Category Archives: Gaston

out

“Well. It’s finally happened, Broken Heart Jackie.”

“Don’t call me that,” Broken Heart the bone cat reprimanded for the umpteenth time about the name Jackie. “And now I really *do* have a broken heart.” She makes a clumsy motion on her chest of two things being ripped apart.

“Last of the grass… weed,” Jacob I. laments. “We’ll have to call up Leaf Erik’s son over in California, Pennsylvania for more — it will take weeks.”

“Months,” Broken Heart extends.

“Years,” Jacob I. finalizes, and then heaves a long sigh. “Darn that Jeffrie Phillips. Darn that stolen Centre.”

“Or we could go over to Leona Lei’s place in Hilltop. That will require changing into mechanoids. The last time it took us weeks to revert.”

“Years,” Jacob I. emphasizes again. “Sheer hell.” He looks down at his feet and wonders if they are really flesh and blood yet. Then, staring over at Broken Heart’s red and blue glasses, he gets an idea. “But the *sister* could work.”

“Hana? Is she still alive even after her death?”

“It was just a shish kabob skewer.”

“I though it was a ladle,” Broken Heart says. “You know, for dishing out soup and stuff.”

“I know what a lapel is. Did I say lapel? haha. That’s not even emphasized the same.”

“Label,” Broken Heart then says. But she accents the wrong syllable for humor.

“Labelle,” Jacob I. utters. “Patti Labelle!”

“The singer, actor, magician?” perks up Broken Heart, but then remembers the truth. “Man, we’re really baked.”

“Baker!” Jacob I. spouts, seeing the white opening once more. “Cook… Baker. That’s what we were trying to figure out.”

“I’m going to bed.” Broken Heart falls asleep while not even moving an inch from his spot on the couch. Jacob I. leans over and folds her bony hands over her little red broken heart.

“Night night, Jackie,” he ends while slipping into dreamland himself.

Leave a comment

Filed under Gaston, Second Life, Uncategorized

center>centre

“Uh huh.” More buzzing/squeaking from the floor. “I see.”

“What’s she saying?” asked a slumping Broken Heart from the other couch. She was pretty stoned.

“Hold on a minute.” Tina speaks again in her minute, tinny voice, understandable only to Jacob I. in the room. Perhaps it is because he’s closer to her, however, or just actually paying attention. The lawnmower continues to interact with the tiny being. “Alright, I guess we can do that.” Tina replies. “No, we don’t have the equipment or manpower for that, Tina.” After a small pause, Tina squeaks and buzzes for about 30 seconds more. “You take care as well, friend.” She scoots rapidly across the floor and out the door.

“So… what’s she saying?” queries Broken Heart again while remaining in a slumping position. She didn’t even realize Tina had left the scene.

“Jeffrie Phillips, that’s what,” replied a frowning Jacob I. “Centre,” he added.

—–

15 minutes earlier in Gaston’s Central Park, Pretty Man puts on the green ring. Everything changes.

“Over here, punk,” he calls to Earie Chuck after the deed is done. “I made a small detour.”

Leave a comment

Filed under Gaston, Purden/Snowlands, Sansara, Second Life

trailers and chairs

Earie was walking past the red, blue and yellow chairs positioned in front of the art trailer when he heard Pretty Man snoring. At first he couldn’t tell what the sound was, but then a loud, pig-like grunt firmly indicated to him the presence of another human being. He moved toward the trailer’s dark interior and watched the folded body on the dirty mattress and rugs within heave up and down a minute, sometimes with a twitch. This guy was obviously in deep dreamland. Shame to wake him, Earie thinks, and decides to move onward through Central Park to the Joint Joint, where Jacob I. and Broken Heart Jackie were most likely waiting. But with an even louder grunt, Pretty Man then rolls over on his other side and opens his eyes. “Don’t pull a knife on me, friend. I ain’t dangerous.”

“Sit up, then, and let’s take a look at you,” the pink haired punk commanded. He didn’t have a knife on him currently, but two pistols were tucked in the back of his belt. Pretty Man sat up and started looking all around, as if in a haze. “Art is everywhere,” he then said. “In the sky, in my hands.” He looked at his hands. “In your hair.” He gazed at Earie’s mohawk. “*Especially* in your hair. Where you from, fellow dude?”

Earie had concluded this person was obviously stoned on something. He definitely *wasn’t* going to tell him where he lived in town. So he made up a place. “Butcher shop,” he said. “Upstairs.”

“Ah, Wanesa the Slasher. And I didn’t know her shop had an upstairs… thought they cut that off back in the 30’s.” Pretty Man stared at Earie’s head again. “Your mohawk thinks you’re lying,” he said, and then laid back down on the old mattress in the trailer and started to laugh, face upwards and arms spread. Earie wondered if he could tell just by the tone of his voice or if he’s one of those true psychics. Their services are more expensive than the whores. Sometimes you can get a two for one deal at a discount, but he’s only heard about such things; Earie doesn’t engage with Gaston’s Berry imports if he can help it. And, gandering at Pretty Man’s current pose, this led to the another thought: that this *man* in front of him could be a woman in disguise. He’s never heard of a male psychic. Or a male prostitute, at least around these parts.

“What’s your business, here, partner?” Earie inserted amidst the continued chuckles. He voiced some of his suspicions. “Man whore? Man *psychic*?”

