“I do believe he was trying to say your name at the end,” spoke Walter, also looking down on the mess below.
‘Hey Hank. (pause). Can I crash in here again?”
(longer pause) “No.” Plain and blunt. He can’t crash in here again. Bad for the customers, Hank feels. Friday night: he stays open until 3 at the morning. He says this aloud.
“But… I’m Elvis Kannelvis. World famous dare-demon. I’d be a novelty item. Promote me, promote my jump into that gall darn hole the comet or whatever made.”
“No comet.” Hank was sure it wasn’t a comet.
“I’d sleep and people would come to marvel and perhaps lay coins on my eyes to pay for my passage to Valhalla.” He closes his eyes, imagining the tribute. For Elvis Kannelvis would surely die when he jumps, everyone will say.
“You will not die.” Hank: succinct again. He knew Elvis Kannelvis would not die jumping in the hole. He knew something else that most people didn’t. The hole has a certain depth, a certain width. He would not go far into it… unless…
“Unless…” he says out loud. He looks over at Elvis Kannelvis starting to stretch his pudgy, off-white garbed body across the vanilla white couch, like he’s settling in for the night, which Hank said he couldn’t. His eyes are still closed.
“Go ahead,” urged Elvis. “Say it.” He waits for the coins.
He’d been running past the Urban Ice Cream parlor for several days on his route around the Active Urban Mall. Urban again, he thought the first day. But not attached to Active. What gives? But he kept going, not tempted by the ice cream this time. He had to get fit to fit into the hole. Valhalla awaits! But not the way most people think. He had a cunning plan.
The second day he slowed down a bit while passing, but still didn’t stop. The third: temptation finally got the best of the sweets loving dare-demon, most famous for jumping Lizard Gulch out in the Oregon back country. Before now.
What a break! The door unlocked, the owner away. “5 o’clock,” he says, checking his watch and the width and depth of his procured bowl and spoon. Must have left early, he ascertains wrongly.
High on illegally gorged sugar he lay down on the same vanilla colored couch he does now, awaiting the coins, the adulation, the *worshipping*. For Elvis had designs on being some kind of God, a medium major or perhaps a high major one. Up there with Mahatma Gandhi and Albert Einstein to be sure. Trouble is, he’d gained back all the calories in his three hours of gorging from the three days of exercise before. And now Hank, who discovered him still conked out the next day when opening up, says he can’t stay another night, despite the promise of a big payment later after the event is over. He has no way to lock up the ice cream. But now he seems to have changed his mind. “Yes,” he says to the prostrate wannabe super-hero, buttons almost popping from stomach heaves. “You can stay.”
He has a certain special ice cream he’s tucked away back in the freezer for this very kind of moment.
Like Olive Oylstick and blue monster companion Groover before him, Man About Time — MAT — also waited at the Blue Airfield for a ship of some sort, hopefully an airship, you know. He perched upon the best vantage point possible, on a high knoll just over the line from Blue in Gray, he thought. He was testing out realities. He’d just found pansies in Orion Falls and much more.
He was hot on a trail but to where he didn’t yet know. It led here first, picture-wise, a stepping stone. He thought back to Marvin the Martian next to the Blue Feather Sea (his original home). And HELMETS.
An agreement signed. Planes penetrating each other. I remember something about Jim Polk but then someone else warning me to slow down and that I was going too fast and to take the 2 blue pills and don’t think about red for a while. So here I am. At Blue… field. So here I am… at Blue… field.
He turns. Something was wrong, he realizes. He should be in Gray; this is not Gray. Too much Blue! Instead: over in that small bit of woods across the Blue field. Hiding. He was too much out in the open. Warning again. Exposed! (War!)
The ship swooped down and carried MAT off to a lala land and dropped him into the ocean where he was rescued by a passing whale and brought instead to Humansville where he met Baker Bloch and Hucka Doobie while breaking into a house and who then helped him find the right house for the keys he now possessed which turned out to be not the ninth he tried, but the 10th, like a wheel and then he thought about dinner and 12:37 and a spark on his shoulder which told him to return to Bellisaria which led to the pansies… and the prison… and Elizabeth. There. He felt better. He turns back, away from a lala land triggered by the moving blocks of color. Time to go hide in those woods.
Okay I’m here watching the Mercury capsule at Neptune Bay like Buster told me to, Duncan pondered. But I don’t think anyone is hiding there — I’ve been watching for hours now.
Just keep her inside, he requested. Don’t let her drown or anything but just keep her inside until the shoot is over. “Okay,” he said. Anything for a role other than prison.
“There she is in person(!)” Kick Ass 01 (Boos) said over to Kick Ass 02 (Bogota) about Elberta standing at the bar in the background. “I gotta hand it to me, pal. I sure can pick ’em!”
