“Hearts for you, Pansy,” said one of the Certain Deaths after dealing the card. All the rest dug spades; Grumpy never had a chance.
Category Archives: 0407
I figured a major part of my job now was to figure out who 102 actually is. Or was. This Maebaleia or Satori horned demon highlighting DANGER could be a clue. I know Danger also equates with Dead: Dead Cat Soap, etc.
It’s Bart Smipson but it’s not Bart Smipson. Another ragamuffin of the streets.
It was that t-shirt. He was covering up the t-shirt with his arm. He didn’t want the passing camera to see (!). Or he was indicating the shirt to… me; crossing it. Blood on his… shirt. We’re entering ghost territory (again). He disappears behind a telephone pole. A dead end (in Picturetown). We’ve seen enough. ENOUGH. Gates closed. Text begins again as Barry X. Vampire takes over.
We lie in a pool of blood as Bart Smipson towers above us, Giant for a day.
I think I’ll bring Biff Carter back into the picture. He was the one to let it happen — was on his watch. Demoted to private dick he was after that, no better than a Moby Prick consigned to swim the Southern depths of hell below aerial, pie in the sky Heaven. He was in dark toned, ironically named New Eden. Sometimes he was back on the beat thanks to a shortage of personnel in the local police department due to all those pills. But what of Orkley Andy who was probably the same as Oakley Annie the Ohioan gunslinger? Let it pass, let it slide, Cpt. Henry said as history repeats itself. 3 dead is pretty good numbers for that kind of escapade. We got away with something. Let him get away with it too. Say it was his dog hiding under his couch; go with his story. Hunter the dog — a good story, a *true* story. And so Biff Carter wrote that particular slant in his report, not mentioning the bodies (soon carted away by the ever-present zombies) or the red dress smiling on the ground before him (soon carted away by a female zombie or perhaps a male one experimenting with his sexual identity). All evidence gone and taken care of. He heads down to the Red Dress Diner to talk about all of it with Phyllis at the time…
“Wanda, hi. Where’s Phyllis? I thought it was her shift — just spoke to her over the phone.” Where’s your red dress? he thought.
“Axis. We really need to talk now.”
Mission failed, The Man separates from the Ant again, probably becoming The Mann with that extra “n” in the process. He finds himself on the east coast of Pickle 02, the green one, staring out at the sea. He wonders why he’s here, then spots it. Humpback whale sighting.
“This must be New York,” he says about the Pickle he’s on, but also probably the other one too, since they are opposite sides of the same thing most likely.
He looks and looks but only the one sighting. And a brief, happy song.
“A message to all my fans out there. Some like their Pink hot.”
“This will never work, Elberta,” Toothpick states at another low point. “You’re so beautiful and I’m so… ugly. Never mind the whole brother-sister…”
“I’m going to stop you there, potential husband of mind. No, better, I’m going to *absorb* you. I want to see what happens.”
Toothpick/Filbert was at a low point, as stated. He had nothing to lose. “Take me.”
“He must never find you, Ross C. He’ll destroy our little square world if he does and make everyone in it miserable.”
“Happy (*zip*) unhappy,” she sputtered.
There’s only one way out. *Become* the world, see. See me in him and him in me.”
Robot from the future Ross C. saw the truth in it.
Hotgirl was freed from Misery Cabin but was unable to speak about her experience there for a while.
Old reality was flickering on and off.
She eventually made her way back to GASTON.
“What we *need* to do,” old companion Domino told
Hotgirl Hitgirl Hitgerl Hitgurl Hitgal while they watched piled up house band Firesign Theatre play for the 4th time tonight at the Rhino, “is to similarly change *Misery*… to *Mystery*. That’s what [delete name] indicates.”
“Shuts your trap.” But the seed had been planted.
It’s really up to us what to make of this NWES City, thought Harrison Jett in the moment, staring at the canal that runs through the center of it all. Blank slate, he contemplates. Bigfoot, he ruminates. 12 or 13 seasonal victims, depending on the weather and how hard it snows and what she can get away with. But always 12/13. Better get back to the Man About Time and see how poor, sick Carrcassonnee is faring. Displaced again!
“She’s not doing well at all,” offered the Man About Time, keeping watch over the withering, alien figure of a former Collagesity ruler on her last leg. “It’s the lack of center; she’s away from her nourishing tree, her temple. Can’t we…”
“No,” spoke over Harrison Jett plainly. I realized who he might be. An amalgamation. There *must* be some reason why I dwell on all that a lot of the time. I’ve been shut out (!).
