“Peakology, Hucka D. I’m becoming interested again.”
“Corsica,” Hucka D. uttered to this. “Corsica Corsica Corsica!” But it wasn’t Hucka D. Instead: someone else yellow, someone else who wasn’t who they seemed to be. Square. Wearing pants.
“So when did you start smoking again, Petty? It’s disgusting. And stand back from me why don’t you? This is not your scene.”
“*All* mysteries are my scene,” the confident chef-inspector replied, puffing even more rapidly. Smoke gets in his eyes but he isn’t bothered. Point is: they’re in his as well. Petty wasn’t going to budge from this spot; he was as if pettrified. This might not be pretty; this might get ugly.”
Officer Glammerpuss stopped. Did he just call the inspector pretty? Close enough. His face turned red. Love. But also smoke.
There were a lot of things going on here at once. Racism, social inequality, sexual issues, rise of the machine age, to mention just some I’ve spotted so far.
And kitty kats.
(to be continued)
She hadn’t shaved her legs in a week, it seemed, so she decided to do so, despite the circumstances. She knew that shaving cream could be substituted for laundry detergent in a pinch — why not the opposite?
It kinda worked I suppose. Now for that black dude… Kill van Kull, synthesizer specialist for the Oil Can What. Seeing him, she suddenly had an urge to wear purple, uh oh.
“It should have been you in here instead of me.”
“30 minutes, Miss.” The policeman purposely didn’t call her Mrs. This was *illegal* what they did. So the town of Morgan (Orient PO) has spoken.
“Guys, a little help here? Some kind of… force field… blocking my…..
Newspaper reading Mr. Yo White next door heard the screams of course but did nothing in response, not notify the authorities, not go over himself and see what went wrong, nada. He tried that before and just got in massive massive trouble, him and his whole family by association. Let the Cards lie where they fall, he said to his wife Tammy, turning a deaf ear and a blind eye as well, scars of the turf battles.
“Should have been Gibson,” opined Mrs. White bitingly.
Another proxy, Mr. White understood, looking over.
“The portal was too strong,” guessed Kolya later on, standing before it with a can instead of a bottle. “Collapse of the kingdom SIIIPP.”
One of the first things Miss Ouri does in her new role is to make special collections part of the library, despite protests from some in town that the structure is an eyesore sticking up there on the side of the square, pheh. But no one actually threw up at the sight and the addition was passed 4-3 in a special town council meeting held just below to emphasize the safety of the thing.
So let’s go inside and have a look.
The first visitor to the newly attached collections is none other than Our Second Lyfe creator Philip Linden himself, who was curious to find out what had been written about him. He can’t select one item or the other, drawing suspicion from reading room manager Swanie Rivers, here also seen alarmed at discovering his “Don’t be a Prick” coffee mug he brought in with him.
No drinking in special collections and no foul mouthedness, whether verbal or written. She tells Philip all this in no uncertain terms, threatening to expel him if he doesn’t choose an item to study and get rid of his coffee and mug. He downs the coffee in one long swig and then additionally eats the mug. “How’s *that* for special?” he replied to the exasperated swan being. It’s always about him, it seems. The rare book and manuscript he subsequently selects and brings back to the now empty table was full of it.
(to be continued)
Black children, a brother and sister perhaps, emerge from a Halloween Tree beside 4th of Juli flags to play in the sun alongside a backyard fence…
… while Robert’s son, a white kid with slack-jawed mouth, sits on the front porch alone, bemoaning a lack of friends.
Past the Princess, Ray takes over Monroe as far as the eye can see, whitewashing a red car past.
A hidden letter in a kind of burning bush reveals another clue. A white S. The Son? The *Sun*?
Announcer: “Ono’s Octopus Balls…
… an avalanche of flavor!”
“It’s great!” said character-husband John Lemon, glad to get back on the horse.
“Love the hand coming out from under a rock effect,” octopus ball recipe inventor extraordinaire Yoka Ono added.
“We’ll put it on after the 9 o’clock news,” said the network big wig behind them, not needing to look and instead studying his hand for warts. He could hear the success. “Test it out on the non-magical people first.”
“Fantastic.” John envisioned the money rolling in like batter covered spheres.
She hung up her black hat and dress and boots. She put on her blue flower jeans and rose shirt and red canvas shoes, made for a kid. Because she was a kid again, or at least closer to such. Our friendly, lovely Alysha. And where was projected mate Axis-Windmill these days? Still in Neat Town talking to Kick-ass Boos about bigfoot, locally colored green and called mossmen? Actually the last time we checked in with him, he was in Bellisaria chatting with a painter rabbit about primary colors, specifically about blue and black and how one can change into another. Perhaps he wants to know because of Hatti’s witch hat, which she just hung up. He knows about the alchemical cemetery, the alchemetery or alcemetery if you will (his coinings). He knows he has a rival and he doesn’t have much time, this White fellow.
He doesn’t yet realize he’s also staring into a mirror.
“Whitehead, Mossmen,” he mutters, waking up again, but this time not in the cabin, at least in *that* one. Instead: Reality.
Later that week Guy was finally able to steal one of the sacred letters while the others had their backs turned. The yellow one, the easiest since it was the smallest. Upon sever torture he revealed his true name to be McCoy, Rael McCoy, and became a rebel himself. He straightened up (from the perspective of the anarchists), turned more into the letter I than O, or the number 1 than zero. This was more for disguise. The Great Rebellion had begun in earnest, not too long after it actually ended.
(to be continued)
She could just make out the word “Angels” from a distance on the sign ahead. I was just *in* Angels, she thought. Must – proceed – forward. Despite the pain. Old wounds coming back/ phasing in. Must – be… close — to something!
Such a struggle, though.
“Get ready with the disinfectant, Frank. This one looks like a runner.”