“I don’t get it Elberta. How come you turned out so nice and I came out so… *bad*?”
“Aww, it’s just the place we’re from, Filbert (= Toothpick),” she spoke prettily. Everything about her was dainty and proper. No Southern slur to her voice, even though, like her brother Filbert/Toothpick, she was originally from the deep South. She downed chicken after chicken just like the rest of ’em, but never licking and smacking her fingers. Put her overalls on one suspender at a time, but with demure and grace. No shirts for anyone — she couldn’t get away from that. Just pants, and overalls if you’re lucky. You get one pair and then when you wear those out that’s it, unless someone dies in the family and you inherit theirs. There’s been rumors of murders just because of this. And then you have to make sure another sibling or cousin or something hasn’t been pushed out of a womb and grown up fast enough in front of you to earn theirs right on the spot, before the grave dirt’s hardened and the mourning flowers wilted. Wild flowers we’re talking about here, because no one from their parts can afford the shop ones. Like city lady Norm the Cashier’s exotic blend of Amazonia specimens over in the Black Ice district. No south of the border for them. They’ll never move beyond the front part of the palindrome involving Panama.
So here they sit in front of a dividing canal, one man and one plan. A canal going nowhere — Elberta had detected there was no flow to the current early on, but still came to fish here. If only for the beer and the company of her brother. Here, down in this sunken channel of rock and cement, she could escape the stares of the others. The ogles of the ogres she likes to think of it. “We are a pair,” she said, leaning over toward him and elegantly handing him the empty, with the understanding that he’d stand up, open the box cooler, and give her a full one in return. He was obedient, but yet he was also a slave again. A slave to tradition. Brothers usually marry their sisters in the deep South culture, with twins no exception. Usually. He counted the days and weeks in his mind. 17. Just enough to get settled into the new temple with the new avatar God and make arrangements. He was hoping their parents would actually go out and buy him a new pair of overalls for the wedding but we’ll see. Usually doesn’t happen that way; usually someone has to die as stated. Uncle Luther has the flu, Filbert can’t help but think here. He imagines another funeral before the wedding with freshly donned dungarees.
“Oewa, we have to get ready to move into the big city. Like ‘Green Acres’ except in reverse. Are you ready?”
Oewa couldn’t answer properly, being just a simple cat and not one of those talky ones like you can purchase in the city down in Black Ice. Or so he’s heard.
“Guess I might take this chance to fix my teeth, hmm.” He moves the straw around his mouth anxiously, feeling all the holes now.
Again? thinks the cat that can’t say it aloud, at least to humans. Maybe she can get one of those talky tubes she heard they sell down at the Black Ice market. Frenchy told her this. Frenchy knows stuff. Frenchy is a bird but not one of the tasty ones. Frenchy is a fowl parrot. What a mouth! “G-d d-mn m-ther f-cker you can get a tube down there,” he said upon hearing her plan piggybacking on her master Toothpick’s plan to get new teeth to go along with his new apartment. 50 lindens a month! How did he get such a great deal? And with only one neighbor, albeit living right on top of him. Someone called MAT.
“When you stare at me like that, I don’t know *what* you’re thinking, mm mm mm. We better start packing.”
(to be continued)
“There.” Toothpick pointed past the scaled down Eiffel Tower and other 1/2 rezzed in objects and structures between the two temples. “Just like I said… *Berry*.”
“I’ve never heard of this Temple of TILE.” Master Berry couldn’t believe Toothpick had broken free of his power. Through a *game*? “Tell me more about this Carcassonne.”
“I’ll do better than that. Why don’t you come with me over there this Sunday. You have to choose a color ahead of time. I’m always red. I don’t know why but that’s what I always am. And… well, you’ll see.”
“Thank you, Toothpick. I might.”
Toothpick gandered back at his former master, took him in again for what he was. Human. *Not* like Carrcassonnee. She’s alien through and through. A real avatar to base a real religion around. Berry will see. Maybe he can join us too. Give up this sham temple out here in the boondocks. Move to the city as well. Maybe something else will open up in the Kidd Tower where I live. Heck, he can move in with *me*. Be *my* slave for a change. “Berry,” he decided to test, “how are you on fixing flapjacks?”
“I just don’t feel very… religious lately, Master Berry.”
“Feel the grass around you, feel the fern, the bamboo, the butterflies, the temple itself.”
“That’s just it. I’m thinking of changing temples.”
“Oh?” Master Berry’s voice was filled with surprise. What temple? He decides to say this aloud. “What temple?”
Toothpick told him. “I believe the sim is called Diamondfyre,” and then beamed a snaggly smile at his *former* master, piece of straw still clutched between two or three remaining teeth. He was free. Maybe. 1/2 and 1/2.
“Time out,” called Jim Peterson playing Master Berry. “I thought we talked about this.”
View from my new house on my new land. Sure seems familiar!