The infinity loop at the start of York St. I knew this would lead straight to the theatre about a 1/2 mile down. I knew this would lead right into the heart of this madness. 102 102 102.
The old white lady points.
“Where does it say we are?”
Cat-witch Esmerelda searches some more. “Rosehaven.”
“Rose *Heaven*?” Mid-Hazel responds, perhaps in jest.
“Haven. Like a place of rest.”
“Rose Haven, then. Is that two words?”
“One. Rosehaven,” she says quicker.
“We’ll make it two to separate it from the locals. Won’t know where to look for it when we make our reports.”
Esmerelda the cat-witch stopped typing. “Shouldn’t we ask them first?” She looked around the face but not directly into those always scary, dead white eyes of hers. Never the eyes, or not for very long anyways. She could still feel them boring into her like steely beams of hate.
“I do not wish to confront the ruler of this land to ask that question. Unless you have other suggestions.” Mid-Hazel didn’t want suggestions. She wanted obedience. Esmerelda shook her head. “No ma’am. No suggestions. No *more*.”
Mid-Hazel then nodded, pleased in the moment. She looked out the window at the freshly fallen snow. She could hide here for a while; make this a hideaway until the hubbub about the Bellisaria murders calmed down. The bodies kept heaping up as she looked around and saw more enter the room where she just committed the first. Did Jenny Lind plan to have a *party* tonight? she asked as she stabbed some more. It was a rhetorical question. Obviously she did in some manner. 1-2-3-4, then the 5th to top it off. All Orange that one was. Mid-Hazel figured Aldebaran as a home planet. Aliens in Our Second Lyfe. She’d heard of such things, of course, but never this close up. And orange blood as well: hard to tell where the wound stopped and the person began; All Orange indeed. She carted them out to the garden for burial, not knowing the gardener was due the next day to reseed the roses. Soon enough, the top of an orange finger stuck out of the ground. Aldebaronians were extremely hard to kill, and had the ability to heal themselves to a remarkable degree. Mid-Hazel didn’t know that fact. The finger clawed and clawed and got another orange finger free, then the 2 worked in concert to free another, and then the 3 another, and then the 4 another, the 5th. All Orange had emerged. The hapless gardener took her place in the makeshift grave. All Orange was a killer as well. She had faked her own death to get revenge.
“Rose Heaven?” she asked her typing assistant later at a different but not dissimilar location, another witch hideout.
“Haven,” the assistant responded. Perfect.
“What are we looking at, shipmateman?”
Reggie the shipmateman paused, then: “We’re looking for your husband Ms. Halsey.” She’d given the order not 15 minutes ago.
“Ms. Halsey, good,” replied Linda about her title. “Remember, don’t shoot till you see the whites of his eyes.”
“Yes, Ms. Halsey.”
“Yes, Ms. Halsey,” echoes the other shipmateman on the wall opposite them, listening in. Johnny I think was his name. Or Karl.
“In all likelihood he won’t show up but keep looking. He’s probably on to me knowing I’m on to him.”
“Yes Ms. Halsey,” they said in unison while peering out but now not expecting anything to appear.
“I’m glad you came to meet me Saffie. I want to know *all* about what Marty said to you, what hollow promises he made. Because I’m here to warn you away from him. He’s bad news. He’s involved with those nasty Illuminati fellows!”
“Girls,” Saffie said softly across from her.
Saffie took another sip of beer. “We also… have girls.”
Linda rushes back to the entrance gate, drunk on malt (again). “Shoot him dead,” she commanded to the shipmatemen. “Don’t even wait for the whites.”
He’d been here before. There were less dogs, however. And something about cats. Yeo. Maybe just “meow”, as in an exclamation. Of what, though? Then the color green entered his mind and wouldn’t leave. And other colors followed: Beige, Brown, Olive… Pink. “Pink!” he called out.
Marsha “Star” Pink came out of the motel lobby and looked around for the origin of her name. But there was nothing to see but animals.
She sat all over the Witch’s Rock sim, taking in the views as she could, imprinting them in her memory. Soon another came to her, as she knew she would.
