“If that lamb would just lie down I could get on with my story.”
“Ain’t going to happen,” replied the wise, grounded ram. For tonight.
Something different came to the sim of The Sand Seas today.
Nearby, spatially and temporally: Patrick still likes cats.
“I like cats. Man.”
But who was this man he speaketh to, just emerged, dusty and dingy and gritty, from The Sea of Sands to the immediate south of here? Jethro?
No, not him. Although he may play a part in our play later on. Instead: Monsieur Gold. Looking high and low for granddaughter Tessa. Searching near and far for step-children Lisa and Bartholomew. Dealing with the connivings and machinations of Madame Silver and fellow evil villain known as The Parasol all along the way.
“Any other place to sit here?” he implores to Patrick the crazy cat lover across from him, not wishing to presently accomplish the function his tire seat was designed for. Disgusting.
“No,” responds Patrick, attempting to smooth out a cowlick on the back of a cat.
Nearby (spatially and temporally):
“God I hate murders. Despises them.”
I think it may be Jethro’s brother/cousin. Baer? Bauer? I believe I’m onto something…
Something different came to the sim of Bauerbridge today.
Luckily Rey Wisa always kept a spare cone in his pocket.
The war over, Tronesisia pilots her Pink Baron back to Middletown to begin civilian life again. Her wheels touch down precisely on the 2 yellow rubber lines of Main Street just beyond Treasure Bay. Perfect 3 point landing.
But she hadn’t earned the moniker of flying ace for naught. 20 Frenchmen alone shot down! She returned a war hero, with all the accompanying accolades. She was a baroness now, due to marry Lord Bendington on the 25th (Christmas Day).
What about former lover Peter SoSo you may ask? Left behind in the ashes of battle bombs. Unable to extract himself from the high life in Hana Lei. Tronesisia desired more for her own life than just wobbling around stoned all the time. She desired accomplishments… medals. Badges signifying significance.
She strides powerfully into the skyscraper with her penthouse apartment. Surely soon to be renamed Baroness Towers, she thinks. Or some equivalent. “Hello, Ms. Tronesisia,” Bert the doorman says at the entrance. “Welcome back.” After she passes, he rushes into the work room to tell Timmy, Ben, and Wanisa to fetch her luggage out of the plane posthaste. Word spread fast through town. “Ms. Tronesisia is back, Ms. Tronesisia is back!” She was loved and feared by the citizens of Middletown.
“Ahh, good to be home!” she exclaims on her patio while sipping strong German beer and looking out across the sea. Soon she would be surrounded by royalty. She imagines them sitting all around her now, talking of her war glories and helping her take steps to make sure her celebrity status pays dividends in the marketplace of what surely will be a post-war boom.
Finished with her beer, she heads inside to retrieve another from the top-of-the-line Italian refrigerator. She pauses at a certain point, sensing something different… new.
Tronesisia doesn’t see the bottom 1/3rd of the Kidd Tower just below her this particular night. Billie Jean Kidd had been unsuccessful so far in bringing the remaining 2/3rds to Middletown to make it clearly visible from this window of the penthouse apartment. But soon she would. And then Tronesisia’s dreams of life as a post-war baroness would all melt away.
She would remember who she was, at the core.
“At the core,” Billie Jean Kidd echoes down below.
The Musician tries to remember where his studio apartment is in this maze of streets, stairs and alleyways.
Eight, nine… He believes his was 5.
Squalor. He thinks for the thousandth time that he must remove himself from this environment. But he’s been inspired (!). The Musician has some new songs. “Terri,” for one, a love ballad.
He found it. Down by the harbour.
How’d he get so lucky?
But he’s got his eyes on this 2 story yellow house 2 doors down. The place remains unlocked, and sometimes he and Terri meet here and jam.
Yesterday he received a telephone call from Wheeler. They caught up. Wheeler said she’s probably heading back to Collagesity in a month or 2, and that some things remain to be tied up in Olde Lapara Towne. He, in turn, tells how he got to Gaston from VHC City. It was pleasant talking to her again. Afterwards he thought of the good times back in their Safe Plaza, where they first met up. The Ear Bar. Yes…
He looks for the landmark. Takes him a while…
Key shop… close enough.
