She glanced past Harrison Jett through the window. “You know, I thought that was Bigfoot out there for the longest time. But it’s not. It’s a man — carrying a woman. The woman looks like 2 arms.”
Harrison Jett also looked out, not impressed. After all, he was a man fused with a woman as well. He was the real deal, the Real McCoy. He told this to Charlene the punk, then asked her how the heck she got *here*. Last he’d heard, she was in Gaston.
“Well, Barry X. Vampire — *sorry* — *Jeffrie Phillips* got tired of me and separated his place from my place. Yeah, I was in Gaston for a while. Yeah I saw Firesign Theatre perform there, a house band at the Rhino. But then I started hanging around Randolph the Pirate; hanging around that Dark Peak of the two, the one without the topping Christ.
“I believe he’s called Jim in some realms,” offered Harrison about the bastard buccaneer while sipping on his mysterious Xplicit drink. She had a parallel drink, held in the opposite hand. Male and female, once more. They should clink and get it over with.
She had to ask. “Those — apples. Are they real?”
Harrison Jett looked down. Were they?
(to be continued)
“You can take the Great Belt away, Walter. For now.”
“Buddy, sire,” softly and politely corrected the Selenite butler to his master.
“Yeah, sure. But Poetry and I are happy, Harry. We have some stuff to work on here for a while. Right Poetry?”
“Alberta,” she whispered back to lover Barry X. Vampire.
“What’s that dear?”
It all looked so tempting to Olive, but she must choose — or die. Because she has to eat to live. Eating: a strange concept to her. She’d lost so much but wanted to lose so much more. The Black Moon was the healthiest place to dine in town. It was here she found herself hanging out more and more. And away from Pink and SEAN (Green) (or Green (SEAN)) down at the Black Elephant. Policemen also frequent the establishment and that’s how she met and begin to, ahem, interact with Bazooka Ferguson, father of Tank Ferguson who took his slot as the Storybrook Chief of Police about, oh, 12 years back now I suppose. But Bazooka has a lot of fire left in him, as Olive had found out. They’d even talked of marriage, or at least Bazooka has. “You realize you’re still paying for me,” she offered to the confused old geezer at the time of the first “proposal”, part real and part in jest and uttered after at least 3 Corona-V tall stouts, maybe up to 5. “I’m technically still your, well, you know.” “Whore,” he finished, head sinking low to the money filled table. “I *need* that income,” she furthered for him, raking it in. “I can’t give–” “You’ll be with me,” he pleaded. “I’ll give you anything you want.”
And thus here she is, staring at food as it rotates rapidly past her. Like the sands of time. *She’s* not getting any younger either, which perhaps exacerbates the weight problem, or what she thinks is one. And yet she knows she appears as a 15 year old to Pink and perhaps Green as well — she must remember to ask him sometime. “What is my appearance to you?” she imagines in the moment. “A girl… or a woman? I’m 15 years old after all.” “I thought you were 13, ho,” she fantasizes him coming back at her in his witty, urban style way. Yes, I’ll ask Green how I appear to him, she finalizes.
The front door slides open. Bazooka: ready for another “date”. Will he propose again today? Can she keep saying no forever?
A funny (funnier) thought then crossed her mind. What if Green stopped calling me “ho” all the time. Would I stop actually being one as well? Another thing to ask Green.
(to be continued?)
Cy Twomile knew that when he crossed this bridge leading to where the great burg of Fisher Rigg use to rest there would be no going back and his secure, blanket-like place in the world would be lost forever. Better change his avatar appropriately before ascending into a new land.
“Civilian” life begins here.
“Hi. Mind if I take your place?”
“To be clear, Hucka Doobie, the paint brush sign for this Little Art House contains no green. Red, blue, and yellow, to be true. But green is gray or colorless, just like in…”
“… The Red Umbrella?” guesses Hucka Doobie correctly. “61 rr crossing 49; I suppose you’re right. But who… you go.”
“But who will play Lu Ellen? Someone, obviously, with a red hat or cap. Doesn’t have to be *that* cap; (simple) red will do.”
“She’ll have to be human as well,” adds Hucka Doobie still standing below the green-less sign. “What I mean is that at least outwardly she’ll appear as wholly human. It’s only the difference between here (Hucka Doobie grabs her breast) and here (Hucka Doobie grabs lower) that matters now. Then *this* happens.”
