It *was* extraordinary. This track leading into the heart of the 4 sim wilderness. Not since Azure Islands…
Jeffrie Phillips shakes his head here. In wonder. He knew they were hiding out in there somewhere. Better recruit some help on his side of things. Cunning Poetry, good with a steal and a lie, came to mind, but that would alert Charlene. Charlene? Too busy. Plus that was the whole point. To bag this Knob Noster and bring him home to mama.
How about… Sammie Parr. He could run into her accidentally, say, and the Consignment store. Or down on the docks somewhere — he knew she liked to hang there sometime with devoted boyfriend Richmond Petersburg from Norfolk Virginia, currently *not* on leave from the navy. That was important too. Extraordinarily so.
A smile developed on his face as he kept looking ahead at the straight as an arrow railroad, aimed like Cupid.
“Peppins, Pippins, Pippens… the name shifted all around down through the months, now almost years. It all had to do with that Peppi machine: that was the center it all revolved around, The Diamond some call it. David A.B. put his heart and his brain into designing that machine; literally for the brain. He knew what was just around the corner. A beat up old station wagon with an Illinois license plate reading BDR529, intent on harm. He didn’t have much time.”
“But what does this *mean*?” ask Poetry Dancer, with Jeffrie Phillips for the moment. Until Charlene Brown the punk woke up about 11 o’clock. Morning walk he could say, building up a sweat by running in place for a couple of minutes. Poor Charlene — so involved in her cryptozoology dissertation writing late into the night that she was oblivious to the transgressions. Jeffrie was taking full advantage of that. The bastard. But a smart bastard, perhaps the worst kind.
“It *means*, my dear, that the death was planned; on purpose. We must track down this Sammie Parr, who is in the collages after all. She is an amalgamation of 5, just like me. That means…”
“Pot-D. *Sorry*. I mean Pan-Z of course.”
“Yes. A rival member, perhaps rogue. *Obviously* rogue because of the murder and all. David A.B.’s brain must have been in there all right.”
“But what will they do with it *now*?” queries Poetry Dancer further, no ugly in her face for the moment.
“They got him to the hospital through trickery, just like before. The brain I mean, and not the host.”
“It’s Mid Hazel,” he suddenly intuited, putting collage pieces together in his own brain. “She’s up to something.”
“More… *cake*?” he said after a weighted pause.