The Man About Time supposed this was his apartment now, what with the death of Carrcassonnee. He had no one left to take care of. Collagesity was done and over with. NWES is where it’s at; The Current.
I realized that MAT was me in the future. And the past and the present, I suppose. All the colors, well, one (current). Green, I guess. Lime. Olive?
“Why did I call him Jim?” he wondered mildly from his rainbow colored couch, too big for his apartment and probably something he would be getting rid of soon (along, obviously, with the bits and pieces of Carrcassonnee’s body). He has many options. This town is big and wide if lacking depth. But, then again, the town owner, a true neighbor of a guy, is working on the subway it seems. In the meantime: road system disrupted; north cut off from south. It rang a bell too close to home. He must hit it off with this neighbor and not be a (total) stranger. Because he thinks he knows this Guy. Met him on a RR once; talked about Azure Islands. But I’ve speculated before who Guy is. I thought he was Magellen and just gell’n. I thought he was…
The phone rings. Too close to home to answer. Maybe it was under his couch? He’d find out soon enough.
“Don’t turn around Jeffrie. You’ll draw suspicion — eyes everywhere here in Fearzum.”
“I’m listening.” Jeffrie Phillips was patient that way. That’s why they paid him the big bucks.
TronAxis continued, leaning in a little closer. “There’s trouble in Urqhart, Jeffrie. The story there ended too soon and Baker Bloch has to fill out the rest. *Your* mission, if you so choose — and that’s why we’re paying you the big bucks (Jeffrie Phillips nods here) — is to find out who lives in that Gothic House on the edge of Centre Sink. Just a little over there in front of me. He stares toward the small, granite topped mountain in that direction, knowing the central sink lay not far beyond.
Jeffrie Phillips, from his angle, was looking toward a larger version of the same, intuiting that the answers they seek lie in that direction as well.
“I’ll get on it as soon as you pay for my breakfast,” Jeffrie requested, knowing he was well worth it. Later researchers found the tab to contain 3 eggs, toast and waffles, although they weren’t sure who ate what since it was all in one bill.
He turns away from her on the bed while she is talking, much to her relief. She’s tired of looking at the thing. He claims their sex is hot, hot, hot, but to her it’s always lukewarm! And he’s not tea so no reheating; one and done. “Santa,” she calls back toward him.
“Satan, please,” he requests, his voice booming even when projecting the wrong way. “Santa’s a last name.”
“Oh, right.” April Mae knew full well what his name was. He had to use the most obvious anagram possible. Might as well stick 2 horns on his head and prod expectant children with a forked candy cane or something. “He knows about you,” she then offers.
“I’m *not* the maker.”
“He knows that too.”
“I am Satan!” His tone was more defiant that ever.
“You are the Red Devil, true,” she agreed. Where did all the legends get that hot fire and brimstone stuff? she wonders again. Falsities!
“Be a dear and bring me the book, April Mae. The one where I’m a star — I need it to get to sleep.”
Well, she certainly wants him to get to sleep. So she can sneak out again. Tommy Pajamy over in cabin B might be willing later tonight. She’s been prepping him for weeks, bending too far over while shoveling the sidewalks, climbing too high with her dress on a ladder to prune the snow laden trees. She knows he watches. She has eyes in the back of her head.
She retrieves the book from the shelf and then hands it to Satan Santa, not looking down. It’s a 1989 mystery novel involving a cooperative venture between the US (US) and USSR (THEM) that gets screwed up because a woman’s death is broadcast on the net. Then it turns up on a VHS tape that lands in the wrong hands. The woman is named Kat. Eartha Kit Kat Moon. And I believe she’s Chinese. Or Japanese. And she may not be a woman either.
“Nice, Toddles. Are you ready to go to the next museum? Grampa wants to buy him some guys at that record store next door.”
“Guys?” Toddles turns her head briefly to stare at her mother’s mother.
