Category Archives: Horns of Hatton^

no men

“Ice cream for you today, my ruler?”

“Not today, Jer,” Grey Scale Kimball replied while walking by. “Maybe tomorrow. You just stay there in that here ice cream truck till we’re ready, tehe.”

“Will do, mum.”

—–

“Let’s take another shortcut,” the Horns of Hatton ruler expressed while staring beyond the end of the path, where the stones run out.

“Let’s go through the front door instead,” replied Chesteria A. Arthur. “She’s had enough of being sneaked up on lately, don’t you think?”

“Wonderful.” Grey Scale is turning out to be a wise and thoughtful ruler, ready to bend her will through sound feedback if needed. But Chesteria also knew when to get back in line. They were soulmates through and through.

—-

“You’re *right*, Chesteria my love. Look: my statues emitting both colored and non-colored waters. She *has* acquiesced. We can move forward together to defeat the North.”

—–

“We can move forward together to defeat the North,” the Heart Queen finished her 2nd surrender speech (as it will be later called). “I look forward to fighting side by side in many battle victories.”

One after another, they pricked the symbolic white fish on the hearth to make sure it was dead. And it was, through and through this time.

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hot spot 02

She hears him approach, then stop. “Ahh, my heavier, more favorite son has arrived. I knew you’d –” *pop*.

She turns to see what that noise was, then gasps. “You *didn’t*. You *didn’t* just *do that!*”

“I’m not in play any longer mom. I’m going to fess up to my weakness and beg my former wife for forgiveness. You’ll have no power over me any longer.” Then, throwing the horn to the ground, he left — out the front door this time. No secret passages between horns. No possible reinvoking the Horns of Hatton. It was over for the Heart Queen, plain and simple. She had played her last card.

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hot spot 01

Benny Right Horn stopped while answering his brother. “Grey Scale’s got her countered at every move. It’s about revealing deception and dissipating pain. I’m starting to BELIEVE.”

“Don’t do that,” implored still swinging, still synchronized Jer Left Horn to his left. “Just don’t.”

—–

Where is the 4th? formerly Campbell O’Pine (Opp) pondered nearby, staring at the constantly swinging-in-place, red-yellow-blue cubes. Where’s Grassy?

What have I lost?

—–

“I’ve tried everything,” despairs the Heart Queen deep in her lair a little further north, very near the the actual left horn of the crown. “I’m going to hide the city as a last measure. I’m going to invoke the Horns of Hatton, but not through the King this time.” She pauses to think of possibilities. “But where are my 2 needed sons? Are they still — *in play?*”

—–

“I’m going to end it,” Benny Left Horn mutters while descending.

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flashback friday

The Zindra continent has been through a similar (North-South) war, pondered Grey Scale, leaving Chesteria behind for now. I can pattern my strategy after that. There’s even a direct character link between the two. Dixon 01. Or was it Dixon 02? Anyway, both are dead now. Or are they totally alive? One way to find out: visit the old homestead.

—–

“Dixon? Dixon Klancaster?” she shouts back on the ground.

But both Dixons were indeed dead, having been one and the same. Snowwhite Well appears on the landing outside the squatter home, old and withered now. She’s basically turned into maw herself, mother of the two. But formerly: married to the two. It was complicated.

“Whatcha want? Tithes? You a tithe collector? I’ve gaven my fair share last month. Now, run along, tithe collector. Or do I have to sic my *chickens* on you. She turned toward Gander, the largest of the bunch. “Been a while since you’ve tasted human flesh, Gander eh? Fondness grows in absence they say, eh?”

“Listen,” bargained Grey Scale. “I don’t want any of your money.” Not yet, she tacks on for herself. “No I’m here to speak to Dixon.”

“Dixon?”

“The former warrior. The vet of the Trojan-Durexian Wars over on Zindra.”

“God *knows* I know where they were *fought*, foreigner. Everyone around here knows. We all lost peoples.”

“I’m sorry,” backed down Grey Scale. “I didn’t know…”

“Anyway. He’s dead. Dixon. Both of ’em. I married ’em. Shortly after the war. But the bees and their massive beehives got them in the end. Not a bayonet stinger, a *stinger* stinger. Irony perhaps — I’ve heard that word applied here anyhows.” She takes a better look at the grey figure standing proud below her. “You a woman of words, sister?” she inquires. “Maybe you can help me with some words I’m trying to read in a section of this here book. ‘Moby Prick.’ You may have heard of it.”

Grey Scale Kimball was up on the landing faster than a fly on wheels. A chance to analyze her favorite book with someone (!). But she quickly corrected elderly Snowwhite Well on something before entering. “It’s *chapters*, not sections. I should know, having read or attempted to read so many of the latter lately.”

“Fine with me, woman of words. Now — inside before the chickens peck at your tail feathers, hehe.” She swats Grey Scale on the behind and sends her reeling inside.

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Cousin Tr-opp

“Whatever happened to us, Grassy?”

“Whatever happened to *you*.”

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tv not tv

Chesteria poses in front of one of Grey Scale’s new statues in town. “Go ahead and get in the water, dearest,” requests snapping Grey Scale.

“Alright.”

“Ohh. So cold!” she protests.

“Believe me, you’re still red hot,” returns her ruler and lover, watching the water soak into the clothes. “Hold on!” *snap*.

For Grey Scale, it was about reinforcing colored over black and white, Letters over Numbers. The former ruler is sad, but she’ll get over it.

—–


Aliens.


And chickens.

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Granted

Kevin had a nosy neighbor with the initials SCP who liked to peer through his windows at times. So he covered them with clouds.

The addition confounded and confused his easily confounded and confused pet Red Panda Fox Cat Man, rescued on December 13, 1874 (AL) from insidious gypsy witches on a swollen steamer just off the coast of Fiji. Or was it Ireland. More on them soon.

Like many residents of Horns, Kevin A. had a strange, nay compelling fascination with chickens. He often slept at the dinner table so that he could more easily enter their fowl dreams and frolic amongst them at times. He thought the eating of cocks was borderline cockamamie and often mentioned this to his “Kevin brothers” C. and E., munching and crunching away on either side of him. He sometimes arranged the carcasses in ritual poses also learned from witches to more interestingly translate between fair wake and fowl sleep (Fairmount and Fowlerton).

Which reminds me that he must fill up with gas and air today across the street at Wolfy’s, fuel and tires running low on his new 1955 Porche 550 Spyder Convertible purchased from Marcus Fox Smartville day before Tuesday on what he considered a sucker of a deal, curses be damned. Only 50,000 lindens plus 5,000 for shipping. Stamp it: BARGAIN.

He is established here; he really cannot go back to Regaltown. I’m not so sure about Space Ghost, however.

—–

“I wonder what happened to Kevin, Space Ghost?”

“Kevin who?”

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