Category Archives: 0412
“Aye, you might as well be admitting your business here is failing, me lassie. It’s the Corona-V brewskies that be your undoing. And the trading pirates that come with it, aye. I’ve even picked up their accent shiver me timbers!”
“Oh you’re just being silly Jezabella,” Marsha “Pink” Krakow responded, back in her working element now. At last count, she holds at least 3 part time jobs around town to go along with the drumming hobby. It’s plain to see that she’d rather toil with the commoners than focus her energies on schooling. She’s waiting on her big break, teachers like Mrs. Crumplebottom and Tom Banks be damned — although the photography route to fame still represents an alternative in case the drumming plan fails; she must set aside time for that *one* class anyways. But she thinks she can go far; be a star like that other star. *The* Star(r). She plans to go to church this Sunday to pray about the matter. The big red doors in front still remain closed, although rumor has it that Preacher Ben Field may open them up in a surprise effort to circumvent the bars selling that delicious yet devilish beer, defying local social distancing rules and regulations in the process set in place about, oh, a month and a half back. And he has some new information coming in from St. Louis, Missouri or thereabouts concerning the similarly colored book, the one that basically took the place of *his* book during all this turmoil. He knows it’s now about death and South America, Brazil and Peru in one. One way ticket and all that stuff. No going back; life over. Regrets.
He has a big sermon planned about it. He’s even asked Marsha “Pink” Krakow to tinker around with some music in the background. “A *rock* opera,” he tempts, looking into the future. “Direct to you from the land down under,” he further promotes.
The China Wok across the way had already closed, giving up the ghost for the brew. “6 feet apart, 6 feet apart!” everyone warns. No one wants the other one to know who’s secretly drunk. Asymptomatic, they call it, a strange word that now everyone knows and understands the meaning of.
If only the pirates would stay away, she laments, looking at another loaded down ship arriving in the bay.
I was going to create a post about figures found near Urqhart, specifically two elephants in opposite corners of a house. But news just broke in Urqhart itself. Urqhart Hill, featured in the Marty-Arthur Kill interaction post from a few nights back, has been bought and paganized! The new owner: a Rhiannon, obviously a nod to Stevie Nick’s song “Rhiannon” in some form, and the Welsh legend behind it of the goddess who fell in love with a mortal and paid the price. Also I’ll remind readers that Barry X. Vampire’s subsequently murdered girlfriend Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child sat her ass on this very hill’s grass as Marty observed her from his house just below. The house still stands despite everything being a bit up in the air at the time. And that observation tower has been added. Let’s zoom in on the modified hill. A memorial? We go deeper…
And here are those elephants in the neighboring Annelie sim just to finish:
Corsica (continent) is an elephant. More soon!
It was a busier night at the Gregson Motel in Dharmaraksa. The well established establishment was about to get 2/3rds full. Brothers Jer Left Horn and Benny Right Horn were the first to arrive, coming from Horns of Hatton by Royal (Magic) Bus. They were followed quickly by Marcus Fox Smartville and new gal pal Cathy A., with last name to be determined. The vehicle this time? None other than Little Jimmy, the complete bastard of a car also recently owned by Keith B., Kevin A., and perhaps some others I’m not recalling right this instant. $70,000 lindens was the price this time. The bastardliness just keeps on building upon itself like some kind of warped lego concoction.
“You allow chickens, I’m assuming,” said Jer Left Horn to the hotel receptionist, unseen to his left here. “She’s house trained.” Bethulia was current playing hide and seek with Willard (receptionist) from behind his computer monitor, but he didn’t find this cute at all. Blame Southerners, he instead thought swearingly. I guess they’ll start coming in droves to this place after it’s all said and done.
Marcus and Cathy picked up whispered words from the horned brothers like, “Red Devil”, “father”, and “honor”. But there was no need for secrecy. History had shifted in and then turned out upon itself, like some kind of warped twister game. All was there to expose thanks to scrying, reality flipping black holes. Marcus recalls something about a jug, or, better, like a glove turned inside out, true nature revealed. Both left and right at once — in a warped way again. Red Devil.
“Alright that was GREAT guys! FanTAStic! That’s a WRAP for today! Good WORK!”
We start to wrap up the continent, south to north. Continent’s Edge seems like a logical, next step. “Anything left here?” Officer Biff Carter might say to an underling (not pictured). “Well sir,” the underling could reply, “there’s the red door in the bar.” “Let’s go,” Carter might respond firmly. “Show the way,” he could add, not seeing the landmark in his own inventory, since he is, at the core, Bracket Jupiter. The underling (surface identity yet to be determined): Baker Bloch, the (core) guy with the prime landmarks. “Let’s go!” Carter could reiterate, seeing his underling spacing out again. “Go go go go go!” “Alright already!”
“Okay, we checked that out. Standard vampire stuff. Or goth stuff.” Biff turns away from the door toward his underling. “And who are *you* suppose to be?”
“Raggy,” his underling admitted. “Lemme check some other outfits.”
“Make it pronto!”
“You guys smell something burning? Okay, okay. Not too bad.” He keeps scanning the underling. “Not too *good* but could be worse. And who is… wait, lemme guess. *Your* assistant.”
“This is Wanda,” Kirk introduced.
Carter shook his head. “Nope nope. Already a Wanda in this story.”
“Then, er, how about Alice.”
“Nah. Try again.”
