Category Archives: 0116

April 30, 2023 · 3:30 pm

Duke

“No ma’am, we don’t have that in stock. We *can’t* have that in stock. Laws of the land.”

“Okay, but what if I do… *this*?”

“No ma’am. However many *seductive* poses you try it won’t get you that drug.”

“Okay, but how about *this*?” She remained undaunted. She had to have that soda!

—–

Mike (and, later, Pat) met with Newt and Wheeler on this very issue just across the road in a cavern. *The* Cavern, in fact; sitting around telltale mica. America was slowly but surely being poisoned. Mike had an idea for a new campaign.

“Just *shut* up and *listen*, Moms and Pops.”

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February 27, 2023 · 2:16 pm

Boothell

The Void had come to Mountainair in January 2008, drove right through the middle of the town *basically* unnoticed. Probably on a bike. Probably unmotorized so as to cut down on the attention. Barry found this out on his computer back at the hotel, only 2 blocks away from the passage. The Void was making a statement, he knew. Best to get out of town before “accidents” happen again. The Duck was presently gone but for how long?

“The bottom of the state,” he urged to Hucka Doobie that night. “That’s probably what it means.”

And indeed Shakespeare is to be found there. Hucka D. knew the area well.

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December 15, 2022 · 12:14 pm

00360116

“Don’t get sick in here, Nogin,” said Bob the bartender. “It’s not my fault you rode the Ferris wheel for 2 hours and then came in here for a couple of margaritas.”

“Carousel… *next*,” he gruffed as he looked over at Grassy and Sassy doing the same. Stay in motion, he decides. Because if still — this. *Head* in motion. Stomach.

“Well, yeah, why don’t you go ride the carousel over there — away from me — and get sick off it. I’m sure Bud (carousel operator today) won’t mind, ha.”

“BLEEHHHHH.”

“Great. *Thanks*, Nogin.”

“You’re BLEEEHHHH… welcome.”

—–

“Little hard for me to skate in these tennis shoes.”

“I’m doing just fine in my slick sassy boots,” his Mmmmmm partner returned, gliding along with much less effort. Good thing Grassy is 5x bigger or he wouldn’t be able to keep up.

Does she have to name *everything* she wears after herself? he ponders while struggling onwards. Well: 2. Gloves and boots. And the occasional “sassy” hat.

“What about that guy getting sick at the Beach Bar?” said Sassy over. “Sick and sick and *sick*. I could still hear him throwing up when we left the park to come down here.”

“Why we chose not to stick around for the Ferris wheel,” spoke Grassy. Else why would I be *here*, he thinks.

—–

“Oh God, there he starts *again*. Just when you thought it was over.”

“Let’s skip the margaritas and go straight back to the cottage for some Alka-seltzer.”

“Good idea.”

—–

“Oh (‘BLEEEHHH’), yet *another* present, Nogin. Christmas keeps coming and coming (‘BLEHHH’).” Where *are* those paramedics? Bob thinks.

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October 9, 2022 · 4:16 pm

00350116

From his shack embedded in rocks all around, he’d watch her — seems about mid-afternoon every day — walk up to the top of the waterfall and mix a thin but unbroken line of gold in with the roar of white. Then she’d walked back down and go the other direction, not to be seen until the next time. This was obviously for show. Don’t mess with us prevert, he imagines her saying. We’re always one step ahead of you, thinking as both man *and* woman.

There. He could always see it hit the bottom. He always *felt* it (again). Must be part of the place’s black voodoo.

Wish Claude would come back he thinks after today’s particular show was over, starting even higher than usual. Might be in a better mood now to talk about Apples. Besides, Wanda has another one of those headaches she’s prone to lately. And the Green Acres channel has mysteriously turned to snow. Not much else going on, then. He’ll pencil in a meeting, let’s say, mid-afternoon tomorrow, ha. Because he wants to make sure it’s not all hallucination by this point — everything. He needs a tether back to reality. Maybe even write or at least start an apology letter to Apples, if he could find an actual pencil hidden around here, maybe under the couch cushions. He’ll check as soon as he finishes another nap on Wanda’s unyielding lap.

