Category Archives: 05

dwarf crushing

“Red green blue, man. Red green blue.” Bob tripping the white stick fantastic.

“But where’s yellow?” added Dole, and then looks around as if it would materialize in the air as well as on his jacket. He spots the concrete parking divider right in front of his face and realizes what it is. “Whoa, dude,” he exclaims, trying not to look directly into its “eye”. “Check it out.”

“Radical,” Bob said more low, exhaling pungent smoke into the air. He looked even further away. He knew it was there all along. Alll along.

“Straightened and everything!” Dole exclaimed, and started shuffling his feet a bit in the excitement. “Like a… huh, banana or something. Frozen banana, wow.” Still averting the eye. Peeling away from it, even.

“Exactly, man. Exactly.” Bob bogarted the last drag off the white stick.  “You got it, man. You’re so (*exhale*) right on.” Stick fragment to the ground, then…

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Quick Stop

“Can I help you with anything, inspector!?” the acne faced clerk called over. He’d neglected the chef part in the title — must be a town newcomer. But that’s the hat he’s currently wearing: private cook not public dick (he’ll switch over at dusk). And he needs some special ingredients for his surprise pie. He’s almost got it. Something about recently deceased Bob Dole in a Franco-American afterlife. And butterflies — he can’t help mixing business with pleasure. He always seems to have eyes in the back of his head as well as front; part of his two faced, interior/exterior personality.

But nature calls right now and he can’t wait until he gets back to the apartment. Public will have to do again. He pivots, he sliides. He opens the unlocked door.

“Oh. Excuse me,” he calls into the man in the dark also studying butterflies. Is no place sacred any more?? The apartment it will have to be.

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Trapped!

“*Cult* of the 3 Suns brought ME here.” Zzzzz’s from the “listener”. “You still with me?” Clearly he wasn’t, but Dr. Herbert Thomas Brown only needed a sounding board this late at night, when the bitterness fully kicked in. “My Three Suns, the wife called them, before her own mysterious disappearance.” A snort this time, then rolling over and more snores. Tom was a good guy, Dr. Brown could have thought here. But he sleeps a lot. Oh well… not a lot else to do in this alley separated from reality. He tried to think of a joke combining the words reality and alley to more accurately describe their situation but it didn’t quite come together. Fitting. “Then I went to *Falmouth*… don’t get me started about *Falmouth*, pheh.” He looked over at Tom: still rolled over but quieter now. Had he awaken? Brown thought. Was he, I don’t know, actually listening to him this late at night for a change? Something about Falmouth?

—–

Knock knock knock. “Honey?! I decided to join you on your vacation after all. Darling?! Are you in there?!”

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34th Street

“I’m just saying you haven’t been the same, since… since…”

“Cincinnati. Just say it.”

“Bench..”

“I know,” he interrupted again, knowing the story all too well.

“It was a lot of lumber!”

“He deserved it.” Silence for a bit, then: “I guess we’re going to talk about Rose next. The *ul-timate* Red.”

She shook her head. “No. No, I’m just saying…”

“It was the frigg’n Metz!” he exclaimed, finally raising his voice on the subject, as he almost always does. “How would I know, a MIRACLE would occur?”

“It,” she tried to calm him down, “was… a long time ago.”

“Not in my nogg’n.” He knocked on his head. It made a hollow sound. Lumber again. Bench would get his revenge. “The whole *team*, was jinxed. Just look at their names. Rose, pheh. Bench, *huff*. Perez… well that one was kind of normal. But *Morgan*.”

“Now dearest, why don’t we wrap up some more presents,” she distracted again. “Then afterwards, afterwards…” She dangled her leg seductively. No need to think about 69 any longer. *That* 69.  It was often the only way to get him to shut up about it once he started. Now the other leg joined the first: two danglers. Would he take the bait?

—–

“Tom… SEEVER!” he said to end. Always the same.

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another one?

“Why aren’t you guys sitting across from each other still? *Anyway*, we know the Anomaly is the same as this beanstalk being mentioned around this here town, Paper-Soap still, despite the attempts at division. It doesn’t jam our systems any longer — a situation we should toast to sometime (come to think of it) — but its presence is still around.” Goober gobble. “Reports now. Whatcha got Agent 47?” he speaks to the closest one. “Er, 23,” he adjusts, seeing a hair on the upper lip. Male this one is. The other: female, despite the baldness and otherwise seeming identicalness. More experiments of The Mouse.

