Ripped Windmill Man, as they called him, was assigned the role of night guard for Ruby the green grey Alien, currently holed up down at the fire station for further protection from those darn psychic kids. Half policeman half army man, he was more than equipped to fulfill the duty — overqualified, Ben Bolt said, eager to get the job as well to support his own troupe of kids, 2 psychic and 1 mundane from an early marriage (the former Mary Bolt, now married to Alfred Reynolds the shoe cobbler). His ripped body wouldn’t fit through some of the doors there, he argued. His half policeman half army man training made him all bastard, he tried. Jim Wells, father of Alice Wells who Ben was also trying to woo along with the job, would have none of it. “Windmill’s a fine man. He has 3 ripped bodies that he can strip like a snake or lizard or something if needed to fit through any door. It’s *just* a night guard job, Ben,” he said to a potential son-in-law he didn’t want. “Maybe you should aim a little higher, hmm? How about — manager of the day care; help keep an eye on those psychic toddlers, make sure they don’t get into trouble *too* early.” Because Jim Wells knew it would come to trouble later on as they aged a bit, spontaneous fires being only one potential hazard. “The firemen, the policemen, heck the *army* men can’t do anything about them once they reach a certain age, some say 5, others: 7.”Jim Wells realized he was making a case for ripped Windmill Man to take the day care managerial job instead of Ben Bolt and stopped. His future son-in-law — if it came to that — would *not* be a night guard at the fire station, no way Jose.
Ripped Windmill Man stripped his 2 outer ripped bodies so he could fit comfortably through the door and look in on Ruby. “Everything all right in here?” he asked, checking the corners of the fire station’s storage room again for bugs. He was sensing something but didn’t know what.
“Tell him everything is okay,” commanded unseen Billie Jean Kidd from the side. Turns out Ruby had already been compromised and the firemen, the policemen, the army men couldn’t do a darn thing about it.
(to be continued)
He stood in the middle of 4 sims, looking down at the water. Far Future City, he thinks through his holey head. Metropolis. If only the kryptonite radiated bug hadn’t bitten him he could have seen further, clearer. As it was: an improvement! He might be getting better.
“Snap out of it, bud,” she requested beside me, perhaps also snapping her fingers but perhaps not as well. Choices.
“Hidi,” I answered groggily, as if just waking up, which really didn’t describe the situation but also *didn’t* describe it either. A half and halfer. “Had another vision,” I offered as a partial apology for nodding off. “The music was really good. The music, in fact…”
“Yes?” she prodded, also perhaps nudging me in the ribs, depending on how physical she was in the moment. At least she didn’t slap me at first. I don’t think.
“I’ve… heard it before. It was taking me somewhere else…” I trail off.
Introducing himself to the scene, Deere comes out of the john, but don’t call it that in front of his face.
“Hidi; Kolya; *George*.”
Was I still dreaming? “Slap me,” I said to Hidi.
(to be continued)
She’d basically been living in Wallytown for I don’t how long, weeks at least. She’d taken enough showers to kill a cow, wash a bible head starless black ink sculpture all the way back to clear. She wasn’t done. Someone was with her, urging her on. Her worse half, as she called the louse (see above). This was the Orient, this was India. *She* was India. It was about time for an interview.
India: Glad be here. Glad you like my secret schweet smile.
Me: I missed you in Delhi and New Delhi. Turns out it was American instead of Asia.
India: I like hiding (laugh; smile revealed again)
Me: Chef-inspector Petty is hot on your tail. How do you feel about that?
India: He’ll never find me. And if he did he’s just a mesh object. No danger to him, none atall (smile again).
Me: What of the plane?
India: There *is* no plane. Petty knows.
Me: What of Kolya, who also goes by Pepi and Can?
India: (after a pause, then serious) A schweet boy, but damaged goods. I dare not touch him.
Me: And Alysha? We seemed to have scared away all the main characters.
India: *We* are the main characters. Always have been, you and I (she points to her and me).
Me: Alysha is Asian (I tried).
India: We are done.
She asked me to wait outside until she could clean the place up a bit but when I finally got to go in I initially judged she was instead just messing it up more — to irritate me, perhaps, or just to demonstrate that she was hard at work over here on the outer islands in this witch house. No time for tidiness with so many spells to perform (!), one of which — *which* — apparently brought me here. She said she and her “mates” (fellow witches) bought into the quartz business on a tip from Lisa the Vegetarian who they knew from the Omega continent. “And where are Lichen, Wendy?” I queried after finally being invited in. “Warm your hands first,” she demanded, and after I protested that I was just fine in terms of temperature, she turned around from casting her latest spell and indicated the fire. “Just do it,” she said, so I did and then I realized my hands *were* cold, my whole body, and it had been so all my life. Only now was I truly warm, truly alive even. She asked, “better?”, and I replied, “yeah… h-how did you do that?” “Oh you don’t know the half of it, the half of the *half* of the half. You are merely an apprentice,” and I realized she was speaking truth. This from my warm vantage point now. She was not an irritation any longer. She was a sage, she was a source of all knowledge, a conduit. Just like she had always been. Except I didn’t realize it. Until now.