Pretty Man’s laughter petered away, and he dismissed Earie’s guesses with a wave of his hand. He sat up again. He stood up out of the trailer, looking in the direction of Earie’s Yellow House. Does he know already? Earie pondered. He briefly goes around the trailer’s corner and comes back with a cup of coffee, steaming hot somehow. He sits down in the red chair. Earie just stares at him, wondering if he should take a seat as well.

But then Pretty Man pops back up and states, “this isn’t the right chair,” and then looks at his coffee. “And this is not the right drink, pheh.” He spits the beverage he just partook of out on the road beside him. Pretty Man goes around the corner of the trailer again, returning with a beer bottle this time and hops back up in the trailer, leaning against the wall. “The red one is not mine,” he reinforces. “That’s… what’s his name?” Earie gets tingles. He *must* know.

Pretty Man moved to the edge of the trailer again and looked directly into Earie’s face. “Chro-ma,” he pronounced distinctly. “Sit down in your *yellow* chair, and let’s have a talk Earie,” he then said to the stunned punk. “And of course I’ll take my blue one.”

Improvio.

Leave a comment

Filed under Gaston, Second Life, Uncategorized

Pretty Man

Basically like clockwork, Earie passes Jiff’s abode a couple minutes beyond total darkness. 7:30 tonight, but winter is coming and the days are getting shorter. Tomorrow he should pass at approximately 7:29, the next day 7:28, and so on until time turns around or he leaves the sim. One day Jiff will follow the punk to see where he goes, but right now he needs to get some sleep. Jiff’s usually in bed by about 8 and rises around 6. Sometimes he even sees Earie pass the other way. Then it’s off to work at the Gaston-Berry Police Station as staff psychiatrist. A new and troubled male inmate has just arrived who goes by the name of Wilson. Pretty face, though. Maybe that’s the screw’s turn, Jiff ponders, knowing other information. Maybe this town demands too much from its citizens.

Leave a comment

Filed under Gaston, Second Life, Uncategorized

Centre

The at least part alien Baker Bloch disguised himself as an apple tree before teleporting into the very center of the Gaston sim.

Just like Earlie/The Musician indicated to him. The sim’s so-called Central Park is not a name be taken lightly.

And whoever sleeps in this Wastelands Bed next to it holds great power.

Baker then decides to teleport over to the site of Leona’s rehearsal last night. Or are they called The Blackstars? Anyway, another sky island…

Leave a comment

Filed under Gaston, Purden/Snowlands, Second Life, Uncategorized

continuation

Turns out Jacob I. had mistakened Earie for another punk with a queerly similar mohawk who came in earlier that night. “Chuck,” Jacob said, thinking back to the meeting and shaking his head. “Must have been a clown dressed up as a punk. They do that.”

“Tell him to take off his hat,” purred a tinier Broken Heart, sitting on it. “You know you want to see.”

“See what?” Earie asked.

“The I., of course,” replied Broken Heart.

“Oh he’s not interested in that thing, Jackie.”

“Don’t call me Jackie,” said the bone cat.

“Alright.” Jacob looked to the punk presently sitting with him. “How’s that grass treating you, hehe.”

“Pretty good,” said Earie, taking another toke. He’d finish this joint and be done with it, he decided. Has to walk home still, he knew. But how to navigate that whole backyard journey again? Maybe Broken Heart would escort him. If she did, then perhaps he could partake in at least part of another joint. “Good stuff; starting to see Hawaii, haha,” he finally replied to Jacob’s query. “So… what were we talking about? Oh. I have to ask the bone cat something.”

“Hat,” persisted Broken Heart. She tapped her little paw on Jacob’s straw chapeau for emphasis.

Jacob exhaled a lot of smoke in resignation, raising his eyebrow for Earlie while setting his joint down in the ashtray on the table. “She’s not going to give up. But I’m warning you. It’s intense.” Broken Heart jumped to the floor and he removed the hat, laying it carefully on the couch beside him.

Looks like another Big Reveal to me.

Leave a comment

Filed under Gaston, Second Life, Uncategorized

name game 02

Broken Heart led Earie through a series of backyard passages where they met several colorful characters. I’ll get to that story more later. But true to her word they were here outside the Joint Joint, with Jacob I. supposedly within. Broken Heart had further explained that the I. stood for nothing. “Think Harry S. Truman,” she said while striding over some old tires on their journey. Seeing Earie not reply, she added, “or U.S. Grant.” “So his full and legal name is Jacob I.,” Earie replied back, dodging a broken coke bottle. “Formerly Jacob the Lawnmower,” he furthered, alluding to earlier conversation. By this time they were passing through Old Lady Bedford’s clothes line in another tight spot, being careful not to get, well, clotheslined (caught in the neck). At 96 she represented the town’s oldest prostitute, but her only remaining customer was Billy Tokesalot, a nonagenarian himself. Sometimes it took them 10 days.

In the present moment, Earie tried the door to the establishment. Locked. “Don’t knock the knockers,” Broken Heart ordered from below. “He’ll come.” Nothing happened for several minutes. Earie glanced over at the policeman standing beside them a couple of times, but his gaze remained fixed on the window. “Nice night,” Earie finally offered. The policeman didn’t answer; focus unchanged. At 4:45am Jacob I. opened the door, and stared at each figure in front of it. “Broken Heart,” he said, nodding down to the cat-person. Jacob then came back to Earie. “I thought I told you to stay away, Chuck.”

Leave a comment

Filed under Gaston, Second Life, Uncategorized