“I tell ya, Hucka. If I could just find a nice, understanding city to settle down in (like Cassandra City), I might just give up Collagesity here. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
Hucka Doobie, walking beside Baker Bloch straight into the setting moon as well, pauses before answering, knowing the truth ahead of time like she often does. “I’d — give each equal weight.”
The moon gone, they were passing underneath Perch now. The head was still absent above them at the main entrance to the restaurant, revealing the clock beneath that brought back sane time to this virtual village of mine, me as baker b., or Baker Bloch, animus, and Baker Blinker, anima, combined. Instead: Carrcassonnee possesses it again, just like in the beginning, the great 3n1. But is she yet fully activated? What about new sidekick Frank who replaced former sidekick Spider? Where is *Spider*, then?
“Thinking of the past?” Hucka Doobie spoke over, seeing the glazed, dead eyes again. “The future inside the past?”
“Maybe.” I was a bit defensive of her prescient presence (present?) sometimes. We walked further, past Mossman’s bar, past funny feet John Lemon. We seemed to be heading out of town. But where?
“You said you wanted to get closer to me, Kate, so here we are.” He turns in his seat. “At the place it all began for Jenny and me. Before she became world famous Your Mama and all turned to rust and rot.”
Kate McCoy was tired of hearing about Keith B.’s daughter but bit her tongue right now. He had brought her along on this trip to Cassandra City and she was grateful for the bonding opportunity. If only *he* were her daddy instead of that low life Craighead Phillips. Where was *he*? Still galavanting around in Bluefield US of A? She didn’t want to know; she didn’t care. She was with Keith B. for the present. She had designs on a long term relationship. Maybe he did too — she didn’t know. Yet.
He starts pointing around the place, indicating changes. “The stage, Kate, use to be in that corner — instead of over there on the side. A lot of these booths have been added too.” Keith B. was disappointed that there’s no indication of their presence in this bar. It was apparently up to him to keep the history alive. “It’s all in the autobiography,” he often tells friends after throwing them a juicy piece of the past. They usually want more and then that’s what he tells them. He’d rather write for many instead of talk for few. He’d learned that lesson decades ago. People like to talk, but words only last if you write them down or record them in some equivalent way. He started a blog in 2008. He could better organize his thoughts about people places things with categories and tags. He had a system.
“Keith?” Kate McCoy spoke, seeing her wanna-be dad spacing out again, most likely about the past. She wanted his full attention once more.
“Thinking about the blog?”
“Yeah. I suppose.” He feels the slightly extra pressure his flip style notepad makes in the back of his pants. He senses the push style lead pencil in his front pocket against a thigh. Tools of his trade. While he was away from the computer. But he must resist the urge to pull it out in front of his wanna-be daughter. That’s not how it works.
(to be continued?)
It was night for Biff. Maybe he overdid it with the BD thing, he thinks while staring over at the now sleeping Keith B. Had to sleep in place since no rooms are available. Maybe he’ll get some decent rest tomorrow; maybe find that couch over in Hoboken or whatever they call that place now. Hobo Ken. Ken the Hobo. That was it. And that was his couch. I bet he’s over there right now. Sleeping soundly away. Well — let’s just switch them out. Test the malleability of this place.
There was no true sleeping animation in the couch. Ken the Hobo must not exist after all. Keith B. would have to wait until Saturday to get that good night’s rest. Let’s return to the present.
He really is gone. It worked! What’s that speck on the globe? Is that where we’re suppose to head next?
This is as close as I can get for now.
Keith B. was back in Cassandra City, exploring old haunts, some still around, a lot: gone. He doesn’t remember, for instance, Big Dick’s Halfway Inn. He quickly figured out that BD stands in or resonates directly with MP, that is, Moby Prick. Here was a famous white whale manifested, perhaps. He better check it out.
He waited for the clerk to show up but one never came. From the corner of the lobby, unseen until now, a man spoke up, his voice crisp with confidence and intrigue. “Place is filled up, sir. You better go elsewhere. Gabby is on one of those long lunch breaks again.”
“Gabby?” returned Keith B., thinking the name was wrong. What was it in rehearsal. Jimmy? Dimmy? No, that wasn’t it either.
The man introduced himself instead of gabbing more about Gabby. “My name is Wendell “Biff” Carter and you were lured in here by the sign. Lured in so that you could meet *me*.”
The *whale*? Keith B. thinks while staring over, trying to get a better estimate of the man while not being so obvious about it. That was it: someone was attempting to create a *report* on this man. And failing. Failing in general. Keith B. was here to help. At least that’s what the last version of the script read.
“Big Dick I assume.”
He extended his arms and scooted forward a little. “In the flesh.”
Keith B. turned away. He was finished studying for the moment.
Dimmy Gene never did get a copy of “Moby Prick”. The other bookstore in town closed 10 minutes before he arrived. He’d have to lay out of school (once more), maybe ride his motocyclone over to Toppsity. But first: an early movie. Cheaper that way.
2:00 in the afternoon and hardly anyone is here. Oh right, everyone *else* is in school, studying away. Studying to be grown-up dunces, he muses, thinking of his father Daffy Gene and his family run chain of fine clothing stores. He’s set up to be another Gene in their line of production. Well I’m *bucking* the system. Buck “Moby Prick.” Buck the red book, even, although he’s heard it’s better than the other. A whole bookstore devoted to that one book, he thinks again, not quite understanding the impossibility of it.
