I was hot on a trail again. Zero also owned this Heartsdale horse, hitched in a small woods behind its central Blown-Apart store.
And there’s the *other* circling Yoko dummy.
Marty never got that dye, at least this night. Linda had moved into the treehouse next to the bar to save money — couldn’t afford even the one bedroom house across the road now due to sinking her money into all those Corona-V’s. The lush. Plus it was a shorter walk to the bar and a shorter stagger back home, she explained to hubbie Marty the next morning. I should also add that she used the bar’s bathroom for her business. “Maybe we should just move in together (again),” she suggested during her morning martini, temporarily forgetting about the deficiencies of Marty’s own bathroom. “Where’s *Marty’s* martini?” she started asking irritatingly after a couple of deep draws, which didn’t set the stage well.
Marty didn’t want this. He had the freedom now to do what he wanted, see who he wanted to see. He was still married true, but…
Barry X. Vampire paused here in his writing. So Marty is still married to Linda, he thought, but they’re kind of estranged, even though they live in the same sim. And Marty is pining for former bar employee Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child, the one who stepped in the doo out back and is also unable to give Marty his old doo (hair) back. He tapped the No. 2 Kendal pencil lightly against the two manuscript pages he had typed tonight. And where was he? we must ask (to continue setting the stage). In the Centre of It All? But that’s where we’ve seen Olive of “Olive Green Pink” fame. Is Barry’s book *that* book? Oh… something is happening in the present in Urqhart as Marty and Linda begin stirring about. She’s in place for the Big Reveal — better head back.
“Just over there,” she explains further while pointing through the slats of the upper deck’s fence.
“A ball park?” exclaimed Marty in disbelieve. “Out in the middle of *nowhere*?” So this is the big change he was warned about. By Barry (Barry?).
“Do you see it out there Pitch? Come here please.” Kate McCoy, moved on from her late husband Jack and the Hilling sim as a whole, waved Baker/Pitch over to see if he could eyeball the unicorn as well. He stopped playing the piano and singing track 3 of the Platinum Prune suite of songs, popular in Bena and the surroundings these days.
“Nothing,” he said after moving to the window to also stare out at the yard. “Trick of the leaves,” he suggested correctly. But Kate knew it was more. Back to business.
“I’ve decided I’m going to play my mother here in Bena. The Mother of Vampires, kind of like the Mother of Dragons but also different. Which wasn’t real either — cats instead,” Kate McCoy tried to explain about her new role.
“Um hum,” Pitch Darkly exclaimed from the couch. “And what of Garfield, um, *Hatfield*? Will he remain, say, in the attic of the house? He’s a big orange (cartoon) cat, after all. Nothing that a village full of vampires would have.”
“I suppose he’ll have to,” opined Kate McCoy, finger to lip in thinking mode. “And yourself? Did Rebl set you up with your own coffin? Have you interacted with anyone in the community proper yet?”
“Just Barry,” Pitch responded about the used coffin salesman he dealt with online, who just so happens to be from Bena and is giving up his own vampire gig here. So Pitch is, in essence, replacing Barry. Interesting.
“Lindens,” Kate then utters, and shakes her head. “Taking away the few good men — vampires — we have. Leaving us with only Lemons.”
Pitch became confused. “But — Lemons are good. Aren’t they?” Kate McCoy just glared at him.
(to be continued?)
Petunia had the answer. At least a temporary one. “You’ve brought the house up, good,” he purred in his mysterious, cat-like voice. “Now you must bring the *rest* up of importance. The house, the church, the *tree*,” he emphasized.
“There,” he declared, moves seemingly over. “Doesn’t that feel *better*?”
Turns out the house, the church, but especially that tree, were attracting the wee ones, Ruby Fantasie the Jamacian witch, and who knows what else. Red balls fell from the sky as I was taking ground shots today. Now, yes, it felt better. We asked him the next step.
“What is this place, Baker B.?”
“Morgan. Morgan, and, over there at the bell, Julia.”
“Hmm,” offered Hucka Doobie the bee person. “Let’s meet at your place instead.”
“Yes, I can feel it.” Hucka Doobie checks his inworld map for the general lay of the new diagonal, this “Heart Line” Diagonal. “Where was the spinning train?”
Baker Bloch checks as well. “Umm, Velox. Two sims up from us. We’re in Sabulella. Between Velox and Sabulella is Vashti. Beyond Velox is Webworm, Polia, Ufeus…”
“I get the picture,” interrupted the bee person. “I was called in because you finally, *finally*, got in over your head.”
“Well…” Baker Bloch started to protest.
“But you did,” Hucka Doobie completed matter-of-factly. She tried to turn toward the interior of the Tao Lodge they sat just outside of but found she couldn’t pivot her head. “Let’s get up,” she rather commanded. “Let’s go look at the painting that prompted you to give me a call. *Finally.*”
“Here’s another Dali painting I missed before.”
“I don’t think that’s a Dali,” proffered Hucka Doobie, walking up. “Let’s go see the real Dali.”
“Just around the corner here, Hucka Doobie. Tigertail, Stinger, Chick all in one.”