“Gunn(s) I meant there.” Alice Farrowheart wondered about the mistake, though. She had studied Sigmund Fraud in college and didn’t think all of his theories were bunk. Like tongue slips.
Toddles swings carefree toward Sam Parr Collage 09 again, arms restless. “Why is his *brains* leaking into that rabbit?”
Alice walks toward the collage to study more of what the child was talking about. Indeed, the “brains” of the green figure in the collage seemed to be leaking into the “rabbit”, and from not one but two directions: from the west and also from the south. And what was this landscape? The Heartland? Looked like The Heartland.
The next morning, Alice Farrowheart read about the death of young Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer in the NWES Gazette and wondered about the synchronicity with the likewise rabbit spied by her granddaughter in the Red Umbrella Gallery. She’d also studied Carl Young in collage in the same course. Did she think: collage?
She went back to the Red Umbrella in the afternoon. And the afternoon after that. And then a final time on the 3rd of November, when she decided to phone the local police department about the matter. Synchronicity can perhaps solve crimes!
1933 -Black-Clear Lake was formed by the construction of the Allen Dam across Saline Bayou downstream of its confluence with Black Bayou. Prior to that time, there existed a chain of three swampy areas known as Black Lake, Clear Lake and the Prairie. The Allen Dam inundated all three of these areas and formed what is now Black-Clear Lake, known locally as Black Lake. Construction of the Allen Dam also created Saline Lake and water levels in both lakes were regulated in unison….
1959 -The Chee Chee Dam was constructed and served to separate Saline Lake from Black-Clear Lake.
1981 –The Allen Dam failed and was washed away
“I will not fail in my mission,” thought Allen Y., at a Calas flower kiosk with a just purchased bouquet of fresh and lovely purple roses. “I *will* win her heart.”
“He will fail,” spoke observing Baker Bloch back at the Blue Feather Table.
“Yes,” answered Wheeler beside him. “The water obscures, the water clears. Bottom-writing is revealed. All demos down there.”
“Demons,” spoke Baker Bloch. “You forgot the ‘n’.”
“I didn’t forget nothing” retorts the co-ruler of Collagesity. She settles back in her chair, pulls out some chew and sticks it in her mouth. “But first a little Chee Chee,” she delivered from an open, masticating void.
At the Jaeger’s Hat, Rosehaven tourist Donald Farr gets a big laugh out of a jukebox style gramophone that comes to life and sprouts arms when touched. The castle scene behind the sentient record player is actually a false window, which becomes important a little later on. Reminds Donald that he’s made friends with a Rosehaven castle owner recently, and wonders if it is the same structure he presently calls home. King Tull (or King Tully). We’ll get to him soon as well.
In looking behind him now, I realize that the false window of 10×6 panes, if extended into a square, would represent 100 panes that have become one through the castle.
Donald enjoying his second house whiskey at the Avalon Estate irish pub and dance hall, the first being so refreshing. Good thing he’s not driving, walking and teleporting being his only means of transport while on vacation. When did he have to be back to work? he ruminates through the inebriated haze. Perhaps never, hehe.
Hmm. Donald remembers a building that could be rented on this parcel before, which now is vacant. He had his eyes on it, but the rent is a little steep for his traveling budget. He just wants a place to rest his head between exploring jaunts. Perhaps one of the nearby cottages is available now. He’ll go check there next. He can only impose on King Tull (or Tully) for so long. Plus it’s pretty much a fur piece from anything out where he lives on that mountain. He’d like to be closer to the center of all things Rosehaven, and the cottages fit that bill.
Darnit! The edge cottage that had been available for several days was now rented. He missed his chance! Music is heard within — a ragtime tune being played on an out-of-tune piano. It draws him in; there’s a welcome sign as well. Plus he’s still a little drunk and uninhibited. Is this a private parcel? He didn’t care. He felt it should be his.
He opens the door and walks inside…
…. to find himself staring at himself.
“The missing building!” he cries while twirling about.