“Catvas I always smells of bird,” Bill complains. “And Catvas II of fish.”
“You smell of lion,” Grassy continued the grousing. “And I smell of, um, sodden earth? Haystacks?” He looks down at his white, sneakered feet. “Haven’t quite pinned it down.”
“We’ll get to Montana and then we’ll know.” Bill leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Got any more of that wacky weed on ya? I brought some tweezers.”
“Then I’ve got the pony, hehe. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
“I was surprised to find (The) Bill still living in Iris in that neat shack of hers with the great view of the Moth Temple. I thought she’d moved on long ago. But time traces have a way of lingering — if you’re alert to the situation. Which I try to be, bananas and other fruits be darned. Sox. I’m wondering about black and white again tonight, expanded into green and blue vs. red and yellow. Just like the Mmmmmm’s, poor bastards. I suppose Mmmmmm Grassy Noll is still around, maybe even Roger Pine Ridge. Yes, we must journey back back back to Iris, the “eye” of Heterocera. Just for a bit.
“I think we’ve about got it, Grassy!”
“Grass, please,” he reprimanded about his name once again.
Unlike before, they were working on the Flip side this time.