“Damn cube, OW! Why do they have to be so many damn cubes in my dreams lately, pheh.”
“Ow ow… ow. F-cking toe.”
“Hmm. Looks like Franklin was wrong. Nothing here, huh. Dead end. Nothing left to do but wake up.” He relieves himself on the canal wall even though he’s underwater. Then, getting down to the business at hand, starts slapping himself. Takes a while, but he enjoys it all the same.
—–
“Why is your face so red, dawg? You get slapped up by a woman or something? Speaking of which…”
—–
“Where’re we going Franklin?” he said, looking back at the coffee shop from whence they came.
“You’ll see. Just down the block.”
—–
“Are *these* your damn cubes or something? We were just here Tuesday after all. You were complaining about the art, and how simple it was and that you could knock up something like that — your words — after 12 beers and one hand tied behind your back. ‘No,’ you said. ‘Make that two. 2 beers and *12* hands,’ you tried to joke, but you were already pretty drunk at the time. Should have been drinking coffee back then too. Or eating… something.”
“I-I don’t know,” he said about Franklin’s theory about the cubes and the dreams, then looked around, actually still in a dream… something. “Hey, where’s Mike? Did we ditch Mike somewhere?”
“Dawg, where’s Mike??”
“That’s what I’m asking *you*. Dawg.”
“Mike?” Franklin calls in one of the bushes around the big red cubes. “Mii-ke?”
“Well he’s not in *there* for Christ sake. He’s not missin–” Trevor stops. He remembers… an S. An S in a bush. Flaming (SWITCH).
Part 2: Mikie, not Mike
That night he goes back to the dead end canal ditch and sees something after hitting his toe once more on that in-the-way big goddamn cube, ow ow ow! 1st monkey mosaic. “Frank Lynn was *right*!” he said before starting to slap himself red again.
Sunklands 