He puts finger to lips in thinking mode; begins talking more to himself. “Ritchie — not a girl’s name; Betty — again: taken.”
“Taken,” Carter reinforces, and moves to the bar, talking to the reader directly while Kirk keeps vocalizing options behind him. He selects champagne for a drink. “While we’re waiting, let’s check out *my* backstory. It’s a good one. Better than Kirk’s I’m sure.”
We drift back in time. Back back back to when Carter first took on the case of the Missing Man About Time.
“We were in Oakley, where Little Annie got her name from. I was about the same age as my underling now, and kind of looked like him. Sort of. And I had an assistant as well. Well, we spotted the palm tree hemmed mound in the distance and I said, ‘Looks like a good place for a hideout.’ We’d been stalking the Man About Time for about a month at this point, but what’s time when you’re looking for such a person. I checked my watch. 8:88. ‘9:28,’ my assistant clarified (more for the reader). I’d been substituting number time for clock time several years now, dating back to my time researching that mashup puncture in time and space called Dark Side of the Rainbow. 8:88 is 9:28, 8:98 is 9:38, but 9:48 is just that and nothing more. Can’t let those things get too complicated.
“We moved toward the mound but stopped at the entrance.
“‘Pirate,’ I cussed, spitting on the ground after realizing we’d been tracking the wrong crinimal. ‘I told you
Wanda Ritchie Bettie Taylor Twiggy.’ ‘How dare you call me that,’ she interrupted, and slapped my face. ‘I told you never to call me that again.’ Okay, we still don’t have a name for the dame, but I’ll work on it and get back to you reader. And also find the proper hideout for this… MAN ABOUT TIME.”
(to be continued?)
“13 and 14’s where it’s at, Spongeberg. You’ll love it here. Much better than those messy, ol’ woods.”
“Another investment of yours, Grass?”
“Yeah. I’m branching out. Like a tree.”
“I don’t know.” Spongeberg keeps looking around. “Animations are pretty primitive overall here.”
“Oh this is just the base, the Linden beginning. Lindenning. At the top’s where it’s at. 13 and 14. Connected now, like they’ve always been in hypertime. And hyperspace.”
“You *do* remember I use to live here. Mystenopolis.”
“Of course. And you’ve found the great faun statue intact and have decided to resume living here and move away from the messy woods. I know.”
“I haven’t given up on Whitehead Crossing.”
“I know that too.”
“Maybe we should start with stuff you *don’t* know, then.”
“Oh I know a lot. A-M. Maybe N-Z. It depends… well, on Karoz really.”
“One more thing, Grass. Before you commit to this. I can die. Unlike any of the other core avatars. It just happened to me. On Highway 13. Or maybe it was 14.”
“That’s okay,” assured the giant, green toy to his destroyer friend. “I actually know all about death and resurrection. We Mmmmmm’s have quite the short life span. I’ve died several times while existing in Our Second Lyfe.” He edges closer to Spongeberg. “Listen, that’s what’s so fascinating about the appearance of Gene Fade here. He swore he’d never return, since you age about 7x faster in this place. Now he didn’t die while here, because Mossmen like him naturally live so long anyways. *Anyways*, we’re opposites, see. Opposite sides of a spectrum.”
Spongeberg keeps looking. “Any liquor around this joint?”
“Here’s your rainbow daiquiri, sir,” announced Male Goth Avatar, currently serving as bartender at the End of the Line Inn.
“Great, thanks. Anything for you, Grass?”
“No, I’ll just keep staring at this wall while you imbibe. You take your time, though. We have plenty of time here. Plenty.”
The two lovers’ hearts beat as one again from this direction, King Anderson Tully thinks from his rocky perch.
But I must get back to the castle. New guests are arriving! Filling the void of the old.
“He said he’d give us a great deal, April Mae. 300 linden dollars a month. Just like one of the Absinthe cottages.” Mssr. Gold turns. “April Mae? Where’d she go?”
The king approached.
Maurey “Jiff” Monroe, the Gaston-Berry Police Station staff psychiatrist, wanted it plain and simple today. “Well, Tom Casey. Or, if you prefer it, Casey One Hole.”
“I do.” Casey was ever the method actor.
“Let’s talk about motives. Why would you kill a beloved Collagesity bartender with one deadly swipe of your metallic Wilson driver?”
“He had information he wasn’t providing for me. I hate… dislike people who don’t give me the information I want to complete my mission of…” He paused.
“Yes,” Jiff proclaimed, seeing an immediate weakness. “Tell me about this mission. Hopefully it at least serves free gravy to the poor.” He attempts a weak smile which, of course, wasn’t returned.
“I’m looking for someone.”
By now, George was back in his secret hiding place, listening in. His abbey as he called it. I had been stupid to walk the road today, he vilified himself.
Backpack slightly heavier, Paul enters The Void…
“Honey! You’re back. Look… Green Acres is on! Supper’s Ready.”
No one else would know what Mary was on about except Paul. That was destined to change. Musical partner Peter SoSo was also in Malone Central, but standing off from the others to the left.
“Come over here, Paul,” he said to the just arrived black man. “Cross over this line… dividing the town and lets talk… about Lambs. Did you get the book?”
“Liquor!” clowned Wheeler interrupted to his right. “I hope you’ve returned with some because we’re out. And: meat!”
Peter, Paul and Mary as one stared at her.