“You know who it has to be,” states Baker Bloch, looking over at his old friend the bee-person.
“Well. She *is* still living here. With her brother/lover. Might as well put her to work. Make her grean again.”
“Tell us about yourself — Elvis wasn’t it?”
“Black,” added Elvis, because he was. “Well, I liked books, no matter how dusty and boring. I’m a learned man. I enjoy truths over falsehoods. I don’t enjoy singing and dancing and womanizing as much as my white counterpart.” He turned the page, because he was reading and speaking at the same time. The word “white” had just been encountered. “That’s about all for now,” he said plainly.
Buster looked over at Bettie and raised his eyebrows. She knew what he was thinking and visa versa. This is Duncan again, playing some sort of trick on them. Or someone *through* Duncan playing a trick. But just because this was another black man…
Elvis Black changed. Duncan A. indeed.
“Do you know who I am yet?”
“Excuse me, sir? Sir?”
The Real Life man on the mower reluctantly halted his chores for a moment. “What is it, son?” he asked gruffly while the machine idled beneath him.
“I just came into town,” Craighead Phillips Option 02 decided to venture. “I’m looking for the center.”
“Center of town?” the man asked rhetorically. “Keep following this road.” He pointed down the street Craighead Phillips used to migrate realities. “Can’t miss it.” He then revved his mower up and commenced his chores. Only 1 hour before supper, he thought while moving away. And this Bozo threatened to make it even later!
HONK HONK. Another mower. HONK. Traffic’s pretty heavy on this road. Better move over to the sidewalk, hmph.
The man said keep on going straight so I’ll keep on going straight.
This could take a while, though.
She knows she saw it. The sea had DEMO written all over it, like it was mocking her very existence.
But she can’t seem to recreate the vision.
Wait: there it is.
Is that woman nude over there? The owners said: no nudity. And… well, where is perpetual birthday boy Tropp? It’s not Allen Y. obviously. That’s Pine Ridge. The bastard. Going rogue on Baker and me and creating his own batch of lousy characters. Dollie — what the heck? And a *frog*? I’ve seen *him* before: Middletown, where he was called Brazilian Bill. I assume soon enough a puny, sickly apple tree will show up sprouting off some craggy rock or such. “Make it so,”
Treelor Tropp might say, and it would be. Why… do I keep writing thinking Treelor instead of Tropp? Another 2-n-1? 2 Hearts in One. The glue? She better get back to the lodge. Of course she’s not going to report *these* 2. It’s going to happen here. The rule is more a suggestion, perhaps, as long as you do it in a harmless, non-graphic way.
Now back to looking for a nice car for when I get back.
When she looked up again the couple were gone. In their place, Allen Y. and Archibald Duke sat around a nearby campfire. Dollie and Piper are probably luring somewhere nearby, Jennifer rationalized, hidden by the tall grass or something. Looks like the lodge came to me. Better go see what they’re up to. I suppose. Or… she could just walk the other way. She eyes the exit route. Nah, too easy to spot — can’t get away with it. So it’s be *friendly*, true to my name. A last name I might share with Allen Y. someday. If he’s so inclined. Could be an interesting story. Story within a story.
“S’up guys?” She spots Dollie hidden in the nearby grass. “And gal.”
“Did you know Johnny Appleseed supposedly planted his *last* apple tree right here in these mountains.” Allen Y. pointed back in the direction they came. “Said so in the lodge brochure. Probably really old and shriveled by this point, wouldn’t you guess. Let’s go take a look.”
Jennifer looked west. *Knew* it, she thought.
The mists move in…
“Damn this fairy dust just isn’t washing off today, Axis.”
But Absinthe’s partner’s attention was drawn elsewhere. “Says here that this wrecked ship in the water before us was called Nevermore. After the Poe poem I assume. Funny that. Poe… poem. Like he was born to write ‘The Raven’.”
“I always forget,” says the showering girl, “whether the bird beats the bug or the bug beats the bird. ‘(The) Gold Bug’. Short story.”
“I remember.” Axis continues reading the sign aloud. “‘Lost to the sea — in 7-4-53 — by the grace of Our Dear Lord — whose boats are all adored.’ Another poem, Ruby.”
“Absinthe,” she corrected, still washing and showering and cleaning with all her might.
“No mention of the Trojan-Durexian War, though.”
“Oh it’s to blame all right.” opined Ruby, finally back in form. “Too close to the edge, see,” she explained while drying.