Category Archives: 0006

November 6, 2017 · 7:01 am

golden boy

Mr. Babyface used the sandcastle portal again to reach Zebrasil and the nice beach he liked. This time he brought a guest.

“Better lather up for the sun,” he suggests to Caucasian Tommy Brade while applying yet another layer of suntan lotion himself. “Ozone hole’s not getting any smaller, ya know.”

But Tommy just sat awkwardly in his own beach cot and stared at his throwing hand. “I remember bees,” he finally managed.

“Good,” said Mr. Babyface. “You’re progressing, Tommy. Slowly but surely. Soon the big picture will fill in for ya. The impossible Super Bowl win that year, the role my nephew had in it. Everything.”

Caucasian Tommy Brade then stared directly into the sun for a full 5 minutes, but it didn’t hurt. He was the sun.

—–

Moving to the other side of the island to get away from the heat, Mr. Babyface realizes that Tommy Brade may be no good for him now. He has to hatch a second plan, perhaps even a third. He thinks back to his conversation day before yesterday with Tronesisia. The Boss. “A certain building added,” she said several times. Gazing toward mainland, Mr. Babyface wonders again what it might mean.

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November 4, 2017 · 8:09 am

mice

Cyberpaperdoll returned to her home of 5 1/2 years across the Atoll Sea and pondered if Biker Mann and she had any kind of real future together.

Oh. Speaking of swings and futures…

—–

“Tommy Brade was always your mother’s favorite, Paul. But you’re not Paul. You’re Even Whiter Walt. Whiter than Caucasian Tommy Brade. You burn in moonlight. You dance to Guy Lombardo. If you were any whiter, you’d turn into a pillar of salt. Believe me, boy, Mary is not the boy for you. She’s not even a boy.”

“I love her,” counters fellow swinger and estranged nephew Paul. “She’s kind to animals. She sings like a butterfly. I’m hanging my future on her. I’m not going back (to the woods).”

“Sure you are. You’re already there. *They* have spies all around. The Invisibles.”

“I don’t know who those people are, Uncle Babyface,” his nephew reiterates. “All I know is that I’m happy here in Be Happy.”

“Hana Lei,” clarifies Mr. Babyface.

“Sure,” states Paul. “There’s *so* much pot here, uncle. Did I show you the biggest one? Just behind us.” He points to his back right.

Indeed it was a big pot. Three stoned little Story Room wannabes staggered around in a bit of snow in front of the whopper. They could be there for months. Years!

So it is with Peter, Paul and Mary in Hana Lei, Mr. Babyface realizes. Months. Years. He returns to Collagesity and drinks with a broken heart at Audrey’s until the clock strikes one and there is no sun.

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November 4, 2017 · 7:16 am

New Lynne

It was the most expensive apartment in town, but Biker Mann loved it because of the clear view down Old Cannon Road into the woods. Cyberpaperdoll too!

Because demons were coming.


Caucasian Tommy Brade.

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November 2, 2017 · 6:34 am

Flies

They were told to stay close to Gaston’s Central Park and act like flies on the wall. Pretty Man disobeyed one morning and wandered down to a side patio beside Sugar’s House, thinking he would be concealed there behind a tall fence. But he was almost immediately spotted by BitterAlmond1995 and propositioned. “Cure for your ails,” she claimed about herself through the intervening walls. Quickly teleporting back to safety, Pretty Man wiped his brow, seeing he wasn’t followed. He was not an alien, true, but what cost for surface beauty? Sugar’s Berries (their slogan: “ripe for pick’n”) stick pretty tight to her house, just like he and his fellow escapees Gregg Oden, Chuck Cheese, and Maury “Jiff” Monroe should keep close to the park, the calm eye center of a storm which contrasts to that eyewall location of greatest sound and fury.

But Sugar herself, being of greater vision and knowing all such storms have such centers, knew why they were there. Her counterpart Jacob I. had escaped in a larger way, with accomplice and experienced jail breaker Tiny Tina trampled under foot. These dudes and dudettes had nowhere to go, like caught in paper.

I will be a fly back at them, she thought the morning of learning about Pretty Man’s intrusion into her territory. They are in my vision and will not leave. I know where they are. There’s a secret parchment, secured by sealing wax, which might allow her control of the *other* “Sugar House” in town, the one now called the Gaston-Berry Police Station. Because there was no Berry to patrol. Berry did not exist except as a concept. This was her secret weapon.

Rolling the dice, she unrolled the parchment.

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November 1, 2017 · 7:47 am

the high and low of it

A big door has opened up the outside world to the lowest level of Olde Lapara Towne’s large underground.

Ahh, fresh air down here at last! But alas winter is coming and the cold can rush through as well, pheh.

Baker thinks there’s more stories to be found in this place…

… despite the fact that Rocky’s Bodega Market is definitely going away in 3 days.

Meanwhile, high in Lapara’s mountain country…

… Racket and Sport enjoy 3 day old croissants while fleshing out a plot to keep their wanderlust stricken cousin Rocky in his home sim.

What did Miss. Minton expect would happen when she went away on an extended vacation and left her door standing wide open, huh?

Bad Miss. Minton. Bad Minton!

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October 31, 2017 · 9:24 am

I. see

After hitting his head against the outside wall of the Bodega Market — hat tossed aside in the action — Jacob I. managed to wander, dazed and confused, into Audrey’s Bar just around the corner. The Bakers later reckon that if the big 420 sign they’d just deleted from that very wall was still present when he exited the portal, the impact could have killed him, what with the many sharp, hard edges of its three involved numerals. Or at the very least, put out his eye, which would have been just as disastrous. Jacob I. was lucky. Fate brought him here.