Great. Another movie about the future being in the past. Oh well.
He runs and gets some popcorn, mountainy dew, and candy before settling back in for a long one.
“Where is he?” Warhole demanded to the mechanical soothsayer. “Where’s Gabby?”
“You come — bearing the mantle of other people tonight, Andy War-HOLE. You have been talking to — *people* too much. You are too — *peoplely*.”
“Well, yeah. What of it? I’m an artist. I have to mingle. Socializing sells art. That’s what I’m about. Baby.” He checks his watch with this. Gabby should have been here 20 minutes ago! He needs help.
“Oh I look hideous,” Poetry Dancer complained to Marilyn.
“Won’t take long dearest (*coo*). We’ll have you looking, *exactly* like one of us in a jiffy, darling (*ooo!*).”
“No sir, you don’t understand. We sell *one* book. The red one.” You’ll have to go to the other bookstore in town for “Moby Prick”.
“Aww, *geez*.” Dimmy Gene’s book review was due tomorrow, and now he has to walk all the way across town to get a copy and start reading.
“It’s no good,” Gabby complains at the typewriter with its inserted, still blank sheet of paper. “I need people to write!” Long lunch break’s over. He better head back to the wagons.
I suppose it all started when Blutus tried to cross the road to get to the other side. He never made it; run over by a blue-black car of dubious design and specs, unmarked all the way from bumper to fender. He’d just made a call to the police. He had the information they needed to solve the puzzle of a case they were facing head on. Just on his way over he was to make his report. When this happened, *SPLAT*. They never really got the blue-purple blood off the pavement, a permanent testimony of sorts to the stain and strain (and drain) this put on the town. Toppsity was never the same. This is where it started most likely. The War.
Elements were involved of course; when weren’t they in conflicts involving Toppsity and covens in general. The fires that ultimately consumed Gabby’s brother Amos Truth and prevented him from regenerating one more time were put out by Marilyn’s Niagara waterfall tumbling and roaring over the western ridge. Earth moved north to south and consumed sign posts and everything underneath that level. The Ministry of Soiled Clothes was set up near the laundromat. Air and leaves and air through leaves crowded around and basically enclosed innocent residents in their harmless apartment units over here and just there, like insidious kudzu. Aether had split the scene, unable to fit in anywhere. Spirit was gone, spirits were low. People were taking uppers everywhere just to try to reach the surface of the soil and not be taken under. Reds and yellows were shot most of the day to decrease pervasive dopamine and increase lacking serotonin. Toppsity was in a state. Maybe Utah (or Indiana (or Pennsylvania)). Where’s those string beans?
Sacky doll waited for his master to come home again but it never happened. Amos was gone from this world.
“Another one coming through the portal, mum. Iris-Beach again.”
“Queer. The third one in three days from that location.” Ever-sister ponders the significance of this triple manifestation. “Better alert the witches.” The Tronesisia problem has been removed, she considers. But more trouble could be brewing. Three is always the sign of a rival coven.
The crushed can transferred over with a clank clankity clank landing. Coke this time. Sprite, Mountainy Dew, Coke. There can be no doubt.
“What do you think, Charlie?” strumming Roger Pine Ridge asked about his new song. “It’s a little more optimistic than my usual fare,” he explains further. “Call it ‘(Life is a) Beach’. Grass and Flip requested it — something more upbeat and lighter to work on, they told me. So I’m just writing about where I am. Right now in my life. Here. Just gotta think of some rhymes to go along with the the music.”
“Fine, fine,” states Charlie, only half listening, with the other half thinking about Margret, aka Poetry. Where was she tonight? Still stuck back in time, in the past. 1950’s still? Maybe even back — dare I think of it — to 1921? Where does that leave *me*? With Aloha? What the hell is Aloha?
Stopping the motion of his pick, Roger picked up on his friend’s concerns. “Don’t worry about Poetry, Charlie Banana. Where there’s a wall there’s a bridge. He starts the song over again, synchronistically thinking of another chord progression he could add to complete the bridge and the music as a whole.
Tronesisia was dead. How could 72 windows in an underwater train break at once? Kevin A. Orchardsity pondered from a couch in a Toppsity boutique he was shopping for clothes at. But he knew none of them would fit as well as his READ outfit, the one given to him by Umbrella. Or something. He *could* testify against Yoko Ona himself. He knew about Paperville; he had important evidence to provide for the trial. Black witch indeed, too late to save from drowning. Because that had already happened to Judge Tronesisia. Shame. He was hoping to ask her for a favor down the road — when his own trial came up. Maybe it won’t happen now. Maybe he can strike a deal with the information he has at hand. Paper covers rock, true, but scissors cuts paper as everyone also knows. So as long as rock is out of the way — and it is (Tronesisia was dead) — he might be okay in the long run. He could turn that waterfall of a mouth Gabby Truth in.
“Cut!” shouted the man behind the camera. “That was great, Stanley. Now one more take, and this time cover the first letter, people. We want this to be a clear A B C/1 2 3 situation. Kevin Orchardsity would appreciate that.”
Tronesisia was dead. How could 72…
“Cut cut cut,” interrupted Penn Mann, checking the new angle in the monitor.
“Okay, one more time.” This will have to do, the famed director thinks to himself, wishing now he would have hired a less buff actor than Stanley K. for the role.