Someone knocks at the front door.
“*Itchy*. Don’t answer that!”
He sat underwater with Leaday afterwards and wondered what just happened? “Was any of it real?” he called over from his stool next to one of the circling opabinia, another impossibility since this queer 5 eyed, backwards headed fish has been extinct for millions of years. He remembers visiting the doctor. That’s it. But what happened inside was a blank.
He took his first shirt off, finally remembering there was actually a shirt beneath that. Shirt Zero if you will. He was home.
And all was not well.
I was five years old. And I was preoccupied with the prop that was in my hand, because it was a toy turtle. But I had to pretend it was a real turtle that the audience just wasn’t seeing, and it was dead, so I was supposed to be crying and very emotional, and I remember him looking at that little turtle and talking to me about how it was kind of funny to have to pretend that was dead. So I recall just a very relaxed first impression.
JOURNAL, DAY 5
I met Thatch at a Northern Sea location. He said (in essence), “Come with me and I’ll take you somewhere. Kings Stone,” he said. “Or maybe Kingston… King *Something*.” I knew he was trying to communicate effectively. I had just been to the place he perhaps indicated, but I wondered if it was really the jazz club in Kings Stone he meant. He seemed confused. I knew Kings Stone was next to Druids Post, and there was also a Kingpost to the west. Maybe Kingston was (instead) Kingpost. I would go to both locations and check. In the meantime, I noted that we, in this underwater location, were just next door to the Slaashsides community up in the air in the sim west of here. My neck was starting to hurt slightly. I knew I had to move. Here is a picture of Thatch. He claims he didn’t know what he was looking for here (in Our Second Lyfe), or whom. I told him that maybe he was looking for me, but he hesitated about becoming a friend. I of course knew to quickly back off, then.
His shirt appears to have the word KANE upon it. Or maybe, upon inspecting again, it was KANI.
I looked at the dress code rules (at the jazz club). I would not fit, perhaps. I would have to return, in a different costume. My energy was running low. My wrists above my feet were beginning to ache a little. My arm, where they punctured me with a willy tip day before yesterday’s tomorrow, was sore. My feet were sore. My RIGHT HEEL hurt a bit, always a bad sign. Sign of trouble. I would check out the second “Kingston” location of the night.
It was a small place, giving better indication that Thatch was a true messenger.
On to the second.
I had also been here before. I noted that there were cypresses, in its two expressions, dotting the doubled islands of the sim, its only land. I channel some of my energy from my right foot to my left foot to remain grounded. I had about 15 minutes before the pain would come back. I also decided to dip my feet in the (cool) water by dangling them over the edge of the pier.
I watched a helicopter land in the strait between the islands. It didn’t stay long enough to make friends with the pilot. Thatch might be the only avatar I talk with this night.
I noted from afar that the pilot then disappeared but his helicopter remained. This would be right on the line between Scar and Funnel. I noted that if you slash someones sides a scar would remain. A scar is also usually a line. The pilot appears to have “talked” to me after all. Slaashsides is the true destination.
I returned to Thatch and stole a bit of energy from his feet, since he now seemed inactive — AFK as the locals say. I calculated he wouldn’t mind. He was kind of my friend after all. Friends help friends. After draining the energy of his feet and also the wrists above them I figured I had 20 more minutes to work with than before, making a total of about 30 now. I had time to visit Slaashsides itself. Just next door.
(to be continued)
“Maybe *this* is what I need in NWES City. A Penny Lane style magic shop. Or mystic shop. Whaddaya say, Marty?”
“Roger. We’re here to talk about my death. Right over there.” Marty points to the chair at the window where he was stabbed in the heart and bled out only the night before in this central Eveningwood location. So central, so *middle*. In the future if not now, the town will be called that because of its sensual nature. Middletown, with any sign of Eveningwood swept away as in a raging fire or something. But for now the signs remain. Clues and signs.
“You *know* why we’re here Roger. Evening out.”
“Right: takes two to know. What, er, does the book say? About the spell. Can you reverse (the murder)?”
“It says: look in the beech grove for the answers you seek. Marg will be waiting.” Marty looks up at Roger. “Marg? Like in the game? I *killed* Marg.”
“No,” corrected Roger Pine Ridge opposite him at the fortune teller’s table. “You said Marg killed everyone else, including the ragamuffin — I think.”
“That’s not true.” Marty puts hand to chin in thinking mode. He tries to remember the order of things. Marg bludgeons Homer with her purse, then, yes, *kills* Boss Burns, then Willy comes up, steals the purse, and goes on his own murderous rampage. Marty puts down the book. “We’re looking for a man named Willy, then. He may go by Willard.”
