“Interesting look. And what kind of dog is he? Or she?”
“We don’t exactly know. We just call him… Dogg.” The Mann was giving more information to the womann with this than he supposed she thought at the time. He was wondering how long it would take to move from this uncomfortable bench to that cozy picnic blanket over there.
But just then, Dogg split into his two component parts and The Mann knew that something big was up. Better get over to the passport office next door in Hammerhead Light… wait, he remembers. All boarded up. He’ll have to move away from Pickle 02 illegally.
He then propositions the womann in a different way. She accepts, knowing more than she’s letting on. Much more so.
“Come on boy! And… boy.”
“A message from Elberta,” she chipperly chirped to begin.
“Oh yeah?” He’d been waiting a long long time. He’d cross his arms and tap his foot to signal impatience if he possessed any. About all he had left were some basic facial features and his gruff, booming voice, now reverberating across a sickly, cold, monochromatic basin.
“The deed is done. The Smipsons bartender is gone, perhaps even dead.” “Like yourself,” Bethulia the messenger chicken wanted to add but stopped herself, ending instead with: “You can move in.” Shakily, one might put it, as she continued to stand in its shadow and stare at the dark, foreboding spheroid, the realization of what actually happened dawning on her. This was not warming sunbeams, light. This was the opposite. The cosmos had been swallowed whole, starting with the pole.
“Remind me: which of us came first?” Yes, Karl wasn’t quite ready yet to return from the Land of the Dead, the Land of Jasper. He remains a zero, a null, a void — for now. Not a true hero any longer. Bethulia relays this observation back to Elberta and gets fed lots of feed for it. She’d almost made a vast mistake. She didn’t realize Karl and Moe’s deadly Egg were the same.
He was going to be a different kind of artist. He was going to make holes, but he was going to cover up holes. Of sorts. Time to meet up with his other art friend in the sim. He should have some works ready by, say, next Friday? He’s got a long weekend to catch up. And he is catching up (*splat*!).
He’s a maker of magical jeans, dresses, tops, all the rage in Our Second Lyfe in yesterday’s tomorrow which is today. Almost. It’s the 11th dream day still. He works fast so he uses Paint 3D. He’s made a pact with a fire demon burning brightly and steadily in the center of it all.
His name is almost Rothko but not quite. If you googled it, the search engine might think you were looking instead for Mark. That close: Close City close.
He doesn’t have a lot of fans yet except for Sandy, who bought a designer dress off of him day before… well, Saturday. Sandy Beech, who we’ve already met over at NWES City, a world hemisphere away from this Corsica continent and its peakology and all. There are peaks on the Jeogeot continent but not the notable sharp, rocky kind like here. Barry likes peaks; that’s why he’s in Yellowmoon or thereabouts; that’s why he *might* also be, before or after or somewhere in-between, on that double peaked mountain near NWES City — on its overarching or inclusive or *umbrella* island. Barry sortof named Rothko. Thothko? Not quite.
It was in the Cub Run thrift shop on that city on that island where Sandy found the catchup stained dress. Hmm, he thought, unhooking its hanger from the rack to take a closer look. He’d never seen art clothing in a consignment store before. With its cute bow in the middle (he continues to think at the time) it looks exactly like — Oh *God*. He pays 300 lindens for the red and blue dress and quickly leaves.
Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0021, 0607, Apple's Orchard, Black Ice, Corsica^^, Jeogeot^^, Marwood, Neptune, Northwest^, NWES Island^
“I tell ya, Hucka. If I could just find a nice, understanding city to settle down in (like Cassandra City), I might just give up Collagesity here. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
Hucka Doobie, walking beside Baker Bloch straight into the setting moon as well, pauses before answering, knowing the truth ahead of time like she often does. “I’d — give each equal weight.”
The moon gone, they were passing underneath Perch now. The head was still absent above them at the main entrance to the restaurant, revealing the clock beneath that brought back sane time to this virtual village of mine, me as baker b., or Baker Bloch, animus, and Baker Blinker, anima, combined. Instead: Carrcassonnee possesses it again, just like in the beginning, the great 3n1. But is she yet fully activated? What about new sidekick Frank who replaced former sidekick Spider? Where is *Spider*, then?
“Thinking of the past?” Hucka Doobie spoke over, seeing the glazed, dead eyes again. “The future inside the past?”
“Maybe.” I was a bit defensive of her prescient presence (present?) sometimes. We walked further, past Mossman’s bar, past funny feet John Lemon. We seemed to be heading out of town. But where?
Brown/Beige was tittering yet again. At basically nothing this time. “Who (*snicker*) is that *girl* over there? (pause) Playing that (*giggle*) game?” she asked bestie Marsha “Pink” Krakow at the gas station owned by Pete Oesso now.
But suddenly she was *there*, stars on her shoes. Someone had been in her shoes before. Similar choices.
She stepped back from the machine that had nothing on it. She looked over: Brown/Beige was gone from the window seat. She was alone in the gas station.
She changed again, remembering more.
Morgan Freechild always stops at Ephant Mountain on his way from Fearzom to Fearzum. It’s on his flight path after all, plus he use to rent a cottage here, right down there to his left. Now, in the days of massive mainland downsizing, all that’s left on the mountain is a single green cedar, planted right at its very apex. He enjoys the great view one last time…
… since (Tron)Axis hides in the foliage with Wheeler above, deadly frisbee thingie in hand.
“Could be that the next photo-novel will be all about (the) Nautilus (continent), Hucka Doobie.”
“Good. That is fine.” She pauses. “Speaking of which, we need to get over to Rooster’s Peninsula and wake up Jacob I. He’s due for a return as well.”
So they traveled about as far across the continent as you can get until they reached the Progressive Rock Museum at the neck of Rooster’s Peninsula, so named because a dude named Rooster once lived there in a giant castle called Rust Never Sleeps, enigmatically enough. Rumor has it he was part of the Lemon Conspiracy against the Blimey Linden overlords. Nautilus was riddled with ’em. But much of their work and their ways has already gone the path of the dodo. The Prog Rock Museum keeps on progging, thankfully. It’s the way we can bring Jacob I. back and get more of his story — why he came to Collagesity in the first place.
“Wake up Mr. Mower Man,” Hucka Doobie speaks down gently. “Time to come back.”
Aah, I’ve been looking for you 3rd sim rental map. More green than black again — not surprising. And the coffee shop directly underneath new rentals at the Foxxy Apartments. Just a name. Not necessarily foxes there, ha. This will be my coffee shop from now on.
“Still not here,” Axis lamented, blue curse purse painting propped to one side. “She must still be at the school. A short drive from here, despite the name. Yet — I think I’ll visit Teebestia first. Something inside me, yes, says to tick that off my list first.”
He stares over at the modified artwork again. “I was such a beautiful little girl before becoming such a handsome man, hehe.”
“Should be just over there.”
Jim A. pushed for the Gno Kingdom to take the second strike. The others protested that there was no sinkhole about, so no past-to-future matching existed. The Gno Kingdom had never taken a direct or indirect hit and never would. So says the rules of Special Sinkology. Then I’ll lure him to Pipersville myself, schemed revenge motivated Jim A. Brown, his heart ripped from his body and projected onto a demon. Maybe that soul stealer Ben Bolt as well. Oh they’ll write a song about them, he dreams. But it won’t have a happy ending.