“Long night again, Joey?”
“Ahh yes, I *need* this.” The kangaroo has spoken.
“Let’s go play with The Diagonal,” she requests, getting up.
“36, 35: 100 less in each case than the ottoman at the center where Shelley seduced Tommy (Tailgate). Do you recall who else was seduced on a tailgate?”
“Sid?” I said, suddenly having omniscient author powers. Sid worked for Buster Damm in the Pot-D organization, unless it was visa versa. I also realized that the omniscient author of this here photo-novel, 29 in a series of nothing, had left a lot of choices open-ended. In one fork… well I guess Pot-D is the stable thing, the whole idea of protecting The Diagonal, which only numbers one now, at least on this continent (Heterocera). And this is where it all began — in the Rubi Woods extended to VHC City. The first 5 photo-novels were all about the continent before we — our extended family of core avatars — moved away from it starting in 6. And now we’re in a whole different hemisphere, East instead of West. I looked at the witch, wondering what direction *she* would choose. Does she live in a backwards world, a mirror to our own? Strange thought.
“You have everything you need here — on this spot. You can spot Shelley’s clock tower up toward the center of the sim. You can see my cabin in the woods over there. And over there (she turns): the Good Neighbors pylon marking where The Diagonal enters the sim in the first place. What more do you need? The Sun?”
Indeed it was beginning to rain. I realized my neck ached more because of the coming of such.
East or West? I guess I would go with West, then. She seemed to like it here.
(to be continued)
He continued his information. “Before is the establishment of Fairview Alpha. Sometimes it is called the Big Mess. Too messy. Water everywhere. So many trees and plants and bushes. Clutter, if you will. After is Fairview and Alpha separate, as they should be. One in one place and the other in another. This is also known as the Plane of Martin and the Plain o’ Allen. Fairview is a fair view of the world, as it is, plain and uncluttered. The great bird flies in the sky but always lands here. Here is here. There is no Other, except for the Abyss.”
“Before you start,” he boomed, “take off that silly shirt. The queen does not play croquet. She doesn’t have time for that nonsense.”
“I know, I know,” begged off Guy Benjamin, now part of the rebellion. He shed his first shirt, revealing Zero.
“Do you even know who I am?” he projected forth in a kingly manner.
“You are… leader of the rebellion, sire,” said Guy, slightly taken aback. “Your name is Legend.”
“My name is *Dan*,” retorted the face in front of him, a duplicate of the one on his Zero shirt except for the bespectacled cartoon face and long, Pinocchio-like nose. Guy considered the nose for perhaps the first time: the mark of a liar, a deceiver.
“Just kidding. It’s Atom. Ayom. Something. Let’s go with Atom. Do you like Atom?”
“I… haven’t thought of it before… your name I mean.”
“Atom, yes,” the face finalizes, crystalizes. “I am the *beginning* (long, kingly pause). And the end (quick, succinct).”
“Some people, sire,” Guy ventured and admitted, hoping it wasn’t going too far, “say you are The Lamb.”
“Bu HUH HUH HUH. *LAMB*?… (another kingly pause). Well okay that’s fair (quick again; a let-off; release).”
Guy stood awkwardly before the face that demanded to be called Atom but may also be Lamb, shifting his feet around, trying to think of something else to say and not look as much of a fool this time about it. The face let him off the hook finally, tired of the squirm. “Halfway through my rule I have reached the end but not the beginning. I am the great 4-n-1, and that is *numbers* (pause) but also the word FOREIGN. FOREIGN ONE.”
“You are an alien,” replied Guy. “I have heard the rumors from the rebellious others.”
“*Other* Other.” Let’s stop there.
Prick grew up after the disappointment of losing the balloon and his childhood sweetheart along with it (Pip). Took to playing the violin; joined a band of sorts. But beamy yellow sunshine always remained hidden in starless darke. He was not a happy man. Here he bows a dirge to fallen children everywhere — one of his compositions for the group.
Don, Joe and Alex put up with the pain and sorrow, which they liked to mask themselves with drugs and women and expensive, gaudy clothes. Colorful, they were in a word. Sgt. Pepper-ish. Not Prick. Just pepper would do for him, as in sneezy and black.
They played the last sad chord of the piece.
“Okay,” offered Cheery Don, who was kind of the leader. “Let’s try something more uplifting now.”
One of *yours* obviously, Prick thought pungently, but instead it was green boy Jolly Joe’s turn. Ambiguous Alex, who was closer to Prick’s spirit as well as his body here, glanced over, wondering if he’d even lift up his arm to his fiddle for this one. Someday, he knew, the limb would not rise but remain by the side. Then it would be done. All this was written or foreshadowed or prerecorded back in childhood.
Then the group as a whole could move on to Frenzied Fred. The Purple Bunch they would become in this most likely of probable realities, archaic instruments set aside forever.
Duncan sometimes sits down there staring at those tulips well into the evening. He’s looking for something that isn’t there. *I* can’t even see the tulips at least from this angle, thinks George here, stomach rumbling from lack of food. 1/2 past six. Looks like spaghetti-o’s again. He moves to the kitchen to prepare the water.
Couple more well placed toy avatars and we’re outta here, he contemplates while still staring deeply, gazing even. He pulls out a fish taco from his sweater he brought for a snack, but before he could take the first bite he remembered the boy.
“George,” he exclaimed. “*Dinner*”. He throws the fish taco in the tulips for the rats and heads home, going over apology after apology in his head. But George was use to it.
(to be continued)
Another big wave was coming in. “Well here we are, Wendy Wheeler. Lounging around on a beach with our oversized gin and tonics like an old married couple.”
“You’re leaving me,” she guessed. It was something in the tone of his voice. And, well, his history with women in general.
