“Well? How did you like it?”
Toothpick turned on the bar stool. “Who are you?”
She rubbed her big red horns seductively. “An Aries, why?”
Toothpick adjusted. “*What* are you?”
“They call me Wanda,” she said in a bass voice for a woman. “Big Wanda. Because of the, ahem, horns but maybe not. 1/2 –.” She stopped here, saving some grace. “I’m what you became absorbed in,” she goes again. “Just a moment ago. Just over there.” She points to the nearby black couch. “Like the one in the Bigfoot Bar, except that one’s gone now. There are others.”
Toothpick thinks back to Bigfoot. Yes, he remembers now. This was his sister in another guise. She has horns. They’re still testing couches and realities both. Yes he had been absorbed. It was nice. Too nice. He thought back to the pleasantries. A belt was involved. The Great Belt of Marwood or thereabouts, purchased in oppositely directioned and colored Black Ice down south at its Black Diamond market square, or at least as a demo. Near where they were born, actually, in the Deep South (of the Black Ice sim). The original one broke; all he has now is the one with the attached squares that say demo and follow him wherever he moves with it. Like the Gone Fishing square from before, prior to the horned one taking over. He takes another gander.
“Are you Satan?” He thinks back to well known Aries and settles on the idea of batting champ Peet Rose, red as a. Why Peet Rose? Why not Jonny Bench or some other bench player, like Leeroy “Steamboat” Kelly who filled in for the Browns when Cleveland Jim Brown became a star on Hollywood Boulevard?
In a related scene, Big Wanda’s sometimes, gun toting partner Little Oakley Annie, a Leo, was visiting her own grave but having trouble remembering the name of her own star. She only recalls (with a shudder) the wide, yawning abyss just beyond, the Great Black Swamp devoid of such. Her star was the first out. Polar came to mind but that wasn’t quite it. Pole star?
“Red yellow green blue,” the introduction began. “NO purple. NO orange. NO nothing else. We have our 4. I am Phyllis and I approve this manifesto. Let’s make this shit happen.”
561 words. In the next paragraph.
Future scholars picked out key words like Olive, Gray, Residents, Oklahoma, Pink, Brown, and Geronimo as anchors to their attempts at analyses, even though the sentence, “Keys — you can have them; I’m producing my own delicious peanut based spread for my bread.”, appears plainly in the 166th paragraph (before perhaps one about milk) as a seeming warning to this approach. 1/2 and 1/2 again, since almost everyone agrees that this sentence *is* the key since it is the only readable one in the whole 561 paragraph document (except perhaps for the sentence about milk following it), with the ending paragraph simply, “End.”, and the second to last, “Tartar mosquito.”, and the third to last, “I am instant.”, and so on back to the 561 word 1st paragraph — most scholars don’t count the clearly worded introduction just to be clear. So the 166th paragraph with the sense making sentence has, let’s see (pulls up calculator), 395 words, of which 16 are in that key sentence quoted above. Some turn to maths for explanation of the inexplicable Manifesto, usually capitalized in these TILE friendly and frenzied days. Jim Baloony of Yale’s Harvard points out that 395 divided by 16 equals 24.6875, which when extended to the logically equivalent 24.687531 contains all the even and then odd numbers in order and then reverse order between 0 and 9. “Where is the 9th?” he questions, and then turns to the “perhaps sentence” (as it is called these days) about milk to make his theories more palatable and easier to swallow. It reads: “And so on the 5th day he cowed.” Several books about that sentence alone have now been published, one by Bart Smipson, a skateboarder from Tull, and the other by his vegetarian leaning sister Lisa, co-written by someone who chooses to simply be known as Marty. And then there’s the whole Zero Hero cult that has grown around the mention of Gong in paragraphs 3, 40, and 340.
(to be continued?)