“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.
Because this is another mother abode, pheh.
“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.”
“So tell me about this chicken outside, The Mann. I thought this place was the North already. Why the big, Southern mascot, then?”
“Do you like this song? The *black* Elvis, not the white one. Listen to that smooth, jazz-cat voice, eh?”
“Now, now. You’re switching subjects on me again, white man. But — then again, I guess if you’re playing the black Elvis on the jukebox then this has to be the North.”
“Well,” and The Mann turned around to look at the chicken here, “we have interlopers here still. *Close* to the South here. But when you reached this truck stop you could feel safe and breath freely once more. Just a sim down on Route 8: a different story potentially. No trust there yet.”
“Where did you get your car?” I asked, looking outside myself but in a different direction.
“Bought it from some dude who hailed from Pipersville. Heard of it? Sweet deal. Only 60,000 lindens — *no* shipping.”
But then the man in front of me changed. I was speaking to Keith B. again. Or was it Kevin A.? Of the Kevin Orchardsity trio. Time and Space and *Options* were still unstable here.
And who was I?
Better get further North. Totally away from the Chicken People.
They talked far into the night. No mention of Bauer again, as stated. About 10 Roger Pine Ridge showed up as well. He kept glancing over at his old flame Cyberpaperdoll (who arrived about 7:30) but saying nothing.
11:15. His last Chesterfield was now half smoked. Perhaps time to pull out one of his special cigarettes; start seeing things in the middle of the night again. Sea monsters this time, perhaps. The white stick light tells truths to be beholding to. Behold… beholding. Beh.
“Beh,” he uttered over to Cyberpaperdoll. “Beeeeeehhhhh.”
“I’ll defend you Dollie.”
“What are we looking at?” she queried Randy Big Cat in her meek voice. So feminine and thin.
“Pirates of course! *Other* pirates.”
“Of course.” But it didn’t look like any pirate she’d beheld.
She kept tripping the light fantastic. White stick light. Giant bunnies were good and cool. She wanted more. But Ruby’s Democratic Empire sim remained empty. It was only a stage, a set, good to go for Collagesity novel 10 but then discarded and emptied just after. *Had* to be a set. And now connected with beh. All sims starting with beh, especially their center (128/128). Try it for yourself. You’ll see.
Dollie in the
dollhouse doghouse again, snooping around.
She pretended this improptu gathering of cubes also in central Behemoth was a meeting of the selves again. “You,” she barked as much as possible with her unbarky voice. “Over there. The black, silent one. Time to *speak*.”
Eventually she fell asleep on its southern side after taking yet another form. Smoking.
Philip Strevor couldn’t help himself. He had to read ahead in the red book to see what life would be like in the Bermingham part of Muff-Bermingham. With the kid.
Journal entry, 01/18/19:
Today was the first day my mother didn’t come calling.
Panicking, he quickly thumbed back to pages already experienced, carefully marking the ultra important division between past and future. He’d read enough of the latter today. No more peeking, he vowed!