Jeffrey Phillips sighed, thus giving an answer.
“It was the Tennessee thing, wasn’t it? We didn’t go… far enough.”
“I guess, Wheeler, I just like them (*sigh*) cheap and easy.”
Silence for a while. “You’ll go back to Marwood then, to Easy Street — E Street.”
“Suppose so,” he said after a pause. “I mean, what do you care. You have 2 husbands already — Tropp and Opp or whatever…”
“Opp. His name is Opp. Tropp was just an invention by the maker of this blog.” She stared directly out of the blog and into my eyes. “A contraction of True Opp, just like sometimes I am referred to as True Wheeler — Treelor.”
“Yeah I never figured out what that meant.” He stared out of the blog as well, but not at me. Just at darkness. I’m writing this at 2:42 in the morning with the lights out. What I mean is that he isn’t as informed as Wheeler on the subject of the 4th wall and how to successfully break it. But he did have one trick he was about to reveal to her.
Wheeler/Hidi felt her hair get impossibly wet from that waterfall tumbling off the cliff over there. The blog, if successful, is one continuous collage, and she also knew this. Her marriage was a sham. “Jeffrey,” she then said, staring at it across the water while still getting a bit wet. “Are we even engaged?”
It was here Jeffrey admitted he had his fingers crossed behind his back the whole time, which led to this.
Kick-Ass Bogota wonders where his brother Kick-Ass Boos ran off to — for several weeks! It’s like he has a secret life as a superhero or something, ha, laughs Bogota inwardly, knowing the reverse is true. Because he’s right over there, just up over the street edge at the bar he forgot he owned and had to be reminded by his employee. I know this is happening. I sawed him off (last Thursday’s Tuesday).
If only it had worked out better over at Four Corners on the Bellisaria continent, he thinks. Maybe he could balance the ordinary and extraordinary better. But as he is, he’s totally unfit to replace Baker Bloch as Sunklands leader, pheh. I’ll testify against him if it comes to that.
Bogota looks out, trying to spot his sometimes bodiless dog in the yard. 3 more trailers align themselves out into the distance, ending with the dumpster where Bogota found that book which told the whole story, 4 Corners, NWES City, everything. In fact, he should get back to reading it. He’s up to where he’s sitting in front of his trailer and staring off at the distance and then remembering to pick up the book from his lap. He picks up the book from his lap.
“More Bigfoot art,” Harrison Ford Jett whispers in the waning light to no one except himself. “It’s all here.”
“A cave! Marked with green again. Pickle. Pickle Too. Let’s go!”
The underwater rock cavern was pretty long; about 200 meters.
More of that type of art? Harrison F. Jett found these identical, half filled bottles of unknown alcoholic content wedged together in a rock opening and was unable to move them.
The rocks holding the stash penetrated the roof of the cave, making a distinguished marker. Watch out passing Bellisarian ships!
The rocks even appear to have feet.
The man who was also an ant back at the Hideout said I knew Bigfoot. Something about my shirt… should be getting back to NWES City and meeting up with Charlene. Maybe she would have some ideas about what the odd superhero or supervillian or whatever he is, was talking about. He recalls she studies these type of things, and her dissertation she’s hard at work on late into the night is about a somewhat similar creature called the Loch Ness Monster. And she talks of another “monster” called Knobby (actually: Knob Noster, *not* Knob Monster!) — maybe that’s what her paper is about instead (he intuits in the cave, staring up at a rainbow hued crystal cluster in the ceiling).
At any rate, she certainly lives in the land of Paperville. Hmm, odd thought — where’d that come from?
“We’ll give it another shot, baker.”
“Yes. We understand that we didn’t get to the point in Uncle Meatwad that Spongeberg the Destroyer did in photo-novel 1 where he became convinced of the alien influence.” She recites this sentence robotically, pronouncing each syllable crisply. Rehearsed. They were trying to encourage me, not discourage like last night when they sat on the couch beside me and we watched the syncs together, the 2nd half of Pretty Bunnies and then the 1st part of Uncle Meatwad, well, almost the whole 1st part (of 3). Not quite to the “Egypt” cue that convinced Spongeberg going on 5 years ago now. A long time! Yes, they were trying to help, of course; understood the small misstep as guiding spirits. They know it’s hard enough for me without any support outside my trusted circle of the wife and one or maybe two other friends. The brother wouldn’t understand for sure. And that’s *my* problem to still deal with, that whole family issue. I must make peace.
“You have to understand,” Toothpick/Filbert began again, “that *we* created (a lot of the source audio). We are not the most objective judges.” He looked at Elberta; Elberta, his now blonde bombshell of a sister-fiance, looked at him. Camping came to mind this time in their still synchronized brains, another test. “And Lynch — I know what’s on your mind — will come around too. Right Pencil?”
They all looked over, but the entity properly known as Eraserhead Man in this here blog, hand behind head, wouldn’t commit to a thumbs up or thumbs down. He remained unconvinced like them. It was his creations involved after all. Same issue.
“But the maps…” I argued. All nodded here from their respective positions around him, indicating that maps were a different thing and separate from the audiovisual synchronicities. But they weren’t. Unified Field Theory. The Diamond. Heck, The Diamond is clearly coded into Billfork for X’s sake.
The hole couldn’t be made up. The hole between the synchs and binding them together existed. Hellmouth!
“I will still fight for the importance of the Piera, the run of synchs (I explained further) between Billfork and Uncle Meatwad. The period of 2004 through 2007.”
I realized a major influence was missing. Wasn’t me. This was pre-Carrcassonnee. Maybe, maybe…
“Let’s look at the rest of Uncle Meatwad.” All agreed to this as well.
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)