his eyes for her. She knew the rumors to be false, perhaps started by Wheeler herself, the *bitch*. No, she must think peace and love and happiness thoughts. Like the Tibetans she’s been so engrossed in lately. That music — so soothing. She’s almost cutting the z’s again — but, *no*, she must stay alert. She stares at Baker Bloch once more. No reciprocation — yes, that’s what she was thinking about. Then the bells start…
15 minutes later, Baker Bloch was staring at her through the hole in the paper when she awoke. “*Now*?” he queried.
After that horrible scissors accident the local police are still investigating wiped out both his parents, SEAN “Green” Penn inherited the beach house and made it his own. For one thing, he painted it green to match the color of his perpetual outfit. He was a 28 year old black man with rheumatoid arthritis developing in his back and neck, but gave the appearance of a 15 year old white boy with developing acne to acquaintances and friends. The *green* was always a constant, though, framed by this house. The house makes the boy/man makes the house in a repeating, reciprocal action, like yin and yang but with no opposites involved except that pitting flesh against wood. Each night he slept, they — structure and body — exchanged energy, paint for clothes. One day he might wake up with the body of the house and the house that of a body but it would be far in the future, if so. These things don’t work that fast.
So his parents died, he inherited the house and made it his own. So what about the white/black part, the dichotomy he presented to first himself and then the world? It happened on August 8, 1988
in a town called 88. He woke up calling for his ma. “Mom, mom?”, and then he remembered the accident, the scissors, the *horror*. Never, *ever* run with scissors, but it was more than that. (Yes,) *mother* approached father with scissors held high.
“I will stab him,” she said aloud. “He has chosen to be the voice of evil and I will kill him. When I have killed him something will snap within myself and I will die also. It will be a release for all of us.”
But this wasn’t right either. That’s just a quote from that book everyone is talking about these days. “Winesap,” but with a twist of the bitter apple. It involved the game of rock paper scissors that every Our Second Lyfe avatar can play, large or small, old or young, black or white. Rock beats scissors because it can bang them into submission, but paper beats rock because it can cover up the past, which scissors can then expose through snipping. And so that’s what we’re doing. Making a hole, perhaps one for an Ant.
SEAN’s Aunt Bee wakes up suddenly and with a headache, clipping still in hand. She recalls the past.