Category Archives: 01

September 18, 2020 · 9:10 am

City

“I’m telling you, Owens. That handle was *broken* last night when I woke up. Now — it’s okay! I’m not lying to you, though. And I’m *not* crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were,” replied the calm, cool chef-inspector. “I’m just trying to get the facts. So — you woke up when the door slammed. This was when the other Sandy — in the dream — left the store — sans bikini bottom.”

“It was her tail and her little purple skirt, but I guess you could say ‘correct’ to that. I can’t recall her wearing anything else. When the cold, naked air blew in through the door when I went downstairs after I awoke I knew that she was the same: cold; naked; out *there*. The door slammed again, then. The handle was *broken*. Someone *broke* it. The dream was real!”

“Calm down, sir. Calm down. You said the door slammed in your dream and you awoke. Then you said the door slammed again after you awoke. But then you said Sandy — the other one, the dream one — *slammed* her tail and skirt down on the table between male bastards — think that was your words again — Renaldo O’Donnell and King Orange, saying they could have them. Strange you remember such specific names for a dream, Sandy Beech.” Then chef-inspector Keat Owens considered that *this* was a dream, and not the first time. It all started with the remembering of Spongebub.  “But this could be the door slamming again,” he completed his analysis. “Except you didn’t awake just then, only with the subsequent slamming.”

Sandy pondered this. Two realities were superimposing themselves on top of each other, inadvertently (perhaps) creating chaos and confusion.  He simply didn’t know; he simply couldn’t understand. In the moment.

(to be continued)

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September 18, 2020 · 8:02 am

spotlight

snapshot8583_001

“Let’s take you somewhere and put you to work, Mr. Author — Mr. Detective. How about Perch, hmm? Wait… that’s currently closed for ceiling repairs. Blue Feather it is!”

—–

“Good to see you back on the case, Chef-Detective Keat Owens,” spoke Baker Bloch over to the new but very familiar face. A bargain for 35 lindens in olden times.

The chef-detective shook his head, as if just waking up to the reality around him. Which was true. “I was on the ceiling,” he said, eyes blinking at Baker trying to focus in. “The building — was being repaired. An art installation. Then…”

“Murder?” Baker Bloch knew it could be the only reason Owens was back. Grand larceny or burglary or even manslaughter wouldn’t be enough.

“A girl. A friend of the 4 squared one.”

Spongebub? He hadn’t thought about that name in a long time. Not since the early days of Rubi. Speaking of which…

“4 men in one,” Keat Owens continued, as if Baker Bloch had said nothing, which he didn’t. “One of tin; one of glass — no, fur; one of steel; and then one of…” He tapered off, unable to think of the last element. That’s because it was imaginary. Baker Bloch explained this to him, along with the others.

“Superman?” he replied about the man of steel. “No, that doesn’t sound right.”

“Superdude?” Baker then altered. “Superguy?” he tried again. “Super*bub*?”

Then the reality of the overarching *umbrella* name kicked in. The chef-inspector was beginning to remember a whole world abducted from reality. “Someone has lost their bikini bottom.” His eyes were as big as quarters now.

Next stop: Bigfoot Bar or thereabouts.

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September 18, 2020 · 5:17 am

abduction

We do not purport to know what’s really going on at this French rr station with its blurring of time.

But could it be something to do with, for example, *this*?

Out on the platform, people walk one way…

… then mysteriously switch directions for the next shot.

A man appears just in this one photographed panorama and then vanishes. The logical answer is that this is the cameraman himself. Why the similar jacket and shirt to the other man here, though? Is it just chance; did they think this resonance funny and thus the jumping out of 1st person perspective and into the photo? Why at *this* station of all places? The Center of the Universe.

At the end of the camera’s journey on the platform, time is different in the mirror…

… from reality.

For the ultimate answers we may have to look upwards.

https://bakerbloch.com/2017/05/09/52988/

“She’ll get back here,” he said. “Go ahead… continue.”

As Baker spoke, the rest of the “Wall of Ass.” disappeared behind him, leaving Dali’s paintings alone in the apartment.

