“Do you own this house or do you rent this house?”
“Yes, we own this house.”
Pause. “Who did you buy it from?”
“Honey, who sold us the house?” Incoherent speech from the interior, but an answer to her question.
“Chalfant. A Mrs. Chalfant.”
Longer pause; the FBI agent seemed very stunned and discombobulated by now. “And… do you happen to know who she bought it from?”
“No I don’t, but… ” She turns inside to ask again. Incoherent speech, but not an answer this time.
“No.”
(to be continued?)
Filed under **VIRTUAL OT, 0044, 0414, Twin Peaks, Washington
“Chop!” I said, looking into the Dewdrop Inn room I’d force-opened and recognizing my dog at last. Well. At least the *map* of my dog. Martha’s Vineyard. Always wondering what it meant and why the feet were there. And the head with the two Chop names, East and West, like paired lips or ears or sumtin. Well that head is *this* head, those feet — clearly — are *these* feet.
My dog is a robot. And a sexy one at that it appears, at least to those of its kind. But maybe Chop is instead the robot in the chair — watching. Maybe the map is that of his true love, something he wants to *eat* — chomp away at. Like breakfast, hmm. Rose, I remembered. Better get back and finish my meal.
“Never mind me,” I wanted to say to the robots in parting. “Wrong room.” But I knew they couldn’t hear me. This was a spectacle, something only to be observed and that alone. Same as, er, Chop is doing here. I’m engrossed, he’s engrossed. Seems to fit, yeah. I shut what remained of the door and leave the motel and head next door again.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0044, 0413, Arroyo, Blue Feather Sea^, C2077, Maebaleia/Satori, Massachusetts, Witcher
“Edward’s dead,” she put it bluntly, witnessing the spectacle herself. “Out in the desert. Dancing up a storm, dancing harder than anyone else. Then: the storm hit, shall we say. Like in Arroyo.”
“But… *I’m* Edward,” I say back, remembering the conversion. “In Kabusie this time, on the other side of Nightsity. Next to the canal. Ditch Canal. Or Channel.”
“No, that was a close call, but you’re not Edward. He passed you by. Close but no call. Lucky for you now.”
I recalled seeing the crybaby being consoled by a girl, probably a girlfriend or at least a friend. Then immediately afterwards: Edward, who I’d already identified as such; that was my actual nickname for him (Crybaby). He passed through me. I *became* Edward in the heart of the moment. Or at least I was convinced at the time. In retrospect, yeah, maybe Fern’s right. Fern the Nomad (now). Maybe it was close but no call. Like baseball. Like not being out at home.
“Dead,” she said again to reinforce her point, looking at me trying to grasp and grapple with the issue. “Out in the middle of desert which is the same as its edge. I went back the next day. I *saw*.”
(to be continued)
Sunklands 