“Who are *you*?”
“The Boss,” the other figure whispered while motioning for Little Oakley Annie to pipe down. “Who’d you think?” She indicated her torso. “Hence the color.”
“Okay. I think I get it. But what’s with the tv head?”
“Oh. Sorry. Leftover from the last scene.” Grey Scale Kimball removed the prop, then continued. “I’m obviously here to break you out of this place. This *Northern* Jael.”
“Hal-le-lujah. Let’s hit the roads.” The door opened; Grey Scale was in on the code.
“The South’s gonna *rise* again,” LOA expressed as they left the House of Truth together, gathering up one of the chickens outside for a victory supper later on.
“Unlike with the chickens just outside, my creator plays fair instead of fowl. Fairmount fair.”
“As opposed to Fowlerton fowl, I get it.” Even though they might be considered rivals, Grown Up Kate McCoy, another avatar auditioning for a part in our newly blossoming Collagesity novel, was truly amused by this big orange cat she currently shared the Red Devil “Hot Spot” Sofa with, not feeling the least bit competitive with him. Didn’t hurt that he hates dogs too. We can both enter the game, she muses, perhaps as a team. Another Dynamic Duo. The Fair Party. Down with Fowl, so on. Could be a nice angle.
“You know they’re from the same hometown, Jimmy and my creator,” the large feline continues. But male as hell.
“I didn’t know that,” she replies, hand cupped under chin in a rapt listening position. “Do tell more.”
“Hatfield!” Baker Bloch shouts from beside the missile across the room, so fiery upon its return. “You’re up.” He points up.
“Looks like my turn on The Moon.” The orange cat prepares to rise from the red sofa.
“Break a leg up there,” Kate encouraged before he left her side. “And put in a good word for me. Fair words instead of fowl, ha.”
He pats her diminutive hand with his giant paw. “I will.” He saw where this was going too. A team — a ticket, even. Like Jim A. Garfield and Chester A. Arthur before them. Question is: which is which. He’d have to be top dog no doubt, then pardoned himself for the expression.
They became the Adam and Eve of Golden Sink. Green Acers. Oliver. Blue Feather Douglas; Grey Scale Kimball. It was all in one.
Many theorems have been written trying to explain who they are. Why sometimes with dogs, why sometimes accompanied by cats…
… and then, at other times: alone? Separate even, perhaps, but maybe not as well. Probably not.
They shortly figured out that this was some kind of original home, since deleted. Perhaps a precursor to the House of Truth or running parallel to it.
An Ur Residence.
“It’s important to know where you are and where you are going and/or have been,” Tillie stated to the others after a preliminary study had been completed.
“Our time will come, Bombie.”
Lt. Tealy and “Bombie”
“Stop talking to that thing,” demanded similarly teal colored Cpt. Jiff from the ALIVE couch. Welcome back Jiff! “And get out of my sink while you’re at it.”
Both of you just stop yammering on,” commanded Col. Tillie from the bomb shelter’s lone computer terminal. “I’m trying to think of my, I mean, *our* next move.”
But it didn’t take her long to fall asleep again while playing 3 dimensional computer chess, lost in a confusing vortex of time, space and options.
We shall return here. Btw, we’re still in Golden Sink, formerly Golden City. Or so0n-to-be Golden City. Something.
“I told you I wasn’t going back to Jael, Little Oakley Annie. *You* are.”
“Let – me – outta here! What – is this place?!”
“Not so tough without your 6 shooter, huh?”
“Ooo. Your face will be *soo* paste,” she squealed like a grey squirrel.
“I don’t think so,” Big Wanda replied in a confident, bass voice. So sturdy she is now upon those stout legs. And she knows her sign. Big Aries, hence the horns. Horns of Hatton horns.
Big Wanda waves the gun teasingly in sight of Little Oakley Annie. “Gimme. Gimme that! Hand it here right now! And, er, all will be forgiven. I’ll forgive you for Your Mama. I’ll forgive you for Keith B. I’ll forgive you. Yeah — forgive.”
“Then let me ask you one question,” returns Big Wanda sneakily. “And answer it honestly. We’re in the House of Truth, after all. Are you — a Leo?”
For some strange reason, Little Oakley Annie wanted to joke back that she needed to phone a friend (for the answer). Where did that come from? She doesn’t have a sense of humor.
“It’s already starting again, Hucka.”
“I know. Surprising, eh. Have you seen your father yet?”
“We’ll be — on The Moon — soon.”
“We’re definitely on the right trail, er, Jiggy.”
“Jackie, right right. But I don’t like the way he’s eyeing you.”
“He? How do you know he’s a he?”
“Because, er, he’s eyeing you.” He points over to his assistant. “*You*.” He points to himself. “Not me.”
She stares at it; it stares at her. “Could be a gay eye, you don’t know. *Jimmy*.”
“Johnny,” he corrected. “Um, Tony I meant.”
“You don’t know,” proclaims Jackie.
“I don’t know,” he admitted back. “Jerry,” he tries again. “‘J’ I’m pretty sure.”
“I think it’s Jimmy,” Jackie reinforced. “Like in Little. Jimmy Little. Jimmy Powell Little.”
“Just stop it.”
“Or he — or she — just doesn’t find you attractive.” She looked over at him. “Nah, that’s not it. You’re handsome as f-ing hell. *Jimmy*”
“You’re one to talk,” he decides to say in the void. Did he mean it? Sometimes. On the darkest of azure nights while hanging out in the donut hole.