“We’re monitoring situations of a bust,” he metered out crisply, almost like a robot but without the needed, metallic squeaking of the inner mechanics. Like with the Claudes. “A painter. Paper.” He glances over at Agent 47, noting the hairless lip and the current desire to kiss it. When did these feelings start for 23?? He guessed that birthday party. Where they summoned The Devil again, pheh.

“A ring,” continued 47 on the same case. “Within…” he looked back.

“… a ring,” completed 23 for him, contemplating whether to blow him (*a kiss*!).

“So you’re saying to me, people, that this bust involves a ring (*brinnng*). And not only that, another ring within that ring? (*brinnngg*). How deep are we?”

The phone rings for the third time at the far end of the table. It’s one of the Claudes, which is always bad news.

Jim walks in (*brinnng*). “I’ll get it.”

“NOOOOOO!!!”

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Paper… Soap

An expert at 4 was called in to help with the transition from whole to half: Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer, last seen wheeling this dark baby around NWES City over on the Jeogeot continent one last time before putting it in storage. Stored no more; out and about again. Thanks to Zoidboro and the magically pronounced words.

Mr. Yellow glances in at the *plant* sitting beside him in the yellow chair, the cheese being also known as Marilyn but seldom seen in that guise except for the gifted of sight. She’d even given him back his attached rats to make him pure rabbit again, although he didn’t know it in the moment. He talks to his supervisor via phone. Dr. Mouse. Dr Mouse? Yes. Dr. Mouse.

“Good, good,” he says about the setup over at the new rental beside the old parsonage Zoidboro was kicked out of just yesterday’s today’s tomorrow. He knew now he was (also) fully back to life. He imagined he could throw a stone from his asylum and it would hit the roof, perhaps rolling down to knock his agent on the head. In fact, I think he went up to his own roof to gauge if this were actually possible. Let’s take a pic of it.

No: a bit too far still; trees kind of in the way. He can’t help but point with his cane at what irritates him presently, old habits dying hard.

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bell

“We’re here today, dear friends, to choose,” Preacher Zoidboro urged, soon to be Non-Preacher Zoidboro to about half of ’em, friends turned to fiends (or foes). “We have, evidence #1, the ‘Text on the Mount’ shoved under my parsonage door by a mysterious black hand, the color of dark licorice. Evidence #2: the Mount itself, better known as the Monolith. It is the One to complete the Four, in my…”

“Blasphemy!” shouted Bill Bright from the back. Count him in the foe camp.

“Let him speak his say,” urged Martha Bennington in front of him, fresh from a shower and thus more relaxed. She didn’t even have time to dry her hair before the special Tuesday’s Wednesday’s meeting, but that was because she was up most of the night reading this blog. No, make that writing in her blog. Something about drumming… a man possessed by a circle within a circle design. Let’s make that a dream, which kept her awake thinking about it afterwards. She also woke up her husband John, sitting beside her, but never going back to sleep. He couldn’t choose between the 3 and the 4, he determined. Glancing at the Monolith while walking into the church this day in April’s May, he decided to remain neutral, let others do the choosing for him. He feared Martha fell on the side of 4, and the chiding of Bill Bright in back added to this theory of his. Plus the fact that the drumming dream was in 4/4 time instead of 3/4. She specifically said she remembered it that way, and mentioned the 2 times in particular. 4/4 instead of 3/4. “3/4 would turn it into some kind of, um, *waltz*… a joke almost,” he recalled her saying. Well, the Trinity in his book is *not* a joke, but we’ll see… let’s see what the others say. Bill Bright has voiced his opinion. Martha too by counterweight, it seems. Zoidboro is obviously on the side of 4. Old Preacher Benfield has shown up to stand, er, up for the power of 3. The battle lines have been drawn. But what of the church structure itself, built and kept up by the hard earned money of the parishioners who seem to be dividing into two now? Will we just, I don’t know, build a *wall* down the middle of it? John continued to speculate while the others had a pause to contemplate as well. Actually, it was more a pray, requested by Zoidboro and also Benfield. *Pray* on this division. Feel in your *Heart* what is true, they urged, which made about half of them think of the joke about a Spade walking into a bar with a Heart, at the top of the “Text on the Mount” just under the title. These were the ones who would choose 4. The ones that didn’t get the joke: 3. We have our camps.