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September 17, 2020 · 6:24 am

cheeky

A deep metallic voice: “Ah yes, this must be the tube that LRPV used to destroy formerly Zen City and set up his Nowtown to rule NWES Island. Until it too was destroyed by a spawned fireball emitted from the Zen City detonation. The rule lasted about 10 seconds, then. Wait.” He checked his script. He saw the word “improvise” in bold italics after “Wait.” “Uhm. I don’t think that’s right, Wayne.” Who’s Wayne? I look off in the distance.

Sandy knew it had to happen. As he had changed others to make them appear as he wished, so too must he now pay the price. Karma, a word not to be thrown lightly around. He lay in his bed, dreaming he was another. Another Sandy. Seems like Spongebub images are everywhere these days, ba ha ha ha ha.

“Dig that chick at the bar, King Orange.”

“Sandy?” replied King Orange, now staring at her instead of clown and fellow burger baron Renaldo O’Donnell. “Sandy Chic?” he completed.

Renaldo O’Donnell glanced over his shoulder again, taking her in better. “I’d like to get her out of that little purple skirt,” he said in a male bastard way. “Like to get some of that tail.”

Sandy overheard with her sharp squirrel(-like) ears. She walked over and complied. “*Here* (*pop*), you can have them (*slam*). The things were getting stuck in the bar anyway behind me; keeping me from standing properly.”

She walked out of the Bigfoot Bar as they called it, also slamming the door.

Sandy Beech fully awakes with this, remembering everything. The stand, the poster. “Wendy,” he says aloud. “I forgot about Wendy!” He rushes downstairs to see if anything he was dreaming about remained.

Nothing but a cold, naked air blowing through an open door with a suddenly broke off handle. The wind slammed it shut again. Who would do this?

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September 16, 2020 · 8:50 am

Somerset 04

He woke up the next morning to find this basically blocking the way between his new house and his old spherical rocket ship he intended to use to fly down to the city and scout out the place. A coffin, he realized after a pause. He noted that it was held up by a kind of teapot shaped object which he didn’t recognize immediately as a water faucet. His plan of world domination was in jeopardy. The originator of Pan-Z had arrived.

He sat on a plywood cube he’d rezzed underneath a blossoming cherry tree behind it — Apples only spotted him after first seeing the coffin, the “teapot”, the tree, the cube. The coffin made a diagonal between him and his green colored nemesis. Appropriate.

Apples could barely make out the tiny voice when he announced himself, but thought it sounded like, “I believe you have something I want,” which would make sense in the moment.  The two entities representing the forces of Pot-D and Pan-Z had come face to face at last. Spore was threatening Apples with death if he didn’t get what he desired.

Apples’ senses were finally waking up. He sniffed the air. Someone or something was inside. Rotting.

“That person inside is *you*.” Clear as a bell now.

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September 15, 2020 · 8:01 am

Somerset 03

Before she left the double peaked mountain, she said goodbye to next door neighbor Oranges, who you may remember as Appleyon from our last photo-novel. He’s switched sides: he lives on the east part of the west side of the double peaked mountains. There’s significance there. Apples and Oranges in one basket.

“I — have… nowhere to go!” she cries between sobs, hoping for the obvious. She knew Oranges had fancied her for the longest time. She’s playing her final card.

Oranges looks on, slightly sympathetic but mostly amused. He offers her a drink from his demonic vending machine blocking the nice view down the mountaintop. “Jedi tea?” he says over. “It might help to cheer you up, Pumpkin.” It was an old game they played with these names, always (an) orange (object) for the green one and green for the orange one. “Okay, Lemmie.” She couldn’t help herself and changed a sob to a giggle in the moment. But he had no intention of letting her stay. Or did he? It was a Somerset dilemma. Another one.

Apples’ plan hatched next door was working perfectly. Or was it? He stares at the teapot hoping for an answer that never came.

Maybe he should ask the apple tree suddenly appearing outside instead.


“Well well well. What do we have here?”

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September 14, 2020 · 10:55 pm

Somerset 02

—–

“I can’t steer this thing at all!” purple alien Apples thought while struggling to land his spherical craft amidst the cherry trees atop the western half of Somerset’s Double Mountains.

