Category Archives: 0307
“It was a little toddler. Just like you Toddles. In fact…”
“Don’t say it,” she requested while having another spurt. We had just finished up the 3rd game of pool after she sank the Homer ball — as we started to call it in game 1 — for the win. I retrieved the yellow sphere from the side pocket and placed it back in the center, along with all the others. Losers have to rack. I kept pondering while I did. Toddles was now about 5′ 10″, so not a toddler. I was wrong in that, a loser once more. 3 feet to start, then a little under 4 1/2 after the second, then this. How much would she grow? I thought back to broken Big Boy at the entrance to the abandoned and clearly haunted park with the baby holding a doll. This tall? I fairly easily made it between the legs, but clearly an error to enter.
“Continue your story,” she requested while bending over to break the triangle (*crack!*). 6 balls sunk right off the bat; odds are stacked way against him to begin. With height comes increased skills, seemingly. I decided to appease her.
“Kite flying Jimmy Jackson and fly fishing Johnny Jimson were down at the pier, absorbed in their pastimes and trying to ignore the stench of the bodies that had freshly washed up on the shore that morning.”
“‘Ahh, there’s our old friend Reader perusing the octopus book’, I said, peering around the pier more, ‘perhaps looking for a smell spell to end it all.'”
“Octopus? Where’s this going?” she asked. The 7 ball was sunk, then the 2, then the 6. Did she even have any left; had she already won once more? He checked: not the Homer ball this time, but the orange, the 5th. It seemed to smile at him, telling him she was the one, the only. Here was All Orange in the flesh. The pool stick lowered, aimed…
“… annnd *CUT*!”
There was a giant book, just out of sight. 6 fingered people.
Toothpick wants to dig himself a hole and hide away from his sister problems forever.
But Baker Bloch won’t let him.
“Wake up in there! Time to help me out again, ha.”
Supper Man is determined to work off those extra pounds he’s put on lately before his marriage to Dinner Girl Saturday after next Saturday after next Saturday. Super!
I wanted to fit this in here too. Meat City, a suburb of NWES City. A paper named Post formerly owned by Grahams.
Strange do’in’s in this here NWES Island. Like New Island but different. Less sand for one thing. More green, if not more grass. But I think the two are related. Both Big Escapes, perhaps. 10’s. The search for perfection in a microcosm.
He was remembering more. “Pansy. That was your name! Pansy Mouse.”
“Correct.” He points to the planchette on the crate in front of him with the board, another demon device. “We got it from this.”
“And that’s where…”
He changed. This was the past. Pansy = Pan-Z. Jeffrie Phillips instinctively grasps his glowing red tie, a long held habit. He knew *they* were still in there. So many — well, five.
The now squeaky voice continued. “Audrey was in it all along. She *caused* it.”
(to be continued?)
“Never mind the tip jar thing, it’s just like the diamond over in Heartsdale. It’s a brain all right, just like it was a diamond over there. A 10, or at least a 9.5. Plucked from the sliced head of David A.B. himself, Mr. *Normal* again now.”
She stood back, proud of her offering. Karat (or Carat), the owner of the sim, decided to tell a related story.
“There was another man named Normal. Had the role of a lifetime. Colonel something or ‘nother — doesn’t matter. He thought it was about himself but it was actually about the role. He left the role, left the show. It was similar to having his brain plucked out of his head in that it was the dumbest thing he could ever do. The role made the man and the man made the role. Never forget that lesson. I’m sure David A.B. *Normal* will never forget. But — thank you for the gift again. We will confer, Braynard and I, about the reward.” Karat (or Carat) didn’t tell traitor Yoko Ona that she and Brayard were actually one, with their 2 sims overlapping. She decided not to remove the mask.
(to be continued?)
We keep following breadcrumbs. The newest one? The Beer Tent in Dalnim, a part of the Greater Chilbo area. Recognize the tent?
Yes, very tasty.
But then: sidetracked.
“Do you have a tummy ache, little boy?”
“A mild one, yes sir.”
“We’re *all* sick,” the child opposite him at the Mad Hatmaker table spoke up. “It’s the magic mushrooms in our tea and coffee. We — didn’t know.”
And then *another* one just down the hill, but not owned by the same avatar. The house with the sick children lies between.
The Man About Time finally returned to the empty Instabar parcel that inspired his trip. This was an easy one. He downs another satisfying swig of Flasche Oettinger Export and contemplates what to put within.
“He said that this land was my land but it was also *his* land, Fran. Wonder what that means?”
Young, naive Fran couldn’t stop tittering at the, to her, funny sight. “He’s got (*snicker*), no face — no *skin*.”
