“We’re both tall for our species,” spoke Albert. Maybe we should bury the hatchet, get together. You’d have to have an operation of course. I’m not taking what you have down there currently.”
“You’re joking, right?” Sometimes it was hard for Franklin to tell.
“Of course.” Albert was somewhat reformed, having almost died over at Sporminore in the last photo-novel, 35 (period). He’s kind of seen the light. He returned his butterfly curtains from his formerly very special room to Curtis’ just the other day. I believe we have a photo of him doing so in the media library, along with some attached dialog…
“You’ll have to trade them in.” “That’s fine.”
“So I come here looking for the Umbrella girl and instead find you. Under an umbrella.” He looked over, he looked up. “Explain.”
“We’re different people,” said Franklin. “I sit on the blue pillow, which represents positivity.”
“I resent that,” shot back Albert quickly. “*I* represent positivity… in the now.”
Franklin realized this was so. More memories kicked in. She was Shelley before, but also, behind that, Wheeler. She was Wheeler. She *is* Wheeler. She took him in, realizing she was sitting beside fellow core Baker Bloch instead of prevert Albert. Only the blackbird linked them together. And the hat(s).
“Take off your hat, Albert, and I’ll know that you speak the truth.” Could he?
(to be continued)
It was fun testing out boats before settling on the KittyKat one we eventually bought. Like this golden beauty found under an airport in Agrippa — on the Nautiulus continent ta boot. We’re kind of loyalists in that way: Mainland first, then Nautilus even in front of that. We want to stay close to Real Life through the Iowan hypercube, more Roberts’ thing but I get it. She’s explained it to me in layman’s terms.
But this one, whatever the other advantages, didn’t have a functional bathroom. What are you suppose to do, go off the side of the deck? You just dock a little more often, the seller tried to persuade. You’ll get use to it, she added. I don’t think so.
So afterwards we chose to look exclusively at the Bandit series, the ones with the cute little ducks on the shower curtains. All have a functional shower, a functional bathroom. And the KittyKat was well within our price range, being less expensive, for example, than the gold one pictured above, which was more near the top. Whatever disadvantages we have in bedroom animation we’ll make it up with imagination. And, anyway, you have to dock less for bedroom stuff than bathroom stuff. Everyone has to do their no. 1’s and no. 2’s with regularity, several times a day at least, right?
Truthfully, the first time I used their standard Flushmaster 2000 I was sold. Aim free peeing!
And I guess we were joking when we said Roberts hadn’t seen a man thing since she was 14. We’ll figure it out.
My name is *Franklin* and I approve this message.
Half the audience will be red, the other half blue. But in her purple sock hop outfit singing the right songs she thinks she can make it work. First off: the national anthem. “America the Beautiful”. No one can argue with that choice.
She decides to augment the “purple” in mountain through synthesizer manipulation. Lampton will be more than willing to help, she realizes. He knows the importance of all this too. The manipulation of the people of our great US of A.
Come on back Lemont Sanford (!). Turns out you weren’t killed off after all. Wheeler has that power.
But Duncan Avocado was another story and thus we cut off at the drums. Acapella I presume. Get ready for that augmentation Arthur “Kill van Kull” Lampton!
“Oh beautiful for spacious skies…” Beautiful singing voice. Just beautiful. Get ready.
“For ℘ùℜ℘Îē …”
She keeps singing but she scans the audience for change.
I use to have a dog, Edward thought while staring down at the masked man’s he was standing uncomfortably close to. If he were in his same time zone.
Funny how he can’t recall what kind. Must be an exotic type.
“Catchup,” Edward Daigle exclaimed after waking up beside Mary. “The dog’s name was…”
“Don’t say it.” A flood of memories came back for the avid fisherwoman. Pitch! How could I have forgotten. She springs up out of bed and stares down at Edward, straightening her skirt. How could *you* have forgotten.
Edward wakes up in Towerboro and, looking down at the Arkansaw book he was sleeping on, remembers to jot it all down.
He teleports in to the sim’s triple number without planning it. 152 152 152. This Lorsters Worst, name changed while Blue Rose Thorn is examining it, not wanting to taint the procedure in any way. Largest burg on Yd Island most likely, or at least top two or three. I’ll have to check. Anyway, we’ve already featured this very sim in a totally different incarnation in photo-novel 2, near its beginning. The David Bowie vibe was strong at the time. Could it be continued here?
Virginia again, just like with the cat-witch of the Wicked Wild West who practices her melting exercises atop vending machines, sometimes of the seedier variety even. She has something to do with this, BRT notes.
And of course the obvious resonance with Kowloon, especially featured in the blog through novel 17. The great and legendary walled city of Hong Kong, now razed.
