It’s time to tell the story of the Ant and the Elephant, both chics. CUE MUSIC
“First off, the elephant is a Trojan Horse, pardon the mixed metaphor of sorts.”
“Pardoned,” she said, because she had that power. She was queen over her own little land which wasn’t little atall to her. Like Rose Wells before her. Or after her. We continue…
“We know that because of the triangle that can be opened with stuff put inside. Like a *bomb*.”
Attagirl gasps, throwing her hands cartoonishly to her mouth. Because she was. Would her subjects do such a dastardly deed? And why in Dennis of all places? Or a TV shooting screen in Dennis?
He stared at red, the cover closed for now, the puzzle incomplete, the TV shooting screen: disabled. But luckily we can view remotely.
Grasshopper is dead.
Her bugs are responsible.
The proof is in the pudding… and the sandwiches, and the cake, and the sausages.
Because of his exploits and otherwise poor grades, Daffy and his wife Dandelonia decided to send Dimmy Gene to a private school up in Nautilus, but trouble followed him everywhere. “Marilyn?” he questioned unbelievably, resisting the urge to scrub his eyes with balled up hands to see if he was hallucinating an old flame just left back in his Jeogeot German hometown.
“One of ’em (!),” came the happy reply by the blonde bartender, just starting her shift at the Princess Club. “Buy me a diamond and we’ll talk about it.” She held out her hand seductively. There was a ring for every finger, including the thumb which held the largest and also the most uniquely shaped. “General named Tom bought me that one,” she said, knowing where his eye lingered. She was an expert at that. “Thimble Diamond, biggest in all of Nautilus continent.” She moved it toward him more. It crossed his mind to grab her hand, pull off the big diamond, and make a run for it. But he knew he couldn’t get far what with all the bodyguards he’d seen around. He held it instead, kissed the ring, and acquiesced to utter power.
Dimmy later described one of the main features of the Princess Castle where the school was as a runaway to his old pops, but he’d inserted one too many vowels into the word. After her shifts at the bar, Marilyn was also often seen there with more lingering eyes. She had ambitions in this world. She’d sell her diamonds one day after she collected 5 more for the other hand, and move to Argentina and run a house of ill repute with all the attached glamour and prestige. She even had a name for the dream place already: Marilyn’s Munsters, with all the girls dressed up like ghouls and goblins; a novelty attraction. She knew it would be a hit and become her legacy. She had it all planned out. Until Dimmy hit town.
The school also provided him with a loaner car. Daffy had spared no expense to make sure his son got ahead in life. “Got anything faster?” he said to Sam Petty the car loaner agent, his eyes pulled away by the glitzier ones. He settled on the most glittery, kissing another, more bony hand. Marilyn was with him at the end.
“Axis-Windmill. You have blood on your hands that you must atone for.”
“What happened to your hands, mister?”
Roth Voomer looked down, not even thinking about that day any more. He’s basically healed. Except for the extremities of course.
“It happens, kid. The Abyss will have its price.”
“The Abyss,” the almost submerged kid says while nodding, having learned about such things in prison school.
Mine all mine. But what to *do* with it?
Maybe meet the neighbors if possible. The twin castle to mine!
And papa told me to guard this sword with my life. It can’t move! I suppose that means the castle will be derezzed with the sword, since they’re interconnected. Stabber of Lemon, he said. Told me the whole story once when I was small. Oh how I wish he were here to tell it again! My poor papa.
I will make this my room, my home base in the castle. I can look after it better that way.
I need friends! Oh… the other castle… on the peak almost equally as high as my own. Might as well say they’re the same. Papa would know all about it, I suppose.
I will *make* friends in the meantime. Up in my head, I mean. And then they pop up in reality. Like you. Who are you?
“My name is George,” he said to her with his newly minted lips, reading her mind of course. Since it was his mind as well. “And I am your future husband.”
Spying from a safe distance, he watched her enter the library on the southern edge of Collagesity and the Fordham sim as a whole. She stayed until about 1/2 past 6, and then exited with no books checked out as far as he could tell. Tim Bean had retired from the library in ’72, about 2 years ago minus a year or three. Right now it was auto-service in there until they could get a new person. She had her pick of the books, then, but she seemed not to want any. Then he remembered *he* had the monster book, found in The Abyss temple atop unique, unicorn-like Fissure Mountain over on the old continent of Sansara. Maybe she came out with nothing because *that’s* the book she was looking for — interesting.
