She couldn’t stop playing with the Cube of Space, no matter how hard she tried. She’d given in to the urges, complacent in the moment…
She always knew she’d return to (the general) Crabwoo (area). Horses — in the middle of Horsa, or at least an ass, donkeys they call them around these here Northern parts. Loaded down with flowers for the market. And where was that place? That’s what she had to find out next.
She hadn’t heard good music in what seemed like ages. Yet here she was, listening to the beautiful crooning of famous Lena Horned in a cafe she just stumbled upon by accident it seemed. Rehearsals of course, else the place would obviously be packed. Another black person accompanied her to her immediate right drinking bitter wine. Zach Black — caved in to the pressure from the central government of the South. “You help her reach her highest peak pitch or else,” Jer Left Horn demanded in the alley out back of his Cass City club, brother Benny Right Horn with grease monkey wrench beating in hand next to him. A threat in other words. If nice doesn’t work then it’s back to the routine of being bullies, which they’re better at than regular diplomacy anyhoot. Horns of Hatton must be completed. A continental tour will be the warmup. And thus here she is, in the far North, ready for conquest like the British Beatles did with America. Similar. “We have to get you another hit,” said Zach Black after the alley scene was over, now understanding his position in the big scheme of things. Else: walking dead. Like Jim A. Brown before him.
The phone rings for her but is answered by another. She has a personal assistant now. Thank Gods. Time for herself at last.
So how are Patty Spearmint and Patty Peppermint you’ve been associated with earlier (photo-novel 1) related?
We are sisters! At least in spearmint.
Spirit, yes. So I’m gathering (the 2 Pattys) are the same.
We don’t talk about Schneider. I drew a mustache on the mannequin outside. Its sex changed (note: LTV starts weeping a bit here).
Here ya go, LTV (I had her a hankie; she loads it up and hands it back to me, nose cleared for the moment). Thank you.
That’s okay. So to continue, Patty and you shared the joke about the Wells: well well well, if it isn’t the Wells (etc.). Then the Wells became reality (“neighbors”). *Your* reality.
Snowball in Hell helped. Stabilization. Affair with…
(end of Part I)
I just *love* this music, Swanky. She’s my brother, you know.”
“Indian?” he asked.
“But American. Not Asian,” she clarified. She didn’t think. Point is, she was home, listening to her old music on her old phonograph player. All the Wells: well well well. That was an old joke she shared with Patty Spearmint, her bestie since grade school going on high school. Schneider would enjoy it too. If he were alive to hear it. All the Wells were musical, geniuses even. Rosie decided to part ways with the rest and become a scientist. Now she worked on the Crabwoo Revitalization Project or whatever the heck they’re calling it these days. Blue Feather Redevelopment Initiation — something. And she had that single eye which was different too.
They tried burying it in the front yard that day, but it just popped right back up. They had to accept her as a sister, albeit different.
Rosie at work, realizing she should have bought a telescope instead of a microscope for future research.
He was playing on the keyboard.
She was belting out the piano.
The front door rang. No one knew where they lived. Who could it be?
It was a coastal afternoon sort of day. He tried his luck with a passing fairy who spoke two octaves above him. “Crabwoo?”
“What was that?” she buzzed, and was gone.
“Darn.” He shakes his head. “Fairies,” he utters. “Everyone says they know everything but I haven’t seen nothing yet from the lot of ’em.” He imagines spitting on the ground, this *dreamscape*. He wakes up.
Shelley made it no secret that she wanted another baby. She tried provocative pose after provocative pose for enticement, even buying this giant cat-girl scratching post to aid. “Dear,” she called over to Tommy, reading another magazine at the top. Herself again, of course. “Yes, what is it?” He mixed a dab of indifference into the tone. Hatti’s influence again (of course). She’s a genius at recipes, he thinks often, especially deadly ones. But just plain harmless tasty ones too. Half and… “Dear,” she prompts again, seeing she’s losing him to the dreams. Snores would soon follow if she wasn’t quick. She assumes a different pose to change the scene. She puffs her stomach out to appear like it’s got another baby in it already. This time he takes the bait. But that was his plan all along. Julia here we come!
Out in the yard, the mannequin shuts her ears and eyes, having enough of babies. Where was her own? She didn’t care; she put it out of her mind. Eyela erupts from the ground behind her, another spat-upon fairy.
The front doors remain locked.