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July 31, 2022 · 9:11 am

00340116

He knew if he stayed low like this he would not be seen. The little trees in this park on the northern edge of Ontario were just too thick for proper viewing above knee level. And that was the point of John and Jem being here: out of sight. John gave Jem the “medicine” that would produce the duck and give her the needed results. Probably only 1 day left; cutting it close. As it had to be. Too risky otherwise. “The duck will lead the way,” he says while handing over the zip lock bag with the blue powder (blue? powder?).

In quiet mode, Newt took a couple snapshots with his built in camera then watched John exit west and Jem south, out of the trees and into the world of man again. Martha’s board spelled it out in no uncertain terms last night. SAVE THE GIRL.

(to be… continued)

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May 19, 2022 · 5:39 am

00330116

The next day, Dafney met new bestie Jem for a celebratory birthday breakfast at Ted’s Sweet Shop next to the open market. Both had turned 42, years for Dafney and weeks for Jem, since she was a simulacrum, with a much shorter life expectancy than true humans. Thus the strong desire to see the world and not stay in a dead end bookkeeping job in Dodgey City before it’s too late. Plus the lurid cartoons based on her of course that we’re not suppose to talk about or see, orders of her doctor-therapist.

“How’s Jim?” Dafney began the serious talk after the meal was over, flapjacks for Jem and mustard over easy for the yellow one, a canary today, a freebird. She’s heard that 42 is the year you learn about everything and anything, with no more “mine over here” and “yours over there.” Everything blends, everything rotates around each other, like 6 is the opposite side of 9, the same figure. She’ll start with Jem — they will be as one today.

“Jem’s fine,” Jem speaks in the third person about herself. “I’m here aren’t I? Eating breakfast with you. I probably have 60 good days left for me.”

“No — *Jim*,” insisted Dafney. “The Brown one. Like I’m yellow.”

“I don’t know about Jim, but *John* can go to hell for all I care (!)” He was the one who published the cartoons. Jim is his twin brother. John is spelled with an L, Jim with an A. Both stand for nothing, which is of course the opposite of everything. They suck in life just as much as Dafney exudes it, Jem thinks here, glad for their friendship.

“I’m… sorry.” Dafney begins to cry. Or is it laugh. She searches for the phone again, determined to call Redbird or text Bluebird to see which one.

(to be continued)

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March 13, 2022 · 8:54 am

death

“What did *you* see Mr., um, *Head* (snicker).” She wasn’t going to dig this dude out as well. Write it off as a lost cause, she figures as he automatically starts her worthless, chat received fortune. “You will find a sock you thought you’d never find.” Hmm, maybe not so worthless after all, if sock equals key. And it probably does. Still not digging him out.

She moves to the house. Coke machine still there, as Billy Dancer reported before getting stuck. Chef-inspector Petty gone — must have either crawled off or the body disposed of by Billy. She only mentions the supposed killing, the bloodless slashing of the dummy’s throat. The old boss dug short and succinct like that; wanted to rack up the cases instead of going over the nuances of each individual one. New boss was different. Not the same as the old boss, as The Who famously sang about. Or maybe they are, she pondered further. Wanda and Sykes: different in their own nuances. But it’s all still about numbers, the bottom line, no matter what Sykes promised at first. Maybe she’d be asked to pare it down as well. Probably, hmph. She’s already starting to resent the new hire, even if it’s all in her head.

Joey moves upstairs. The computer Billy also briefly mentioned still plugged in, still given the blue screen of death (BSOD). Those people we, the readers, saw before around it near the beginning of this section, Frank Pinocchio and Fay Blue: gone. Just like the chef-inspector.

Next room; low voice:

“Yeah, she’s about to come in here and discover her dreaming self and wake up. Better amscray.”

Voice demanding something on the other side. “Okay, okay, I’ll bring the body as well. No waking self.”

The voice on the other side seemed to repeat the same thing although it was hard to tell from a distance.

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January 11, 2022 · 7:41 am

Silversides:

Baker Bloch hiding behind a big potted plant at the rental plaza, just trying to get an idea of who passes through these here parts. None spotted in the time he was there.

Just dummies around.

He’d missed the appearance of Ruby  — Alien version — by a country mile, let’s say. Despite the lack of pavement where the Black Lake Bunch usually hang out in the Chicken Pen, Jen had covered her dusty, dirty tracks well, with lady of the night Nancy Pantsy doing her part 02. I recall little Alysha listening to it all from her own hiding place in The Burro, another alley across from the first. And Dogg… who could forget Dogg? I didn’t.

