Now eyepatched Jim the Bastard Pirate, still working from his magic typewriter, looks around the 2nd floor of his new Bogota Gallery in NWES City and sees it is good.
Soon he would reach the 3rd and enter a new level of understanding about what happened to Hucka Doobie when she was pushed into that collage to the left by thought-to-be friend Tammy Whatammy back in photo-novel 7. Instead: fusion.
“When in Rome” (2018)
“I remember that day like it was yesterday,” spoke Jiff the former staff psychologist at Gaston Police Station. “Gastion, they sometimes called it when they were all drunk and slury down in the basement beside the torturing devices. Best to be intoxicated down there. Too many ghosts and memories. But it was the only place they could get away from chief Golden
Josephine Jim and expect to get away with it. Chef Golden Jim Josephine often joined them. Cook at the upgraded Joint Joint, now a hip place for those who think with their hips instead of their head. Which was seemingly everyone around here. The Dark Peak dominated once more — Dark Days again.”
Jim the Bastard Pirate, formerly Randolph the Bastard Pirate, was typing away as Jiff’s cartoon-ish, Ickle voice yammered on. The words almost came too swift. He needed something better than a manual instrument for his craft, his trade. Because, he determined early on, this one will *sell*. I’ll hide all the things I’ve plundered from others, like that graphite gray map on the, let’s see, wall behind me. There. He turns.
Half of it remains screened for now.
138 dead. Chain reaction. The words reverberated in his head like a broken record or something. A repetitive sea shanty — that’s better. He remembers to paint again. Dreamy dreams can wait. He tries to set them aside but more return en masse. Chain reaction. 138 dead, 138 dead, 138 dead. Perhaps it is time to write; maybe the *other* voices will drown out *these* voices. He moves from the canvas to the typewriter to begin a long overdue project. He inserts a blank sheet. Like life itself, waiting to be written upon, he thinks. Fresh start. He presses caps lock and centers the page 2/3rd up. He types a G, then an A, then an S. He stares at what he’s typed so far. T, then, O. He pauses again. N to finish. It has begun.
That should keep the bastard busy for a while.
She was about to walk right past him on her determined journey to the almost vacated clown amusement park when he called over. “Duncy be not here any longer, arrgh. He be passing about 5 hours ago now. One way in, one way out. 5 hours be too long in that place (*squawk*). My blind parrot over there beyond camera sweep be agreeing with me, matie (pause). Marsha matie.”
Marsha “Star” Pink halted forward progress and look over at the chatty figure suddenly saying her name, hand with smoke dangerously close to a smoking fire. Pirate — in fact…
“Jim the Bastard,” issued Marsha, taking him in. “I haven’t seen you since–”
“Storybrook?” he completed, voice roughened by cigarettes and sea. She hadn’t heard that name in a long *long* time. What happened to her? Well, for one thing, *death*.
15 minutes later, Suisan also came walking through the tall brown grass. “Come here, you,” Marsha called over, smoke in hand as well now. “We gotta talk.”
“*Sorry* I’m late!”
“Never mind that…”
(to be continued)
“Well I’m worried because he hasn’t come home yet.” Indistinguishable speech. “Yes, I just got back into town.” Indistinguishable speech. “Stomach Land, right.” Indistinguishable. “Yes, should be good eating tonight — listen, just meet me over here at the motel. Is that alright?” Indistinguishable speech. “*Sorry*. Is — that — all — *right*?” Laughing, perhaps derisive. “I know I’m teaching him bad lessons; just get over here.” She hung up the receiver. She kind of slammed the receiver back into its carriage, actually. 1/2 and 1/2. She turned toward the Big Boy in the southwest corner of the sim and shook her head. So obsessed was her little dunce of a boy with it. “I’m going to grow up to be *this* tall!” he exclaimed one time, juxtaposing his own diminutive figure with the much larger one in an exact 1:1 match from Pink’s perspective. He knew how to manipulate the angles just right to get the effect. He was indeed a gifted child in many ways, his mother knew. But not schooling. And Marsha “Star” Pink’s lack of same didn’t help atall. At — all.
(to be continued?)
He’d been here before. There were less dogs, however. And something about cats. Yeo. Maybe just “meow”, as in an exclamation. Of what, though? Then the color green entered his mind and wouldn’t leave. And other colors followed: Beige, Brown, Olive… Pink. “Pink!” he called out.
Marsha “Star” Pink came out of the motel lobby and looked around for the origin of her name. But there was nothing to see but animals.
“On the house today, boy. *The* Boy. Congrats!” the old service robot creaked and cranked. The look became him.
“Aww. Thanks Slicey!”
“He’s at the (Bumble) Bee, David.” tracking Duncan Avocado spoke over a nearby phone. Indistinguishable talking from the other end, then: “Yeah, his maw’s out of town again. This was an easy one.”
He was remembering more. “Pansy. That was your name! Pansy Mouse.”
“Correct.” He points to the planchette on the crate in front of him with the board, another demon device. “We got it from this.”
“And that’s where…”
He changed. This was the past. Pansy = Pan-Z. Jeffrie Phillips instinctively grasps his glowing red tie, a long held habit. He knew *they* were still in there. So many — well, five.
The now squeaky voice continued. “Audrey was in it all along. She *caused* it.”
(to be continued?)
“I don’t know how long I was a mouse but it was a long time. I lived in the richest house in town but we were still dirt poor. Like all the rest. Audrey lived 5 doors down. There were no houses inbetween. Just doors: upright, as if still serving a function. And perhaps they were.”
Jeffrie Phillips was becoming impatient with the doctor’s rambling story. Why was he the doctor now? What happened to the old one? He asked these aloud.
“I’m trying to tell you, Baker Bloch.”
Baker Bloch? Jeffrie Phillips thinks here. But then he realized the (new) doctor was right. That was he. And this was his bakery. Bake’s Bakery, with the demon hot beverage dispenser to complete. It didn’t work without the vending machine. He decides to ask the doctor about it next.
“So tasty,” Doctor Mouse compliments. “I had a, let’s see (he checks his inventory), a Jedi tea. I suppose that’s something from Star Wars.”
“Star *What*?” Jeffrie Phillips had never heard of Star Wars. “Do you mean Star Trek?”
“I do not,” the doctor measured out. He keeps thinking back to the drink, and how it vanished into thin air just before he could take the last swallow. Oh well: delicious still. No need to ask for a prorated discount from Baker Boy here. The Boy.
He first met him when he was this Mouse. He tells Baker Baby Buddy Boy this here. His old nickname. It rang a bell.
Bake’s Bakery has moved in to one of the 2 lower rooms of my more downtown Teepot apartment. The demon hot beverage dispenser remains, ha ha (he he he (ho ho ho ho)).
Just around the corner (hu hu!).
Also: the important bits of the attached apartment remain. Like this now 5 day old pizza in one of the 2 upstairs rooms (hi!).
“We better get down to business, Jeffrie. Let’s talk about Audrey.”
“Okay, um, *doctor*.”