Category Archives: 0117

00360117

“There it is again, Dixon 02! Shoot it this time with your bow and arrow! Quick!”

“*You’re* Dixon 02,” protested the one with the weapon. “*I’m* Dixon 01.”

“No time for that now! POOF. Oh… darn! Look at what you’ve done brother of mine, *second* out of the womb.”

“*You’re* second out.”

“She’s gone.” Pause.

“Pretty boots, though.”

“*Darn* pretty boots.”

“And gloves.”

—–

“‘Nother dream this time about those Dixons, Grassy. Something about them poisoning the alcohol of this town.”

“Hmmm.”

“Wonder….”

“Yeah,” predicted Grassy to what Sassy was about to say, Nogin’s horrific tossing noises also etched in his memory. “Me too.”

“Should we warn somebody? Who’s the mayor of Hardrock Island?”

“Hardrada, actually. Remember, Hardrock I. contains the guitar with no strings. The pool here has strings. The one you like so much.” Maybe more than the bigger one I prefer, he thinks to himself. Differences: small, but they can add up.

Sassy contemplates heartstrings again, and how Grassy should make her sing but not quite getting there; differences again. But no strings might have its advantages as well, as in, no hands advantages. As in *recording* advantage. If you don’t play forwards, you can play backwards — that kind of advantage.

“Welll?”

“Based on a dream?” he protested about the earlier warning request.

“Dreams,” said Sassy to this. “Repeating dreams.”

“See what happens tonight in your dreams and then tomorrow we’ll go to the authorities if needed.”

“*No* alcohol in the meantime. Or only what you brought in.”

“Cough syrup,” complains Grassy. “Stuck with cough syrup.”

“And mouthwash,” chips in Sassy. First time she’s glad about having a mild case of chronic halitosis. Wouldn’t be the last.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0036, 0117, Nautilus, North

00350117

I’ve given up. Wanda: gone. Punctured and then dumped in the bay, along with the couch which *didn’t* harbor any secret writing devices. Worthless, signal free TV: gone; same place. Fishing pole: dumped in the water as well. Swimming with the fishes instead of catching them. All I have is the roar of the waterfall and the occasional, added tinkle; funny how I can hear that much smaller sound through it all. I don’t even look out any more. Claude: nowhere in sight. I still live but I don’t know how. I haven’t had food for days and days. Life force… draining.

—–

“Aren’t you going to the waterfall today to do your thing? 1/2 past 6 already.”

“Nah, I think he’s had enough. Either he’s fully capitulated or he’s dead in there, hard to tell. I don’t even really care. But he’s broken either way.”

“We should contact Claude, then,” suggests Roberts to her lover and perhaps wife Franklin with this. “He owes us the rest of the 5 grand we signed up for, task completed it seems, as much as we could do perhaps.”

“Money, pheh,” exudes Franklin, picturing Albert’s limp, maybe lifeless body on the floor of the small shack hemmed in by rocks. “Fully green now,” she laments about receiving the paper bills, all Claude had conveniently enough. No metal. Not even red bills, which Franklin made up anyway to embellish a story.

“*Purest* green,” states Roberts while looking over, also experiencing remorse. “Just like you always dreaded.”

“Yes, we made a choice, Albert made a choice. I’m not sure who’s worse in the moment.”

“Us, obviously. Because we have an actual conscience.”

“He *might* come around. He could just be lying there, pitiful and useless life flashing before his eyes.”

“Somehow… I think our own lives hang in the same balance.” Both stare at the fire, realizing their actions were pure and good in that Albert *deserved* to be pissed on, and then reminded of it on a daily basis — but money never should have been involved. They didn’t pass angelic “receiver” Claude’s litmus test. But, like with Albert, there’s still a chance for redemption.

Franklin sat up. “We have to save him.”

“I’ll get my coat.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0035, 0117, Nautilus, North

center and periphery

Okay what’re we looking at here?

—–

Impossible. She’s *green*(!).

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0034, 0117, Wendy-Ontario

00330117

1st (singing): “I’m getting married today, today. I’m getting married…”

2nd (joining in): “I’m getting married today, today. I’m getting married…”

All together: “WE”RE GETTING MARRIED TODAY, TODAY. WE’RE GETTING MARRIED…”

STOP

GO.

Marillia walked out of the mirror to help Denisce. “Oooooo,” she exclaimed, “I can’t *decide* (squeal). The green dress looks oh so *yummy*. But the RED.”