Deeper we go!

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November 13, 2021 · 8:38 am

reversed 02

She was trying to close up and then he marches in here. The new guy in town, she’s heard. No one knows his name yet. He sits down. She keeps mopping, keeps to her closing tasks. He waits for her to speak. She waits for him to talk. No… one… knows… her name.

“Wagner?” he finally guesses. “I heard there was a family of Wagners in town, one who runs the bar by the big bell. He indicates the sign to his right on the counter. “Bell’s Kulturcafe… I assume that’s  you?”

“Marilyn,” she decides, thinking about the first name of another ditzy blonde. Two of ’em in fact, one also a Munster. But not that type of monster. Reversed.

“Marilyn… Wagner, then?” he keeps pursuing.

—–

He finally got that lower alcohol Bell’s beer that he wanted but not much more. He knew she was Marilyn and that’s about all. Maybe that was enough for tonight — wine wasn’t doing him right these days; downing it like it was water and he was a new Jesus but not in a good way. Beer would slow him down and Bell’s was just right: still very tasty. *Must* be a connection with that bell just outside. Or just over there. Or just around the corner. *Downtown* anyway. He tries to get his bearings so he can wheel around it in his mind more. He *could* ask for directions — surely she would give him directions.

“And CUT!” shouted the director behind the camera. “Let’s film that scene again, and this time let’s go with black and white. More noir.”

—–

Turns out Bell’s bar was kind of on the opposite side of downtown from that church bell Chef-Inspector Petty was contemplating about in that last post here, so maybe no connection.


downtown [insert name]

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September 30, 2021 · 6:15 am

camping

The first night staying in Neat Town I shared a cabin with a guy named BOOS, oddly enough. I was checking the blog for new posts about Cass City (no go) when he began to speak about the main topic at hand.

“Have you seen one?”

I was still busy with the search. “Cass City + Windmill”. Nope, hadn’t been there in a couple of nights, not since meeting — who was it? — Percy Pierce (of course!) at that place next to the railroad that runs between Cass City and Scratchy — almost runs. Strange that those 2 cats control all of Our Second Lyfe. Or so Percy says. Overlords, eh? Not the Lindens. I looked over. I could only see the top of his blue body from my position, not even a head. “I’m sorry… what did you say?”

“I *said*, have you *seen* one? The samsquanch.”

“They wha-? Oh.” I think back to the big bigfoot statue at the entrance to the campground I decided to stay at to begin my exploration of the town and its environs. “You mean sasquatch. Yes: bigfoot.” I tried a search on the tag Percy, then started with Guy/Guyd. Aha (!) Benjamin Guy *is* Guyd — with an extra letter. Figures.

“Bigfoot yes, whadd I say? I have.”

Axis-Windmill set the laptop aside, figuring he’d have to follow through with the conversation or else get no more work done tonight. “15 minutes,” he requested as politely as possible. “Then I must get back to my business. I have an important blog to run now.”

BOOS would not be deterred from his subject. “They came down in a, get this, *shoe* on the western edge of town, a *giant* one. They started unloading red houses, started dotting the landscape with ’em. The shoe flew away. The bigfoot started moving the houses into position. A town was born. A *neat* town.”

Axis-Windmill’s forehead furrowed, trying to wrap his brain around what the heck BOOS was talking about. Neat Town created by bigfoot or, er, bigfeet? “How many?” he decided to reply.

“How many what?”

“How many bigfeet did it take to create the town? Or were involved?”

“I don’t know. *Ten*? What does it matter? We’re talking about *bigfoot*. He’s *real*.”

“I’m sure there are women bigfeet as well.” Axis-Windmill wasn’t going to let go of his new appelation. Bigfoot plural: bigfeet. He’ll look up if anyone else calls them that after he’s finished talking with BOOS. He checks his watch: 8 minutes now.

“Awwww,” BOOS waves over at me. “You don’t believe.” He rolls over and pretends the conversation is over, baiting me. So I decided to take it.

“I believe. No, truly, I believe. Tell me (quick search for “Rebl” now in the pause)… more.” I’ll half listen for the remaining, let’s see, 6 minutes now. Won’t be long.

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