It was as if the world turned upside down on her. Witchery in Cassandra City. She knew it had to come from Toppsity slightly north, where the elements were all f-ed up thanks to the battles. *She* was a witch. But what did it all mean? She couldn’t remember that crucial bit yet.
Triangle: the triangle must be signed and sealed. That’s where it all starts. One hand on top of another on top of another on top of another…
Another witch thrown over the edge of town, Brother Amos Truth observes from his brother’s Toppsity apartment balcony, fearful for his own life. Better grab Gabby and split pronto. He turns.
No time to rent a van in my estimation. We’ll send for the saved trees and treasure later.
And Sacky Doll. He’s been with us through thick and thin. Can’t lose Sacky Doll now!
Cassandra City here we come.
“I thought they were heading north instead of south, Hucka D. To Golden Sink or perhaps even Sink X.”
“Plans change,” states the blog’s spiritual guru plainly.
The pot got too hot. I was away too long. Rooster.
I recall something about the Hills of Bill. Lindens. Agreement.
I remember something about Polk. Jim Polk.
“Who is that?”
“I believe there are witches in Toppsity, Hucka D., turning the elements upside down. Perhaps Marilyn herself, who, after all, caused a Niagara in the suburb of Ona to complete the 4.”
“Fiji,” Hucka D. *finally* speaks. “Heaven for the Red Dwarf’s Cat. It is good that the Truths are leaving town for greener grasses.”
“Start the seed business anew elsewhere,” agrees Baker B.
“Maybe,” Hucka D. attempts to add. “Maybe…”
“In Sink X?”
“Golden,” probably corrects Baker B. Me, after all. I should know better than anyone. Me and Hucka.
“Say you got it from a man from the future, huh. Wish I had one of those back in the days.”
Gabby Truth always slept with the lights on. Wakefulness interrupted unconsciousness constantly. “What was that?” he might say randomly at any stray noise. “Who goes there?”
The picture of swinging teen lovers he use to love didn’t comfort him like before. He formerly slept directly with it, creepily enough. Now it just lays by his bed, unused.
Leaves are closing in, he frets. Bushes. Trumping his freedom at every card play. Unable to connect the dots any more. And what *was* his constellation sign? Fire? Water? The local astrologer had fled invading Earth and hadn’t returned, so no answers there. That leaves Air. Leaves… Air.
Gemini! he realizes excitedly, then distinctly hears knocks right afterwards. Three, then two, then one. Twin Brother Amos. But why this time of night? Oh, he thinks. They must have lost the house. Oh drat, oh darnit. The seed and the house. He’ll have to stay with me now. Oh well, at least the Earth’s gone (Ka-BLAM!). He pulls the covers away from him and gets up, being careful not to trip over the lovers’ painting. He also grazes psuedo-Mossman’s head for luck on his way to the door, per usual.
“I don’t think the creature was a possum,” Gabby modified later in after-vision shocks. “Nor was it a cat named Peepee. Something else. Something in our future.”
“Go on,” urged Brother Amos, back to gathering as if his life depended on it. Because it did.
“I’m seeing… I’m seeing…” He briefly pulled up from his own gathering position. “*Seed*.”
“Tillie, we’re out of seed. Time to call Grasslands again.”
“Okay,” the 4 colored clown replies from the garden. “I’ll ring them up as soon as I finish weeding this row.” As if my life depended on it, she then thought. Strange — why did I think that?
“Well Gabby,” requested Brother Amos, “What do you see? Unfurl the whole long, boring story of how we got here and where we’re going.”
“Yeah,” exclaimed Marilyn in her breathy, ditzy way. “The fire is, *raging* out of con-trol; the earth is, *swamping* us alll…”
“I’m seeing something,” gabbed Gabby suddenly. “2 more; 4 total. A teal figure. Some kind of… creature. And the 4 colored clown. Um, *stumpy*, not as tall as a normal person. But much larger than the creature still.” He pulled his white face away from the scrying ball. “A possum I’m concluding. A clown and a possum.”
“*That’s* our, *fu-ture*?” cooed Marilyn. Warhole across the way pounded one iron fist into another, obviously displeased. “Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn,” he monotoned. “Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn… Marilyn.”