“Hey, a red and green balloon,” Duncan said later after the two disgruntled women left, tired of the spectacle. Duncan noticed. Moving quickly, he purposefully took their high falutin seats, daring anyone around to say anything. They didn’t like black people ’round these parts but Duncan had gleaned they were also scared of them.
“Never mind that,” the as yet unnamed raspberry beret wearing lady said, staring disbelievingly in the opposite direction. I know it was something blue and yellow but I wasn’t sure what yet. We’d have to wait until another night (night night!).
Later: Oh. Just the rising sun.
“Grapes?” he guessed while passing the stomping pretty, beret bedecked lady.
“Raspberries,” she exclaimed back in a shaky voice, her legs and attached body going up and down, up and down. Soon all would be red and it wouldn’t matter. It was the first of many sightings for the girl in this as yet unnamed place. A place in Sunklands with Pietmond Boy and Norris roaming about it, perhaps zombies now but perhaps still alive. 1/2 and 1/2 would be another guess to insert here; eye for an eye.
On with the show…
They have quite the audience.
Always wanted to dance with a white girl, he wished to say but of course bit his tongue.
“Would you look at them down there.”
“Disgraceful,” the other agreed.
“We don’t like your kind around here, you *hippies*, with your *peace* signs.”
“We’re *not* hippies,” Norris and Pietmond demanded in front of their parked, garishly colored van, trying to get their bearings in this queer place. Its wheels simply would not turn without them. “We’re gypsies.”
“And killing citizens right and left after you just entered the gates of town,” he continued his rant and attached deadly glare.
“They were *zombies*. They would kill *us* without thinking about it!”
“Nevertheless. Zombies are people too. Besides… you need a license in this town to kill zombies. I’ve been waiting to say that to someone for a long time. People around here don’t listen. But *you*…”
“Strangers.” Norris understood this must be one of the disgruntled Pro-Dead he’s heard about in the general Sunklands area. The reason they’re there in the first place. He nodded toward Pietmond, knowing they were on the right track. He produced the blue feather from his grey pocketbook. “Know anything about *this*?”
The farmer-lawyer recalls. His mind drifts back to that day in early May of last week’s July. He falls back but then springs forward, pitchfork in hand. He’s gonna make *them* dead. Then he can defend their rights properly, heh.
(to be continued)
The guys from Paper-Soap arrive.
“Watch out for that German! Hey, there’s another one, look out!”
White as Heaven, he stood at the open door on the back of the windmill, watching from a distance. Black, he determined. And probably red as well. He should join them, make his presence known. What does he have to hide *now*?
He quickly hides his red hand from observation, a medical condition but also blood. Our Duncan Avocado. He was also looking for something. He’d lost his cap, perhaps in the woods. He was scratching his head, wondering where it went, but then realized this exposed his weakness to the white guy up the hill. He’s also on something, as in onto something. A box. Could this be… Borneo?
As the white guy approached, he thinks back to Scratchy (sim) and another weakness exposed. The inability to keep track of the one thing in life he is responsible for: George. “White as Heaven” was there. He had some advice to dispense. “You’ve been working on the railroad. I can tell (by your hands).”
Was it a labor of love? he thought after the brief conversation was over. Bart might know. If he wasn’t dead as well.
“Go to the Red,” the white guy essentially commanded. The Old White Lady did. Your *ma*.
He somehow got stuck in the windmill on his way over. Back to square one.
Later: Duncan’s soup disappeared and he knew he was in trouble.
(to be continued)