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pulling a Rundgren

She listened to Keith B.’s drumming, trying to determine whether it was ultimately soothing or just irritating. Somewhere in the middle, as a lot of stuff is, she thought. He hadn’t answered her earlier question about what he found out at the ranger’s station this morning; dodged the question in fact, it seemed to her. Just started drumming after lunch. Drumming and drumming. Her right hand wanted to clap, but her left hand wanted to slap.

“I — feel — so — *young*!” he called over.

Pheh, she thought, not noticing the difference while looking away. Might as well still be peeing in his outhouse.

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00300509

Safe Zone — where had Keith B. heard that expression? Of course: *Marilyn*. He asked about it to Jim B., currently playing the role of Alvin Jr., son of Alvin Sr. who climbed that beanstalk in Wales all the way to… some say The Moon, others: Uranus. But, as stated, we happen to know it was Mars, an in-between compromise.

Alvin Jr. listened to the query, wishing that darn phone would ring for a change and interrupt this conversation, hopefully distract Keith B. to a different topic. And why did he come down here to the ranger station anyway this morning? Must be looking for more spots to hunt, Alvin mused. “Safe Zone?” he answered Keith B. “Oh, that’s just a map that came with the station. Has nothing to do with the actual park here. Just a generic map. I… haven’t even looked at it that closely.” He peers at the map he knows all too well, pretending to see it as with new eyes. “Echo, eh?” he says, pronouncing the map name below Safe Zone. “Overrun,” he continues in that vein. He thinks of the zombies here, the Germans, but also the Italians. Came in through the portal from the Great War. “Sounds like, eh, something from a game or something, dunno.” He shakes his head, convincingly he hopes. He’s surprised Keith B. hadn’t seen the map before but that was just part of the magic of the place, good and bad. You often see things when you’re suppose to, not when common sense tells you you should. Keith B. should have spotted this anomaly of a map long ago, inquired about the Safe Zone shortly after he arrived in Paper-Soap, say. But it was the same with Alvin. *Jr.*. People kept mixing him up with his  dear old papa and it irritated the *hell* out of him. He’d stopped going to church because of it. But he’d heard there was new trouble brewing over there. He decides to ask Keith — a presented tangent after all.

“Heard Preacher Zoidboro knocked the congregation for a loop yesterday,” he frames it. He knew the power of the 4 would come in eventually and attempt to topple the totalitarianism of the 3. And he knew the Monolith would have something to do with it — just didn’t know the details. Until now.

“Ah, yes,” Keith B. said back, prying his eyes from the map to Alvin Jr.’s relief. He’s going to subtly alter that thing as soon as the man from Nautilus leaves. Take out mention of the Safe Zone first. There *is* no Safe Zone. Thanks to Keith, pheh.

Turns out the congregation of the Trinity Church is split down the middle on the subject of 3 vs. 4. It’s the beanstalk all over again, thinks Alvin.

5 years ago:

“You alright up there Pops!!”

“Pops!!?”

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birthplace of TILE (‘nother one)

“Listen to these words,” Preacher Zoidboro commands from his pulpit of power, shuffling the first page back to the top. He’d been reading it all afternoon and then one evening and then another afternoon after a morning break for contemplation. It had been slipped under the door to his parsonage out back at 7:15 on Tuesday by the blackest of hands, as dark as licorice candy. “‘Four’s Company, parentheses, Three’s a Crowd, close parentheses,'” he starts, reading the title first of course. “‘Let’s make this,’ ahem, ‘shit happen.'”

Gasps from the audience, but not from the pronouncement of the word shit, deemed a cuss word in this here neck of the woods. They couldn’t hear that part the preacher said it so low. Instead: the inferred defamation of the Holy Trinity. It was in the name of the church! What in Hell’s Bells was the Preacher thinking, doing this? they thought as one.

“‘Let’s begin with a,’ uherm, ‘joke, quote unquote,'” he continues to read from Sepisexton’s text on the mount. Sweat beads on his forehead. Dare he go through with it? Alvin would be please, though. He always liked Alvin. “‘A Spade walks into a bar with a Heart,'” he ventures forward into a brave new world. “‘The audience says nothing.'”

The audience says nothing.

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