A familiar face awaited him in the bar. Furry Karl had returned.

They both stared at each other for a minute, trying to gauge the situation. Karl had just “woke up” himself; it would take several days before he was back to his old, jabbering self. He couldn’t remember what beer was on tap or just in bottles. Never mind the liquor, although the license went through yesterday (thanks for the speedy work, town council!).

Finally Karl had gathered himself enough to get the obvious question out of the way. “What’s with the giant peeper, bud?”

—–

It also took several days, but the Wall of Jasper representing foggy perspective would fade away as well.

Collagesity has turned over a new leaf.

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October 30, 2017 · 7:40 am

It’s perch for God’s sake.

Mr. Babyface direly needs to find his nephew in Hana Lei and attempt to talk some sense into him, but he can’t seem to stop studying this Big E provided with the apartment.

“Ahh, what the heck,” he says, prying himself away from the object. “Time to take the plunge…”

—–

“Me Gods, what a mess. A Messiaen Mess.”

He turns around in his tracks, staring into the heart of infantile Hana Lei. “Where *are* the stoneheads?”

He walks down to take a closer look.

The band now known as Lamb were all gathered at Chunkies playing Guess That Fish when Paul heard him grumbling to himself on Swingset Knoll beyond the door. There could be no mistaking.

“Uncle… *Babyface*??”

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October 29, 2017 · 12:47 pm

sacrifice

Third time’s the charm, as they say. He was up and running considerably quicker this go, right on the heels of Tiny Tina. He would not let her beat him to the dark wall again and send him back to the grass free Joint Joint, awake and cold sober. Jacob I. was going to the other side tonight.

He made it!

But not without losing a valuable friend and ally in the process.

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October 29, 2017 · 8:54 am

sugar houses

“The sugar house on the corner of William Street and Duane Street in lower Manhattan was used as a prison by occupying British forces during the American Revolutionary War,” states old-time cop Ricky Bendicky, originally from East Bennington. “Out of 2,600 prisoners of war captured during the Battle of Fort Washington in November 1776, 1,900 would die in the following months at makeshift prisons. At least 17,500 are estimated to have perished under substandard conditions of such sugar houses and British prison ships over the course of the war, more than double that of casualties from battle.”

“When did it become the police station?” asks rookie cop George Carver Washington, Gaffer George as his fellow officers had started calling him after he accidentally shot himself in the arse last Thursday.

“Built in 1763 by William Rhinelander,” continues Ricky, “the sugar house was a five-story brick warehouse originally storing molasses and sugar next to his own residence. The old warehouse was replaced by the Rhinelander Building, which retained part of the original wall from 1892 to 1968, and received reports of ghostly prisoner sightings. The site is now occupied by the headquarters of the Gaston-Berry Police Department, near which one of the original barred windows was retained.”

“Fascinating,” coos young George. “And how about Utah?”

“Sugar House Prison, previously the Utah Territorial Penitentiary, was a prison in the Sugar House neighborhood of Salt Lake City founded by territorial governor Brigham Young in 1852. The 180-acre prison housed more than 400 inmates. It was closed in 1951 due to encroaching housing development, and all of its inmates were moved to the new Utah State Prison in Draper. The site is now occupied by the headquarters of the Gaston-Berry Police Department.”

George pauses, then: “And that’s where Hidden Village comes from?”

“Yes,” answers Ricky.

“And Greg Ogden and Gregg Oden?”

“We’ll see.”

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October 29, 2017 · 7:29 am

eyeing

A next logical candidate for deletion on Baker Blinker’s property to make much needed prim room was Carrcassonnee over in the Temple of TILE. But Baker Bloch better confer with his female counterpart before going any further.

—–

He looks over at Collagesity East’s Kidd Tower as a preface.

“6 prims is all you have currently, Baker Blinker. Mr. Babyface rezzed a tiny version of Big E on his upstairs table over there and the wall map he was comparing it with at the time vanished before his very eyes. The renters — *your* renters — need more prims to rezz stuff. We have to have a cushion of say… let’s say 20 or so.”

“And Rocky hasn’t even come to town,” ruminates Baker Blinker.

“Nor Greg Ogden, although he should be here tomorrow. We should get that cushion up and running before he arrives.”

“What about Gregg Oden?”

“He’s not going to return, although he’s out of jail. *No one* stays in jail over in Gaston more than a day, it seems. Prison breaks are a given.”

“Hmm. So it will be the more normal looking Greg(g) showing up tomorrow.”

“Appears so. We need to talk about the town in some depth.”

“Yes,” says Baker Blinker with a smile. “I would consider it the best small town in Second Life.”

“Me too,” adds Baker Bloch. “But we’re a bit biased.” He looks toward the opening to his right. “Ahh, the garson with our food.”

—–

I’ll just give a summary of what was decided by the two town owners at this meeting. First, the 420 sign on the side of the Bodega Market had to go — logical choice; 6 prims saved right there.

But scrounge as they did, The Bakers couldn’t find anything else of significance in Collagesity East to delete. Both pairs of eyes then turned back to Carrcassonnne in Blinker’s part of Collagesity North.

“We have no other choice,” Baker Bloch offers, standing in front of the damaged deity. “For now.”

“Sorry old friend,” they said jointly before deleting the likewise 6 prim object.

And then its All Seeing Eye.

A 20 prim cushion exactly now.

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