“I am who I am,” said Harrison Jett, reading my mind. Another Popeye situation. Speaking of which…
“She’s dead, Jim. What should we do with the eye?”
“Bury it,” spoke Harrison Jett bluntly again. “Wait. We’ll throw it in the canal and let it float downstream. Wait. There is no downstream.”
“Yeah, I was going to add that.”
“It’s all flowing the same way. Nowhere.”
“That’s where we are (!)”
“What a waste of a life.”
“Not waste. It’s up to us to take us somewhere.”
“Exactly what I was thinking earlier on. Before I knew how bad this was getting.”
“Well it’s over now.”
“What about the other, erm, 6 parts. Oklahoma? Olive?”
“So she *is* here, thought Peter Oesso from the middle of the bridge, staring over at what appears to be a picture of his beloved Poetry. A daughter? A lover? Barry X. Vampire, the author of it all, would most likely know. He’s here as well. *They* are lovers, happy together (like Turtles). He is not alone any longer with the Great Belt and such. Not alone with the Butler who sees him do it. But Poetry can turn ugly, as we’ve seen. Peter Oesso can help.
But first a little espresso. Hucka Doobie recommended this table. He’ll ask at that small cafe he spotted on the way to the table after the last drop.
A strange occurrence is happening in Port Mansfield, blocking Batty Casey from joining us tonight at the Mansfield Mansion.
We’ll have to go back to Mars instead, disguised as Marz this time.
Someone lives inside the purple Marz house with the hand, probably Katy Kidd again.
“My two proteges together once more, 88 and, 88. Together we make a cross. Peter’s. We can control him again.” Then she cackles. Uncontrollably.
He didn’t know where he was. The approaching, grey ghost didn’t help. “You killed me Arthur Kill,” she moaned. Oh — *her*, he thought while watching the spectre waver back and forth, then retreat again. The *freshest* one. This sometimes happens. He must be dreaming…
Big Black Smoke couldn’t resist. The door was open with no one home currently — he’d checked all the windows. The bed beckoned; he’d deal with the consequences later. That’s how the man known *locally* as Big Black Smoke met his end at the terminus of a Dead End Street in Urqhart. Or right next to it.
Hmmm, pondered Arthur Kill, readying for another. A black man like me. Oh well. Duty calls. He enters.
Later, while staring at the rotating tire outside that Arthur Kill buried Big Black Smoke under, a tiny rap at the door. It was Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child, longing for another bed down with new
love lust and wannabe novelist Barry X. Vampire, who would escape all this mess and slaughter as fate deemed it. Onward and upward into new peaks to the south west, he wisely decided earlier that day.
*POP* (another one)
Dawn was breaking in Arthur Kill’s dream, driving the ghosts away. But he was in the middle of novel 19, with no story there yet possible. Since this is sort of toward the middle of 18. Or a little beyond. Urqhart.
“That was a short one, Hucka Doobie,” spoke Baker Bloch while staring down at the freshly inserted pin on the Big Map.
“Not over yet,” advised the wise bee-ing just out of sight to the west and/or south.
“Does my hair look all right this morning, Herbert?”
“It looks fine, April Mae.”
“Hmph.” She takes a noisy slurp of her tea, then winces. “Next time, dear, set the microwave on about *60 seconds* for the pot, not 40. Lukewarm tea is the worst!” Another slurp, another wince. “Oh dear.” She scoots the twice drunk cup toward Herbert. He knows what has to be done.
“Tastes all right to me,” he shot back, irritated the she *always* knows, within a few seconds, exactly how long he’s heated any item of food or drink up. Next time he’ll try to get away with 45, but he knows he there’s no way he can pull it off. He’s always testing his limits around wife April Mae. And failing.
After putting all the tea back in the pot and reheating the thing, he returns to the table. His mouth might scald a bit but he’s use to it. Better living with that than the alternative. She tests again.
(SLURP) “Yes, much better, Herbert. Thank you. Now… tell me about that dream you had last night. The one where (SLURP) you met a maker.”
They all looked away from Rabbit 01 after he’d finished his statement, toward the evil city that had taken another child. A child psychiatrist in this case. *Functional* wee one; even worse.
“Now we’re having trouble in the Far East, even,” says Chief Nipsie Tanner, half to herself. “Better think about opening another police department over there in the boondocks.”
“Yes, Ms. Tanner,” everyone around dutifully recites, making her even more irritated. She must get away from the herd sometime soon again. Escape to the hills. Escape this — costume.
“A sewer,” speaks Tanner again, picturing it in her mind. So close to heaven yet so far.