You look astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the ominous Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, ’tis a common tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries. Any old crone would tell it you.
After passing through a Green Cypress Tree tree near the top of a grassy knoll, The Monk entered the southeast corner of Rookwood proper. None of the other sims mattered now. He could focused in on the task of finding Phillip’s grave…
Afterwards, The Arab took Baker Bloch on a walk through the local vineyards to try to cheer him up. He knew, because of the new outbreaks, that he’d most likely never make it out of Corsica alive. He was *stuck*.
Eventually he was able to steer the conversation back to Peakology and a positive outcome.
“Come on. Pick up, pick *up*”
“Says here, Baker Bloch, that the Corona-V pirates have come back and are now focused in on Arkansas. New reports are coming in all the way from Mountainsburg to the west, Formosa a little to the north, Kate to the east, and, let’s see, I can’t read what’s south of Arkansas.”
“New Orleans,” spouts Baker Bloch, not in a good mood because of the news. He’d just posted a rant about it on Facef-ck.
The Arab squinted further. “New Something, that’s for sure.” As hard as he tried he couldn’t make out the second word of the printed name in the article, like something trying to fade from existence or hide itself somehow.
“They’re such *dummies* over there,” Baker Bloch further groused.
Amanda finally heard the ring in her purse.
I recall now. This is where I met Messed Up.
I saved her from this place. Now she must save me.
He decides to become Harrison Jett this morning, who seems to be the same as Young Harris the professor, perhaps a later incarnation. It was a logical choice, given the shirt he wore.
“Another Messed Up,” he observed about the art work before him, thinking back to the contract signed on that particular Weird-o Island. Not the one with the Upper New York virtual university. Not the one where that pseudo-God lives up in the aether somewhere — David something or ‘nother. Instead perhaps the *weirdest* one of the 3, but he can’t recall the name. He remembers… staying there. Perhaps he is still there.
Whose heart is left on the musical stand? He must think of Mozart and the critical error of Yoko Ona the witch. Hole in the center. But it wasn’t John’s. It was his! The walrus was… well, you know the story.
I think this has something to do directly with that Weird-o island I can’t recall the name of. Queer?
Better head back there for more clarification hopefully.
“Everyone knows about the Ant Castle,” replies Golden Jim, glancing over at the structure perched on top of Yellowmoon Ridge, wearing it like an orange crown. “It’s where the ants emerge from the elephants trunk, turning it into, well, just Eleph. Peak, that is.
“And do you *know* the particular black ant that lives in the castle?” the mann next to him queries further about the mysterious object high in the sky. “Not Queen but King.”
“Boldon,” Golden Jim guesses, suddenly recalling the history of the place, the *smell*. The wax hardens and everything is recorded. It was a good work.
“He invented the telephone, you know,” The Mann spoke over. “That’s why he likes to use it so much. One could say he’s really *jazzed* about it.”
“Yeah I knew it was soda all along. I was just riffing you.” Phillip Linden was trying to act cool. Just because he *created* all this doesn’t mean he’s not still behind the times. Creators loose control of their creation. It’s a given once it’s let loose in the world. Real Life. No trademark on *that*.
“Soooo. Are you by chance part of the Yellow Group that’s, ahem, taken over? Through the peaks, I mean. I’m just asking because you’re…”
“Yellow?” the perpetually soda spilling man without a name so far finishes for the famed world creator. World of Lime that is. Lemon World is different. “I might be.” His cell phone rings — good timing. “I have to take this.”
“Is he there?” the ant being asked one of his loyal workers.
“Yeah. He’s here.” The yellow man stares over as Phillip’s head gets big again. Like a screwdriver.
“Put him on. I want to speak with him. About Rookwood,” the ant punctuates ominously.
It was an interesting color pattern and one she would end up studying for many years to come.
Now if I could only get the deity upstairs to speak something sensible. “I” just doesn’t cut it.
I must focus on the cottage that is and isn’t there, thought Golden/Rhiannon in her Goddess Garden. A one eyed deity also exists in the town over there with the tower. I know that the tower is both intact and fallen, and that the 2 town owners are both married and not married. Strange, she ruminated. Like one is absent as well.
I must speak to the deity. If I can.
“What – is – your – name?”
“A new town has arisen beyond the revolving tire, Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child. We must attempt to match its energy!”
“Sounds *great*!” the chipper hippie girl said, eyeing the namesake tower from her vantage point while following Rhiannon to the table with the magic cards. But she said to call her Golden.
“Tsk tsk tsk. Oh dear. We better hurry.”
“Oh I feel *awful* again, Rhiannon.” Golden let the name slip go, given what just happened.
“Let’s start with a single.” She turned the just dealt card up.
She sat in the middle of 4 and realized this was matching the energy.