“George?” spoke Roger back, knowing the name.
With this, they head back to the Blue Feather in Collagesity to study the table in preparation for future actions.
“We’ve left Merry Gouldbusk, Eraserhead Man, Barry De Boy back in the dust. Looming ahead are both Sandy Beech and Buster Damm at 58.”
“Duncan will never allow us to reach Buster together. We’ll have to stop before that. Don’t want to anger him! No telling what powers he has now. He’s at least 2 nights ahead of us in the search.”
“Exactly Mr. Roger Pine Ridge, my fellow 54.”
“Let’s agree, then, to stop at 57.”
“Make it 56,” Roger urged, knowing a bit more in this area. They bickered on it. They settled on it. [Delete number] it is.
(to be continued)
Pirates, pheh. I wonder if I stand here long enough they’ll come back over here and dance for me.
But I haven’t got time for this tonight (he turns). I must find Norm, try to talk to him again about Fairview Alpha, about that 7610 tattooed to his forehead. About… Static. Snow, perhaps, like in a tv screen. That corner… Jeffrey Phillips looks over to the (northeast) corner of the lot and the 2 prominent, red V’s over there. He can barely make them out from this distance.
Better head closer; Norm should be around too — he always is, along with the rest of the regulars.
But most of the bots appeared to be gone tonight from the fake town. Jeffrey Phillips leans against the kissing booth and asked Elsa, the lone remaining one over here perhaps, where the others went and if she was still mad at him for that Tennessee thing he tried to pull the other day (she was).
“Only us ‘E Girls’ remain,” she said after a spell and a pout.
The blue eye is closed on the Moth Man as he stares out at Bottle Mound on Fishers Island. Interesting. Noting.
On to Wallytown proper to view the bell shaped rise with the crashed UFO beside it on the beach from a different angle, as it turned out.
“He won’t get off my car, Mr. Z,” complained Zapppa’s seated brother-cousin Zipppy, a well thought of Wallytown mechanic in its California half. Nevada beyond the wall is a different story, where he’s wanted for at least 3 criminal acts: grand larceny, manslaughter, murder even. “Screams he’s in love with it and wants to speak to someone named Wheeler about buying; thinks he can get a good deal that way. Thanks for coming by and helping me. It’s kind of an antique you know. It’ll cost him X amount of dollars. Could he just be talking about buying the wheels off this jalopy? And since it’s split in two pieces currently to make a novelty couch, we’d have to charge mucho extra to put it back together. Could he be… insane? Mad?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” replied Zapppa, who was indeed Mr. Z but not the one we’ve already met. Better resist call him that from now on. And we’ve already also run across someone with the tag of “Mad”. Best not to use that again as well. Let’s just go with Mercury. Mercury X. Mr. X. Because that’s what they’ll have to charge him. And let’s similarly name Zipppy Mr. Y. Although this is probably a one-off for him in this here photo-novel; we’ll stick with Zipppy, then. And Mercury X. Mercury X. Rising, let’s say, with the X silent. Like the original Star Wars movie from 1898.
They end up just deciding to give the car away for basically free. Madness. All four of ’em: W mixed in with the other three now and turning them all back into letters, shall we put it.
Wheeler (Ms. W) then returned to her well placed friends at the Annapolis MD consignment shop we saw toward the end of photo-novel 20. She had no need for money with besties like that.
Dorothy inside promptly wrote W a check for X amount of linden dollars to make up for Y and Z’s loss.
“I remember that day like it was yesterday,” spoke Jiff the former staff psychologist at Gaston Police Station. “Gastion, they sometimes called it when they were all drunk and slury down in the basement beside the torturing devices. Best to be intoxicated down there. Too many ghosts and memories. But it was the only place they could get away from chief Golden
Josephine Jim and expect to get away with it. Chef Golden Jim Josephine often joined them. Cook at the upgraded Joint Joint, now a hip place for those who think with their hips instead of their head. Which was seemingly everyone around here. The Dark Peak dominated once more — Dark Days again.”
Jim the Bastard Pirate, formerly Randolph the Bastard Pirate, was typing away as Jiff’s cartoon-ish, Ickle voice yammered on. The words almost came too swift. He needed something better than a manual instrument for his craft, his trade. Because, he determined early on, this one will *sell*. I’ll hide all the things I’ve plundered from others, like that graphite gray map on the, let’s see, wall behind me. There. He turns.
Half of it remains screened for now.