“Nice day,” the other spouted in a lilting voice, fluttering her dainty, glinty fairy wings a bit in the waxing light.
“”Tis,” Ruby answered her other self simply, knowing it was The End. For now.
“I suppose we’ll have to take the girl home.” And then it was over. Ruby Fantasie had vanished from her perch. Ruby Fairy had taken over (again), who also possessed a wee version of herself. It was in this guise she first approached Yoko Ona a little later on down at the beach.
“‘Tis (a) nice day,” smaller Ruby Fairy said to her while she stared out at the *actual* Witch’s Rock over the gathering waves, pondering if this is a place where she could hide out until the storm was over. Because Mid-Hazel would be furious for a loooong time.
Yoko Ona turned and faced Ruby square on, knowing deep down this had to be another witch from another coven. But which? She knew the answer to that could ultimately make or break her escape. She decided she better get it over with — better now than later.
“Yes. A nice day indeed. It would be even nicer with a Mountainy Dew in hand,” she returned to the sprite. “Peppi is *right* out.” She gauged the features which didn’t display immediate allegiance with the Diamond. Here was a fairy that could be an Ordinary Glass Coke gal instead. She lucked out!
(to be continued?)
Unholey Book (Red).
Catcher catching Ball below it (Greenilocks marble) during the meat of the event. Conclusion: It is Arkansas.
Later: Unholey Cave…
… and our Bigfoot protagonist Taum Sauk and his wife Mina bedding down within for the dark times ahead.
End of “Bigfoot Art Happening 2015”.
Much much *much* later (2020): He has miraculously emerged in Our Second Lyfe! On a circular island making up a D’Vine Club, with metal *golf* club also in hand and rope similarly wrapped around left forearm to remember his existence in Bigfoot by (formerly named Ironton, Iron, Middle Game, etc.).
And then the also circular but considerably smaller island at the center of the neighboring sim of Danshire he quickly “moved” to, complete with Small Kowloon House. Briefly, that is — was he killed there along with the derezzing of the shack by neighborhood watch fanatic Red Pepper? Fellow former Danshire resident Phyllis Phox might know. If she weren’t combined with anti-self June Bug in the current novel. Current.
Whether dead or alive or something else altogether, we know he still exists in the Twin Peaks Laboratory’s Red Room — a waiting receptacle for both the Black and White Lodges — as confirmed later by Marion Harding and crime pal Philip Strevor. But where is his wife Mina now? (“Where’s Mina? Where’s Mina?”)
Is this what Marion is really asking here? Too bad about Phyllis.
“Come on and jump in with me, Molly,” he implored in his squeaky voice. “The water’s just fine today!” The chicken beside Mick remained doubtful. Not as stupid as some people think, those creatures are. They’ve seen these Florida kind of tricks before. Could be bottomless, Molly ponders. Could be a black hole.
Besides, something is already there, stuck it seems. Plugging a hole perhaps, she ruminates further. All Blue — no, wait, the *hair* isn’t blue. And Cloe, sitting on this very cement porch yesterday, *lost* her blue hair, along, ultimately, with her hat, hands, and the rest of her body. The rest of the h’.s, including heart and, finally, health. Molly came to a logical conclusion: This *is* Cloe, but an Anti-Cloe, someone reborn that perhaps shouldn’t be reborn. An abomination. Let’s just call her “H” as in capital “H”, she decides, thinking of how to present this new town development to the chickens of the local coop later on.
Mick, tired of waiting, dives without Molly into the center of the watering hole, unconcerned about the presence of another being there. He doesn’t see “H”; she doesn’t see him. They exist in different dimensions, as if turned upside down from each other.
Anti-Cloe is freed from her spherical blue encapsulation, able to leave the pool now.
Having served its function, the watery hole then withers away into the nothingness whence it came. When will you learn, Mick, that it truly does take two to know?
“Get the f-ck out of here little demon,” she waves him off. “Oh, and fetch me some clothes from the dresser beside the bed. Anything but blue.
Well, just don’t stand there staring. Do it!”