I suddenly became cold again. I went back to the fire, knelt down and warmed once more. “It only lasts about 5 minutes or so,” she said about the latest spell. “I’m still perfecting it, but: pretty good, eh?” Fern Stalin turned all knowing, all seeing. Pretty good indeed.
Biff Carter was filling in for Philburg Johnson Jones, sick with the pill. Back on the beat for the first time in a while. Cpt. Henry needs to get these boys a new set of wheels, Biff thinks while staking out a rough joint and catching up with his red book, the one with him in it (the *other* Biff Carter). Paper, he ponders while rereading chapter 2 for the 17th billionth time. Sure glad it beats scissors or we’d all be in a fix.
Suddenly: gunshots in the distance. The City was a tough, rough place, he knew. He was not a cop now but a private dick, forced to retire from the force after the Oakley Annie debacle. Gun selling was illegal in the Great Black Swamp and Biff Carter well knew it. He just let it slip, like all those dickhead cops before him. He was just unlucky enough to get caught. Oakley Annie gunned down a bigger gun this time: the mayor of Swamp Fox. And now he’s stuck in this ruddy city of all places. New Eden, pheh. But now: a possible opening. Philburg has a history of illness and may not make it this time, with the pill harder and harder to get over. Phyllis the waiter told him this down at the Red Dress Diner. She’s popped enough; she should know. More gunshots. Should he go check? Nah, not his responsibility. He may not even remember how to fire his pistol after all this time. What was it: Alcatraz? Or maybe Gettysburg. Yeah, the latter. Philburg would know. He was the one who got hit in the foot by the stray shot. This started the pills. Ahh, it all goes in a big circle. He shot Philburg, Philburg shoots pills, Pills shoot… ahh, he’ll work on it. Point is, he may get Philburg’s job because of an accident that happened a number of years back now. Last time he filled in on the force. He could work up to 30 hours a year per his early retirement agreement. And this is 10 of ’em today. Now’s his chance, he senses. No more shooting people (or himself!) in the foot.
The gunshots get closer. At a certain point, it’s obvious they are heading his way. “Shoot and darnit,” he cusses, trying to start the old police jalopy in order to run away from danger. But the tires had gone flat in the meantime. He’d have to face whoever was causing all the trouble head on. Most likely this was their hangout. Was Philburg behind this? he suddenly guesses. Was he… getting back at him? As soon as Biff Carter thinks this, he knows it is truth. This is…
in the progression of sheds red mysteriously switches with orange
“Let’s go with *this* picture instead, Hindsight, er, Golden.”
“Yes, call me Golden. For now.”
“O-*kay*, Golden (*tee hee*).”
“More light, I agree.” Hindsight/Golden knew the squeaky voiced sponge being was always right. He was worshiped in many galaxies.
Those who didn’t worship him were often left in the dark. Pitchfork territory.
He has a son. I’ll deal with him next. Hindsight/Golden turns here toward the CB Dylan dresser. “And the wife.”
The newest anomaly of Rhodenwald is gone as of sometime in the last 24 hours. A temporary madness.
Maybe that kind of madness will also pass for the country as a whole. But I don’t have my hopes way up.
“Uh herm, you’re showing a bit of an ankle there, New Nun.”
“No, Duncan, it’s just that I can’t hate this place. I *should*. But love is here. So much hate in the world.”
“Like the couple in the park,” Duncan Avocado in the wicker chair beside her said, referring to earlier conversation.
He looked up from the bare ankle. “And the cross?” he spoke. “And the crucifix?”
“Yes, they will always be in hand. A second life must be prepared.” She pauses again.
“*Is* this a second life, a second chance?”
“I cannot say there is not love here,” she finalized, looking across the road at yet another symbol of red hate. Dixie seems to surround this oasis of Rhodenwald, a Meat City all around. We’ll have to talk about it further.
Zero was a figure of some importance so I decided to circle around him in a permitted pattern to indicate this. He marked my 5/4th time with his special watch.
Yoko 01 showed up and was mystified why she was already here in Heartsdale. And now the drama continues…
So I’ve killed Arthur Kill, ruminates Marty at his home in Urqhart while watching the full moon revolve atop Urqhart Hill. No extra “u” you’ll notice this time. But someone will have to fill his timeline over in
Kraken Storybrook, hmm, he ponders further. I better get over there and set the stage.
But first, someone else has to “die”, hehe. Dye their hair that is.
If only I had a bathroom with a mirror, hrmph.
Better get down to the local bar; see what changes I’ve wrought with the death of my former top assassin. Maybe even (murdered) Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child has returned? That would be kind of cool.
No Cathy, just Linda, the old ball and chain. Oh well, at least she can dye my hair for me.
“Your place or mine?” she slurred, half talking into her 4th Corona-V tall stout of the night.