After finding out which one, Dr. Mouse has him lay on a gurney ready to go deeper into the bowels of the place.
“All the way back, Mr. Johnston,” Nurse Porcupeople urged. “I have you.”
“Wheel him away,” said Mouse, studying the newest form and seeing it is good. Ready for delivery.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0036, 0108, Nautilus, NORTH, Upper Austra
“Sorry about the hole, Mr. Johnston.”
“Please. Call me Albert,” insisted the tall, black clothed man sitting before him, seeing each other not quite eye to eye like before but getting there. He wanted to make sure he was up close and personal with the troubled man, try to soothe his rather frayed nerves. Yes, Albert had issues. He moved from behind the desk to here, perched before him like another one of his birds.
“I have to separate the wheat from the chaff,” he explained, gazing into his face from slightly above. “As you probably noticed, all I have out there waiting any more are dummies, complete idiots.” Mouse looked down, trying to phrase his frame of mind in a more polite way. “I don’t have time for that any more,” he said, deciding to end that way. Albert’s turn now.
“I… understand?”
“You’re a real life person in this afterlife sort of situation. I appreciate that. You are tall but you can become quite small. That proves you are human. More effective than picking out chimneys on a house or signs on a road. This is not the DMV if you see what I’m saying.”
“Understand… I?”
“Yes, I know how you feel, I certainly do.” Mouse rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as he sometimes does to impress a client, especially an important client like this. Albert was here to talk about the girl: he knew that. But which one?
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0036, 0107, Nautilus, NORTH, Upper Austra
He looked in on the proceedings with his 2 hats and his 2 perching birds, thinking: busy, good. That means the doctor, the practice is good. Here’s someone I can talk to and learn meaningful stuff from, this Mouse fellow. Never mind the failed Pooping Pigeons franchise, he follows. A bad businessman does not make for a bad something else.
He steps inside, jumps ahead of everyone else knowing they wouldn’t mind. He’s just that important.
The door was locked. The only way in, it appeared, was through this hole at the bottom. Luckily Albert brought his own Mouse costume, except his was a rat, small enough to get away with the deception and do the job. Mouse was just finishing up with another one, synchily enough. Rat named Map who use to be a member of a gang called Willard.
“Come in, big man,” he squeaked up to high-as-a-kite Albert. “If you can make it.”
“Oh I can,” he boomed down. Map Rat disappeared. Albert took his place.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0036, 0106, Nautilus, NORTH, Upper Austra
“We have a location on the girl. Repeat. We have a location, over.”
“Roger that, Mission. Honing in… now.”
—–
It was the first meeting of the local Umbrella Club chapter, and not all were invited, namely: men.
And *especially* Albert, who could only view the proceedings from afar, say 200 meters. That’s as close as his ankle bracelet would allow, which was probably a good thing. He just wanted to check up on her, he rationalized about the spying, make sure she’s not up to any trouble. Or if she was, he wanted to know. And, he also thinks, I suppose *this* counts. Just like the case with Franklin, pheh.
He never got around to taking off his hat, which could explain why he’s here.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0036, 0105, Nautilus, Yd Island
“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…
Yes, here:
“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)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0036, 0104, Nautilus, Perch-Mistletoe, Upper Austra
“Oh, we’ve looked everywhere for Franklin. Franklin Hollow here. Hootin Holler just a holler away to the north. Nothing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’ll find her.”
“Absorption.”
“Yes.”
Afterwards, Baker Bloch, in whatever guise he’s in at the moment, thinks that he needs to set up extra protection around Shelley, convince her of her supreme long term worth, her *extraordinary* nature. He didn’t think Franklin could emerge back out of her but also might be wrong. Small chance, but there. Roberts cannot be underestimated.
—–
meanwhile, in *Fordham*:
“You stay here with me and play backwards-forwards guitar, Franklin. Us greenies gotta stick together. Right Unch?” she calls up, then pretends to hear a, “right Apples,” from the tree behind her in place of “mere” leaf rustling.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0036, 0103, Bellisaria, Collagesity Fordham-, Lower Austra, Nautilus, Varmint Hills
“You know it’s not a nice place over there,” she said in her wise voice about the “town” across the water, this Dodgey City where we’ve just seen our now familiar friend Jem — Gemilly Johnston (or Johnson).
“What’s your story, then?” I asked down to the Grandma type figure in her old fashioned clothes, cane clutched to breast as she lay on a colorful towel at the beach house rental. She’s thinking about it. “Missing file?”
Instead of answering me directly, she said: “It’s good you’re back on Nautilus. It’s even better you’re back on the mainland, off that island — even though it technically is part of the continent.” She stared over again. Hard to read her emotions from this distance. Sad? Worried? Angry? Perhaps a mix of a number of these.
“About the file,” I insisted.
“Well, my name is Gemilly Johnston — Jem for short — and these are the books I’ll be keeping up with (!).”
So cheerful that first week, she says, reviewing her introductory video, whiskey sour in hand as usual when looking at this type of stuff. So many videos in her collection now. But this was one of the clean ones, before the dirt and grime of the city, this Dodgey City, became fully evident, thanks to John. *Not* Jim.
“I live about 1500 meters up in a nice house with a beautiful perpetual sunset, right on the beach. See? (she indicates a hand, an arm) I’m already working up a tan (!).”
If I could go back and kill her — myself — I would, thinks Jem here, wanting to wipe that ridiculous smile off her face with a rag of acid. OK, maybe Texas Pete.
“The house is owned by John L. Brown, who is also my boss, who is also my, ahem…”
Boyfriend? thought present Jem. Fat chance.
“… cousin,” past Jem completed her sentence.
Wait, is that possible? present Jem thought. She reversed the video, started over. At 2:32: “cousin” again. She doesn’t remember saying that. Plus it wasn’t true (!!).
—–
But John L. Brown for one knew it was and changed the wording yesterday after also slyly suggesting she take a day off for mental health reasons and look at old videos from the archive to soothe her nerves, especially recommending — or starting with — the one she’s viewing right this moment. Jem eventually figured this out as well as she continued to sip (or at least try to contain it to a sip) on one of her whiskey sours and ponder and ponder. Cousin — that aspect conveniently forgotten, conveniently wiped from memory, just like she was trying to wipe the happiness and naivety from her past self’s face back then in her imagination. She imagines someone standing behind her, looking at her as if on a video, trying to wipe something from *her*.
“John L. Brown,” she muttered with Texas Pete, add a little Oklahoma from beyond the screen. She turned (toward the camera?). Time for my close-up.
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.”
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0035, 0117, Nautilus, NORTH
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.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0035, 0116, Nautilus, NORTH
Sunklands 