“Hold on, Baker B. I’m seeing something else in this one.”
“A map. A map that freaked you out, grid lines running all over the place. What has this dude been up to? you asked yourself upon reading his profile. Chick, Tigertail, Stinger…”
“But the chick is the elephant, and not the chick on the ground. Gala. Dali’s muse of course.”
“The chick is the elephant,” Baker Bloch reaffirmed.
“A nice fire. A laughing monk. What next, Baker B.?”
“I think you know what’s next.”
“It really was all my fault, Martha my dear. I was overthinking the situation.”
“Think nothing of it. The Diagonal was being misused and you stepped in, just as you should.”
“But this one is different.”
“Who’s going to tell the children, Sid?”
“We’ll do it… together.”
Dr. Brown knew a thing or two about sniffing out mysteries. He’d been doing so most of his life, especially a particular one involving the Cult of the Three Suns. Clues had been flying in from all directions recently. And now another had fallen in his lap: a pregnant Pat or Patrick Starr, connected with *North Yd* of all places (pronounced like “North Wide” just so you’ll know). Tilers, he thought from his secret underground lair, far far away (spatially and temporally) from the simpletons at Eotia Village. Squid people. Opposite sides of the circle, one dead and stuffed, the other living and breathing and… preaching. Vicious cycle — no, not vicious — *natural*, a comes around, goes around sort of idea. But now he had to find Tessa. She was the key.
“The tile here indicates safety, however,” her grandpa reinforced. “Safe to split up, then. You examine the buildings that way,” — Grandpa Gold points behind Tessa — “and I’ll work my way around from this end — counterclockwise — until we meet up somewhere in the middle. Is that okay?”
I could spend the rest of my life staring at these walls and learning nothing else. I can’t believe all of the months from my past I did so. Nascera, he thought bitterly. Turns out nothing’s here. Nothing atall.
Even Reginald appears to be gone.
It was a beautiful house, but quite prim heavy at 195li. And that’s unfurnished. Impractical, most likely, to set up in present day Collagesity except on a temporary basis. And Mabel wasn’t going to go *back* without it, I don’t think. So it looks like they’re stuck in Heartsdale for a while longer.
Although well beyond its glory days, the town still retained some interesting landmarks. There was the coffee and sweets shop on the corner of Blown Apart and West Anglia. This is Mabel and Buurb’s favorite table within they’re sitting at here, with the great view toward their house (their house??). Mabel usually only drinks coffee. Buurb sometimes gets a whole wheat danish roll, like today. Mabel knew there wasn’t any use in trying to change Buurb’s mind over leaving, so she instead talked about New Island and how they got here. She sometimes read her associated diaries to Buurb late at night while they, let’s say, sipped cognac and munched on taffy popcorn.
It all revolved around the vinyl version of “Sometime in New York City” and the void in the center of Lennon’s solo career it represented. Slavery? That’s what they often discussed, and, yes, occasionally argued about. Very occasionally. For Mabel was against slavery of any kind in any fashion. Buurb made some qualified exceptions.
“Take the South after the Civil War,” he said today after taking the first bite of his roll and then setting it back on the small plate.
“No, don’t go there,” his wife demanded, also wishing her husband wouldn’t speak with his mouth full.
He chewed and swallowed; lightly smacked his lips. “Given 5, 7, 8 years, don’t you think President Lee would have freed the slaves himself? And the South might have been better going that route. Take carpetbaggers…”
“I *said*, I don’t want to hear it.” She ‘d have nothing negative spoken about Stove Top Lincoln. Andrew The Tailor Johnson, however, was often open for potshots. But she wasn’t in the mood this morning. She kept thinking about the house across the street. It was and wasn’t their house; another quandary. They were married there, true. But they also still lived in the trashy alley that followed from Old Church Street beside it across St. George Street at its front. The sale hadn’t been finalized. And the mortgage would be 2 full months’ wages between them (!). Could they really afford it? Were they digging a financial grave they would never emerge from? But the house! So perfect. If I could just get it to Collagesity, Mabel thought, we’d have a piece of property with no attached tax, no attached anything; that’s how things work there.
“Look at Pitch Darkly,” she said to Buurb another time on this subject. “Look at Woody (Woodmanson). Refuges… like us. The Bakers take them in, make sure they’re wanted and provided for. You’d like The Bakers, Buurb.”
“I knew Baker Blinker,” he corrected. “Or I at least knew someone who claimed to be her.”
“Oh yes,” Mable said, a pang of jealousy crossing her heart. Her Heartsdale heart. “Precious Snowflake.”
Because she was still around. We’ll revisit her soon and find out more of her story.
Pitch had always gotten chills when walking past this particular spot on his Grassy Avenue. Tonight he understood why. Two cardboard figures, Derek Jones and
Sikul Himakt Mykall Skall, awaited him at the location. Pitch temporarily lost his sight.
“Ahh, my eyes! I can’t see.”
And soon he couldn’t hear or speak either.
Jacob I. was now up on the second floor of House Greenup in Rubi. He had reached Greenup 11 in his examination. Himself.