He could slip a note under her door at the Kidd Tower where she was staying, directly beneath the apartment of Man About Time, a kind of vice chancellor to the city and a right hand man to himself as head honcho. He’d made his peace about the resurrection through the marriage to Wendy over in the Urqhart sim or thereabouts. Man About Time would still have to bid his time to become the ruler of this here fair burg.
“Meet me at Perch (restaurant) at half past 7 in the evening after today’s tomorrow,” he decided to word it, with just the right amount of detail, he felt.
In the meantime, he was due to meet with Man About Time anyway concerning the town budget wars so he slipped in a couple of questions about the new gal. Sally was her name, MAT said. Sally Nugent. He gathered she came from a family of monsters, because the pictures he helped tote upstairs for her all had people with green or bloodless white skin, with fangs in their mouths or bolts in their necks.
“Is this the book you were talking about, dearest?”
Wives, he thought here. Always meddling in places they shouldn’t be. I’ll have to put a stop to that. So I can still play the field. But Jefferson Thomas warned him about that, along with a bunch of other things. “You’ll have to stop eating soup with a fork,” he chattered. “You’ll have to learn how to drive on the wrong side of the road with the right kind of car,” he rattled on, like a slithering summer snake. On and on, winding and unwinding. Wind him up so he can wind me down: he said that was the reason for his being. I didn’t like Jefferson Thomas at first, and I even liked him less at the end. Best man, *pheh*. I don’t *want* to be tied down,” I screamed. The new wife took the hint. “I’ll be the subordinate one, then,” she said, thinking of a role that would fit her down the road like a velvet glove. “Dearest”, here, “Sweetie”, there. But underneath would be slithering, snapping rage.
Oh. My head. Where am…? Oh hi little critter. A Cthumoleater I believe by the looks of ya. Not Martian, then. Marine life.
The ship is sideways, she realizes when standing up and regaining her balance. And underwater.
Where was she?
Toothpick’s best friend Mr. Z’s other cousin from another mother, Stumpy, decides he must keep a TILE presence in largely resistant Black Ice. This more hidden building was perfect. Shame about Zimmy’s place on the strip, he laments. Zimmy is the middle cousin of the “3 Amigos”, as they have called themselves since childhood. 1st Mr. Z popped out of Zelda Taylor in ’26, then Zimmy from Daphne Cunningham in ’28, then, lastly, Stumpy here from Barbara Gourdneck of Arkansaw, Kansas in ’32 or thereabouts. 3 mothers, 3 cousins, 3 amigos for life. Back to our continuing story and dialog and such…
Stumpy decides it’s time. No more f-ing around with the heads. He must make a choice. He must *face* the world full on.
It’s really surprising that he can see at all. Or taste or smell or hear. But he’s not touchy about the heckles from the lucky ones who were born with full blown heads. Not since Alcatraz. Or was it Gettysburg. Maybe Phil would know.
(to be continued?)
“Oh I am so *full*, Dinner Girl. But I’m still going to have a piece of Mama Ruby’s pie.”
“You’re a pig, that’s what you are.”
“Oh stop it.”
“Can’t we just *chat* for a while? Without all the eating?”
He looked at her. “I’m Supper Man,” he declared levelly. “That’s what I do. Every meal is supper for me. And all times in-between.” He keeps holding his stomach, pondering what kind of pie he wants. Oh, he’ll go ahead and order the apple and cherry both. One for each. Except Dinner Girl, ho ho, hates both apples and cherries. More for me, oh well. He laughs inwardly again. Dinner Girl catches the wry smile.
“You’re thinking about food again. Aren’t you?” Why was she surprised.
He decides to spring it. Tonight’s the night at last. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Ohhh?” Dinner Girl was sweating now, even faint feeling.
“I want you to take my name. I want you to become Supper Girl instead of Dinner.”
Joy! She can’t wait to tell Mama Ruby when she brings the pies. Let the engagement party begin!
In a different part of town, Dali realizes the pig is a boar is a rhino and changes accordingly. Professor Art points to what parallels the CB Dylan Dresser. “The being at the center of the universe will arrive just… *there*.” Small Aloha climbs into the picture and assumes the shape of a muse to prepare.