The gothic house near the lip of Centre Sink or whatever. He sighs and says aloud, “whatever,” then returns his attention to the crosses (knives) in the yard next to it, like little escaped, pixelated birds heckling his lack of knowledge about the whats, wherefores, whys. Like the death of Vainom Kug over in VHC City, who, he vows to his own grave, did not die in Vain (but instead in that city). Maybe he should consult with Vain and Artery Boy on the subject. He scratches his chin again. He’s wearing a cleft out on it with all the pondering, considering, ruminating he’s done lately. Hmm, sir. Hmmm again. Hmmm.
Category Archives: 04
angles
—–
“Don’t turn around Jeffrie. You’ll draw suspicion — eyes everywhere here in Fearzum.”
“Okay.”
“Just listen.”
“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.
Mouse
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…
Earlier:
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.
grass ass
Aptly named Arthur Kill, just off some fresh kills in Staten Island, decided to hop the ferry over to virtual reality and Lindenwold to see if old boss Marty had any new assignments.
“Sorry everything is a little up in the air at this moment, Arthur,” he apologized about the levitating objects in the yard.
“You moving?” Arthur gruffed.
“Dunno… maybe.”
Arthur Kill stands up, preparing to teleport back to New York City. He doesn’t like to kill time unnecessarily, unlike most things. “Let me know if you do,” he declared without emotion.
“Wait.” Marty was glad of the rare appearance of his former chief assassin and decided to cook up something on the spot. “There’s a, er, *Mouse*. At the end of a Dead End Street. Big Black Smoke. That’s all I got.” Mouse was code for Rat.
“Local?”
Marty looked out at the landscape here, as he had been doing when Arthur abruptly showed up out of thin air. Urqhart Hill, he thought, staring straight ahead. That girl at the top. She’s been there for hours. He can’t stop looking at her. What’s she doing, what’s she up to? Smoking weed? Marty would like some weed. If she stays there very much longer, he’s going to assume she’s using drugs and just walk up to her and ask for some. Not the hard stuff (like before). Just weed this time. She looks the type, yes. A grass chick — sitting in the grass up there. Marty realizes he must answer Arthur Kill.
“Local — right.” Very much so.
he is a good egg
Not great, not so-so. Good. Better than most of us.
The Tall Walk is temporarily obscured.
He needs to rest for the night.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0018, 0404, Corsica, Urqhart
The Tall Walk
Cy Twomile knew that when he crossed this bridge leading to where the great burg of Fisher Rigg use to rest there would be no going back and his secure, blanket-like place in the world would be lost forever. Better change his avatar appropriately before ascending into a new land.
“Civilian” life begins here.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0018, 0403, Corsica, Urqhart






