Marillia didn’t tell Denisce the actual colors were aqua and pink. Marillia needed a sale today to probably keep her job. Because marriages were far apart in this here Towerboro, known for its division instead of addition, subtraction instead of multiplication. Yet the figures keep spinning, the numbers keep changing. Her boss Wallace D’ass figures sales have to turn around, law of averages. Love over hate, joy over competition. Substitute bartender Doris might know. If she could pry herself away from the constant soccer and rugby tugs-of-war. Dafney might figure it out. If she could stop thinking of herself and go with a different color.

“Ooooooo. Can’t choose!!” The wedding was called off. To save the business, Marillia married her boss instead. The dick.

—–

Suddenly — just like that — the war was over, and sunshine and happiness returned to formerly dark and dank Towerboro. Vet and alternate substitute bartender Walter Hotdog walks out of apt. 15 looking for his phone so he could tell Doris he loves her.

Mary texts battle scarred Dennis to say she forgives him for Abbie and says she’ll try that thing in the bedroom he wants to do and she’ll even buy the toys for him on the way back from work. Toys, pheh. Crowding in again, but in a good way this time. Jenny tells medal bedecked Builie that she understands now 2 plus 2 equals 4 instead of 5, and that 6×9 will never equal 42.

And Dafney… Dafney…

But let’s move to Charlotte.

“Will you… marry me Charlotte?”

“Is Charlotte a first class hooker?” she answers retired captain-colonel Kurt rhetorically, Dodgey history finally put behind.

Addition: It *was* reconstituted George she married. Who needs clothes when you got each other (*smooch*)!

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0033, 0117, Jeogeot, Towerboro

Sykes

She closed the door but dare not look around.

The swamp tree.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0117, Long Islands, Nautilus, Wild West

Silver King (Taylor 02):

“Shall we?”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0031, 0117, Bay City/Nova Albion^, Iowa, Sansara

spikey

“We’ve got to keep an eye out on that [black guy] walking over there, Virus.”

“Rrrrrrr–rough!”

“Good boy.

—–

“Just black and white,” The Mann determined about some lips in another 0117 post to end. “No pink.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0030, 0117, Golden Sink^, Jeogeot, Maebaleia/Satori, Sunklands^

red diner

“It was fun playing Kickass Boos again,” he said mildly, per usual. “I enjoyed yelling. I’m not… a yeller.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” the Controller said back. She had more plans for Kickass. And his brother — also named Kickass, Bogota in his case.

Now where was I?

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0029, 0117, Maebaleia/Satori, Neat Town

meteor from space

“Maybe there are good Boos and bad Boos,” offered up Harrison Ford Jett, still learning about and absorbing the impach. His precious Bluebird!

“Maybe,” said back brilliant Fern Stalin, his counterpart, his mentor for tonight. But she kept thinking of Mistery Island and how to get back there. “You better get back to her; she’ll be waiting. And you better cook up a pretty good explanation why you suddenly had to leave her side. And don’t mention Boos!”

“Okay.” They split after that, not leaving any firm plans for a future rendezvous. It’s possible, Fern realized, that she’d seen the last of Harrison. Or at least those apples. Decision paths lie just ahead…

“Don’t be a stranger,” she cryptically ended and was gone.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0028, 0117, Canada, Canada/Tungaska, collages 2d, Collagesity Fordham, Lower Austra^, Nautilus

monumental

“If I had wings like this I could do a lot better. But instead: hooves. *Horns*.”

Recently deceased Jer Ronamy remained confused. Was he or was he not talking to God?

—–

They buried him in the new section of the cemetery dedicated to non-Hollywood stars, because Jer Ronamy, ex 5’5″ star guard for the local pro high school team the Bottle Crunchers, certainly wasn’t Hollywood big, like Frank Baum or John Ritter or something. His family couldn’t even afford a tombstone, although they promised to purchase one later as soon as Uncle Stan’s airport scheme deal came through. Probably isn’t going to happen, understands Jer Ronamy standing beside his own grave as a disembodied spirit after everyone had left, still clinging to form but soon to give it up. Hummy the Hummingbird accompanied him on his visit, who was sent by the ones taking orders from the deer we just saw up above. Or make that down below?

“Can we go visit Beethoven’s grave while we’re here?” requested trilling Hummy. “I don’t get out that much; want to, er, *kill* as much time as possible before going back in.”

“Sure, sure.” He wasn’t ready to go back either. He still liked the feel of this body, despite the added weight. He died way too young. He heaves a big sigh and follows Hummy over to the actual, famous people, the ones with tombstones.

*Only nine symphonies,” laments the colorful, vibrating bird. “Should have been 19.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0027, 0117, Europe, Nautilus, Upper Austra^