“Hellooo!” it spoke again cartoonishly. “I’m a [delete phrase].”
“Whoa, whoa,” Jer Left Horn called to him from the chair while holding out his hands in protest. “No need for that kind of language ’round here, Norris. You *did* say that was your name. Didn’t you — Norris?”
“Mo Flo Joe No.”
Fran kept tittering. “I think he means — *no* (giggle).”
“Wellll… *what*, then?”
A very faint “Jerry” then popped out of his hot pink mouth. Then: “Harry,” almost as faint. Then, rapidly in succession, just a little louder even, “Harry, Jerry.” Then louder, more assertive: “Jerry. Harry.” Then loudest of all by far. “JERRRRY. HARRRRRY!”
“Okay,” calms Jer Left Horn, hands out again. JERRRRY and especially HARRRRRY were still echoing around the hills surrounding them. “You’re Jerry. You’re Harry.”
“He’s Jerry,” states Fran mundanely, patting his red hair and staring at his face. “He’s Harrry.” She tweaks his cheeks here. Jer Left Horn thinks he winces a little with this, the first facial expression beyond “blank” he’s seen.
“Hey,” he requests to Fran. “I think you hurt him there a bit. That (he comes over to look better) skin might be sensitive.” He points. “Yeah, see there? You’ve left red marks.”
Fran covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh. Oh dear. They’re *bleeding* or something. I’m *so* sorry.” She runs inside to get some tissues from her purse, water dripping from her face.
His face changes…
A peninsula would be a good place to swim, she then thought in a somewhat different form.
“The blue hair will buy me more time to think about the next step, Ingo…
… er, *Sandy*.”
“I’m not Sandy,” spoke the figure across from her who looked like a cartoon version of actor Sandy Beech or character Herbert Dune (a cartoon figure himself, hence doubly so). Doppleganger, she realized. But what about herself? Fresh from a swim?
She leaned back, studying what had just happened. Swimming hair… swim cap. Yes, this could work…
Hucka Doobie was chatting to pass the time. “You know you’re colored about the same as a chicken, Baker Bloch. Maybe you should think of becoming a chicken man yourself. By that I mean opening up a restaurant, perhaps a chain. Maybe you should begin to think up a name. Blochbuster Chicken? You could even steal some signs from that old, defunct VHS tape renting outfit, the one that went belly up.”
But Baker Bloch was still thinking about his father instead of chicken, although the 2 will always be connected now in his mind. Banished back to Regaltown. Could this possibly be the end of the Horns of Hatton tale already?
Hucka Doobie studied his worried face. “Aah, still thinking about dear old pops. He’ll be fine. Kevin A. too — Kevin Orchardsity, all three of hisselves. Come on; cheer up. The Queen’s story can continue on without the King and his tomb, without Space Ghost’s trailer.”
“But the parcel was called ‘*Ghost* land.’ Fate.” Baker Bloch sighed. “I just feel — something will always been missing here.”
“And then Cpt. Americus accidentally jumping in the watermelon tub with the *real* Queen (!) Awkard indeed! But I don’t think the Queen was present at the time. By that I mean she was AWOL.”
“AFK,” corrected Baker Bloch.
“Um, like the chicken, then.”
Baker Bloch expressed confusion, then realized: “Oh, you’re thinking about KFC. No, it’s like the former president. AFK. They’re talking about renaming the whole of Bay City after him.”
“JFK, then. The (former) president, I mean,” responded Hucka Doobie. “John Fitzgerald Kennedy.”
“Yes, you’re right — that’s it.”
“Well there you go. Something else to think about. Another Ghost.”
“Everybody in the country laughed about it,” [Carolyn *Kennedy* Crusey] said. “There was no city out there.”
Who voted Mor the mayor? No one, she said.
“That was just purely for something to put in the paper,” she said.
How did it change from Bay City to JFK City?
It was shortly after the assassination, she recalled. Across the country, people were renaming all kinds of things after the late president. Plus there was another guy out there at the time named Kennedy, (no relation to her or JFK) who came up with the idea, she said.
I wondered out loud if they’d hatched the plan while drinking at the bar. It wouldn’t be the first piece of Alaska legislation born that way. Maybe that was how Mor was “elected.” Maybe they dreamed up the dome city, too.
“We never did find out what happened,” she said
Mor eventually moved to Anchorage and started spelling his name with a second “o” and an “e,” she said. She couldn’t remember why.
The last newspaper clipping to mention the city was a 1973 story about Alaska ghost towns. It called Bay City “an alleged village” with a population of 0 in the 1970 census, that might have been renamed to “The City of Kennedy” after the late president.
“But,” the article said, “there’s nobody left to verify it.”