—–

He walks into his new base, carefully avoiding a rickity looking, boarded up pump well. It’s the little things that often end those of his type, he’s wisely learned down through the centuries. Don’t show off, don’t take chances. Focus laser-like on the task at hand: world domination, ha ha ha.

Apples Too waits pensively at the window.

—–

“Heck of a year so far, eh Apples?” he speaks over. But she had nothing to say, since she knew he felt she was responsible for most of it. Apples was here to take over. Apples Too to her but not to him. Not any more.

“*Now*. Let’s discuss what’s happened since I last saw you.”

“Oh okay.”

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September 14, 2020 · 3:53 pm

Somerset 01

Goss is a village in Monroe County, Missouri, United States; it was once incorporated as a town,[4] but reclassified as a village in 2010.[5] The village has no permanent residents, and it is the least populous town in the United States.

“Yes I should have studied your “Northfork” sync more. Yes I realized I passed up the opportunity because it wasn’t polished and I preferred polish, like my…”

“Don’t say it,” I replied. “Polish is good enough.

It’s a 16 year old collage after all.”

“I should have clapped at it. There.”

—–

“I’ll have more to say later with you.”

“Oh okay.”

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September 14, 2020 · 8:04 am

Pasadena

The Oracle predicted its placement over there in Diamondfyre but I’m still not convinced the temple will stay long term. The City is warming up to me but it’s not on fire yet, a brightly burning beacon.

But now that I recall, this has already happened, with even a bigger pop and a smaller one. Oesso. Continual window. We must think of bringing back Sandy for this here newest photo-novel which is numbered 22 in a series of 20.


“HIT IT!”

The Invisible store has nothing in it, or else all the contents are invisible. Probably the former.

This nearby scrying mechanism is closed up.

Time to visit the bots?

—–

“Heck of a year, huh Santa.”

“Sure is.”

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September 12, 2020 · 8:23 pm

looming

“I don’t get it Elberta. How come you turned out so nice and I came out so… *bad*?”

“Aww, it’s just the place we’re from, Filbert (= Toothpick),” she spoke prettily. Everything about her was dainty and proper. No Southern slur to her voice, even though, like her brother Filbert/Toothpick, she was originally from the deep South. She downed chicken after chicken just like the rest of ’em, but never licking and smacking her fingers. Put her overalls on one suspender at a time, but with demure and grace. No shirts for anyone — she couldn’t get away from that. Just pants, and overalls if you’re lucky. You get one pair and then when you wear those out that’s it, unless someone dies in the family and you inherit theirs. There’s been rumors of murders just because of this. And then you have to make sure another sibling or cousin or something hasn’t been pushed out of a womb and grown up fast enough in front of you to earn theirs right on the spot, before the grave dirt’s hardened and the mourning flowers wilted. Wild flowers we’re talking about here, because no one from their parts can afford the shop ones. Like city lady Norm the Cashier’s exotic blend of Amazonia specimens over in the Black Ice district. No south of the border for them. They’ll never move beyond the front part of the palindrome involving Panama.

So here they sit in front of a dividing canal, one man and one plan. A canal going nowhere — Elberta had detected there was no flow to the current early on, but still came to fish here. If only for the beer and the company of her brother. Here, down in this sunken channel of rock and cement, she could escape the stares of the others. The ogles of the ogres she likes to think of it. “We are a pair,” she said, leaning over toward him and elegantly handing him the empty, with the understanding that he’d stand up, open the box cooler, and give her a full one in return. He was obedient, but yet he was also a slave again. A slave to tradition. Brothers usually marry their sisters in the deep South culture, with twins no exception. Usually. He counted the days and weeks in his mind. 17. Just enough to get settled into the new temple with the new avatar God and make arrangements. He was hoping their parents would actually go out and buy him a new pair of overalls for the wedding but we’ll see. Usually doesn’t happen that way; usually someone has to die as stated. Uncle Luther has the flu, Filbert can’t help but think here. He imagines another funeral before the wedding with freshly donned dungarees.

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