There it is. The Musician almost forgot how to find it.
His favorite pinball machine inside — still broken.
“Howdy Percolator,” The Musician calls toward the bar counter. Percolator is a sentient clown machine.
The red doors across the way were no longer locked. Underground open to all. No OD needed!
He could still stay here. Crash on the upper floor’s couch just like old times.
But there was Terri to think about now. He imagines him sitting in the chair next to the couch, his twin sister Chroma illuminated in the background.
Chroma wishes to be a mathematician, but is limited because she only likes group theory. “0 1 4 9 4 1”, she might randomly say. He can’t recall any other of her rows right off. Chroma’s graphs she calls them in total. She’s red for a reason.
“Hello, anyone… here?”
“How can I help you?” Rocky said. He was writing his Great American Novel.
“Um, my wife… and I… (are) here for the carni-val,” replied Peter SoSo, looking down.
“2 rooms available,” spits out Rocky. “145 and 100 per week.”
Not knowing that there are cheaper rentals in other parts of town, Peter sighs and hands over L$100 to Rocky. “I’ll take… the latter.”
“Follow me.” The small mammal jumped down from the desk and scurried to the elevators in the back.
“You really missed quite a lot at LEA11, Musician. Blackout Poetry… *music/sound*. You and your aural sensitivity. Such an odd condition for one who *makes* sound all the time.”
“I found a lot. I found enough. I had to get back to my music.”
Wheeler thought of the Harrison cutout but didn’t query about progress. “Where’s Art?” she asks instead. “Will she be joining us?”
“No, it’s not Art. Just an artist. Painter.” The Musician pauses. “Like you.”
Wheeler scratches her head. “Where’s our coffee? Service here is as bad as over at Perch.”
The Musician checks his watch, taps his fingers nervously on the round table. “Should be any moment.”
“I hate to say it, but I’m just not a big fan of Second Life images in virtual art. People especially for some reason. Landscape’s better.”
“You just don’t like people period, Wheeler.”
“Should we go back?”
“Nah, she’s not going to show up.”
“Can I be The Painter instead?” Wheeler looked over at the slanted Musician.
He breathes out, relenting. “Oh all right.”
She sat silent for a moment, then: “What was her name?”
“Chuckey,” came the reply. “Yeller feller.”
“Hmm. So she’s you too.”
“Seems that way Wheeler.”
“It’s you trapped in that Ear Canyon. Camping at the top. Assimilation — full swing. I’m not who I thought I was.”
Well… we’re in this together and that’s a trap. Fact, I mean.”
“I made it. So this is the spot.”
“97, 97,” says The Musician. “The poisonous violet-black building in plain sight. Towering over us at this point if I remember correctly. Yes, this is the point. And now… this picture. I don’t remember it before from this gallery, which has expanded into the territory formerly its back yard. What’s the name?”
“Um, ‘A Precarious Geisha’.”
“No,” replies The Musician. “The name of the gallery, not the picture. Hold on…”
“‘Finely Torn Id’, Wheeler,” The Musician says after remotely finding and then taking a snapshot of the gallery’s entrance.
“2015 for the painting’s date. This must be The Painter.”
“No,” says The Musician. “It was suppose to be someone else. Chuckey. Yellow. Head like Charlie Brown. Assimilation. Pineal. Pine cone. Fred Cone. Pineapple.”
“Hmm,” states Wheeler. “This (picture) must contain a code. I like the colors. It’s close to a picture of the other side of the wall. Where I landed when you tried to teleport me directly into this spot. We were on opposite sides of the wall.”
“Are you a geisha, Wheeler?”
“Why is it precarious?” asks Wheeler back, dodging The Musician’s question.
“Look, Musician. A piano over there. Why don’t you disengage yourself from the wall and play us a tune. You said you had hundreds of thousands.”
“Hundreds,” came a muffled voice from inside the wall behind her. “Or maybe thousands.”
“Well play me something, then. How about that ‘Fire Ants’ you go on about when you’ve had a few too many. The one that literally blew the roof off Barney Rubleboro in West Virginia that summer. Coal *everywhere*.”
“Hold on…,” the muffled voice said once again.
“Hmm. Wall again. And I had just turned yellow.”
The piano would have to wait.