He strangely feels at home here. He thinks he’s found something to spend the rest of his travel allowance on for the night. Who needs a midnight snack?
“What’s your name?” he asked after the money is spent.
“Rose,” came the mechanical answer beside him. This began the memory loss of his middle name. Plain ol’ Blue Thorn he was for a spell. Plain and simple: absorption.
(to be continued)
Waiting for the go cart race to begin. Excited whispers of Petty all around. Or is it Ketty? Who’s Ketty? Baker Bloch asks himself upon honing in on a name.
Ah yes, *Ketty* he remembers at the next stop in the Amusement Park after throwing up the entirety of his veggie burger eaten earlier that day. Wheeler soon followed suit — all over her man suit. The he sets them up she knocks them down situation continues…
The 2 88’s in back: fine.
“*You* okay?” Wheeler returned, seeing more green around them than red afterwards.
Baker Bloch set his jaw straight. “We’ve got to get to Ketty before he gets to us.”
“Again!” Big breath. “Let’s just get out of *here*.”
The 88’s volunteered to clean up but Wheeler thought that was beneath their job description. After performing the task anyway, they pointed out the word *custodians* in the 1st sentence of their contract.
(to be continued?)
“We don’t like your kind around here, you *hippies*, with your *peace* signs.”
“We’re *not* hippies,” Norris and Pietmond demanded in front of their parked, garishly colored van, trying to get their bearings in this queer place. Its wheels simply would not turn without them. “We’re gypsies.”
“And killing citizens right and left after you just entered the gates of town,” he continued his rant and attached deadly glare.
“They were *zombies*. They would kill *us* without thinking about it!”
“Nevertheless. Zombies are people too. Besides… you need a license in this town to kill zombies. I’ve been waiting to say that to someone for a long time. People around here don’t listen. But *you*…”
“Strangers.” Norris understood this must be one of the disgruntled Pro-Dead he’s heard about in the general Sunklands area. The reason they’re there in the first place. He nodded toward Pietmond, knowing they were on the right track. He produced the blue feather from his grey pocketbook. “Know anything about *this*?”
The farmer-lawyer recalls. His mind drifts back to that day in early May of last week’s July. He falls back but then springs forward, pitchfork in hand. He’s gonna make *them* dead. Then he can defend their rights properly, heh.
(to be continued)
“Another dream: I was at 23:23, the place *and* the time. This was the…”
“… beginning?” He’d heard this too. Male-female synthesis. “So we’re back to trying to track this 102 fellow. Or 102 girl.”
“Queer dream,” states the now black Chief in his bar by the blue swamp in the southwest corner of Paper-Soap. “Say the girl’s name is Atrophia?”
“That’s what she said. Blue hair. Blue as Heaven.” The visiting Aldebaronian glanced at his wrist. 4:20? Not on *his* watch.
Black Chief looks out the door of the small bar. “Rain now. Swamp will be getting pretty damp soon. Better rev up the dehumidifier, um, Stu. That *is* your name today, isn’t it?”
Stu Umbriel, who goes by many names since that cursed birthday party about 1 month back now where bodies began to merge together in queer ways, smiles and says it is so. “Today,” he reinforced. He moves around back to crank up the moisture removal device, which he knows the ins and outs of better than Chief, being a regular moisture producer himself. In fact: better take a leak behind the bar after I roll this baby out in the middle of the room, he thinks. He glances down. This blue blue baby. Blue? Center? Just like the (stranger’s) dream.
The rain gets harder. “Yelloo!” he exclaims behind the bar, getting wetter all the time.
“Thanks for serving me bottles, guys. I don’t care much for cans, because of the name and all. Pepi “Can” Kolya at your service. I say that so you can see me for who I am, like friends.” It was here they noticed the holes in the head, and why this dude probably just missed his flight out of here to a fantasyland of his choosing. The Lake will do that to you; lull you to sleep. This Starfish.
“‘Nother one, bud?” asked one or the other, take your pick.
“Nah, better amscray. Gotta catch a 5:15 outta here.”
“6:15, now,” said the one that didn’t talk before, the other bartender. They may have been twin brothers but they may not be as well: picks again.
“Whattt??” exclaimed Koyla. He’d been following the wrong time zone, which was the right time zone before crossing the Centalia Line. He liked to be conveniently late but 1+ hours won’t hack it. He’d have to reschedule.
“Another one bites the dust,” says Marion “Star” Harding to his Project Humboldt v1.4 CM plane, use to it. “Fantasy people, pheh.”
“I hear ya,” he imagined the plane saying back to him through his or her propeller.