Bag wearing Kick Ass 02 was not staring as much now. “Yeah, but she’s not exactly what I expected. I remember, well…”
“Prettier? Don’t say prettier, pal. Because she’s a knockout(!)”
Kick Ass 02 looks over again. Were they talking about the same chic?
“Hello boys!” she calls over, drink in hand. But which one? One way to find out.
“Good job,” he pats him on the back while they walk over, but for reasons other than congratulatory, ha.
She kept scribbling with the chalk while talking, producing figure after figure, like an adding machine but beyond: all the numbers and more. “So you see it’s very easy.” She caps off her last equation with a triumphant swirl of the arm. She faces the classroom. “Bullfrog was Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer all along, so when Sue Ellen Hutchinson or Hutchison killed the *lat-ter*… she also killed the *for-mer*. It’s all indicated way back at the beginning with this modifier here.” But before she could circle the appropriate symbol with her yellow chalk — I believe it was a “q” — Barry spoke up. He couldn’t wait any longer; had his arm in the air for a while now, which the young(-ish) teacher was use to. She didn’t want to be interrupted until this decisive declaration.
“Miss Graham, Miss Graham,” he interjected. She twirled, as if surprised by his voice. She wasn’t. “Oh… yes Barry.” She points to him with her chalk instead of the “q”.
So (his name) wasn’t Graham — the *teacher* was Graham. Wheeler had her wish.
“I’m wondering, uh, if all this means red caps are bad. *I* have on a red cap.” He takes off his cap and quickly puts it back on to emphasize. *And* a red tie.” He flips his tie at the teacher, who jumps back a bit as if it were a snake. It made a peculiar, cartoon(-ish) snapping noise she wasn’t expecting. What was *that*, she thought internally. She’d have to add it in somewhere on the board to figure out later. Better not erase this juggernaut just yet.
Barry woke up still holding his tie. “Q, heh?” he said aloud to no one. “I’m Q(!)”
(to be continued?)
“Though I might find you in here Wheeler, er, Flip.”
“Flip it is.” She flips her hair lightly with this.
“How’s ‘Beach’? I hear you’re working directly with Roger Pine Ridge this time. Great! Like Stanley K. and Arthur C. on ‘2001’. How is Stanley K. anyhoot?”
“How would I know?” Wheeler/Flip returned flippantly. Maybe “innocently” would be a better word there.
“Oh… right. How come no one wants to work with me?”
The seriousness of the question after surreal nonsense surprised the new dooed girl, former ruler of Collagesity, present ruler of Iris and Heterocera as a whole, including the (diagonal) lines, the whole hand. She was still in charge over here. Maybe it was best to move away from the Rubi Woods. Perhaps it was cursed after all, just like Karl claimed. Poor Karl.
I say most of this to Wheeler in the pause. Unlike what Cyberpaperdoll could do, she turns to face me. “You don’t suspect who I am yet.”
“I have my suspicions,” countered bloodied Baker, presently an inept werewolf named Ditch Parkly to balance his similarly inept vampire Pitch Darkly.
“I’m from the future.”
“I might have guessed.”
Wheeler/Flip returned her attention to her drink. A bucket of blood hold the nails. She was just tempted to splatter it all over herself and become a match to Baker over there. Bartender Sammy Whatammy, brother to Tammy and perhaps Gammy (Nammy, Pammy?), had gone to the grocery store over on the piers — should be back any minute. Baker Bloch used the opportunity to probe a little further.
“Hucka Doobie and I think Collagesity may be a goner, *Flip*.”
“What do I care? It’s not my responsibility any longer.”
Another pause. Sammy returned with the needed supplies.
(to be continued?)
“I’m tired of the movement, the stories. It all ends *here*,” Monroe says while staring up at his vibrating, gold plated stereo rocking the tune of “Magneto and Titanium Man,” one of Marty’s. The glass ornaments on Monroe’s gold coated palm plant jingle with the beat. Because Marty and The Man *knew* each other. They both knew about… well, we’ll get back to her story soon enough.
“I’m tired of all the sights,” he starts again, looking at nothing in particular now. “I’m going to get myself sooo *blinded* tonight.”
Phylllis/Cybercat-Woman, the cyan “it” power inside the walls now (thanks to Peter), illuminated the next place Herbert Glenn Gold should dream about.
She slept on her guitar so-as no one else would dare steal it. This weekend was the big ta-do. Concert with her sisters at Loon Lake, also known as Kow Pond. It was to be the center of everything. And so it is.
“Good evening, Ms. Tanner.”
“Good evening, er, Jack. Have a good night. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, Ms. Tanner.”
She’s always in that hammock, Percy. In her underwear; maybe, sometimes, without any clothes atall. Not that I’m perving.”
“Sure you are,” Jodie Tanner’s sometimes lover joked. “You sit here after work is over, *pretending* you’re doing more work and you’re just perving. Sitting here spying on that poor, pitiful woman over there. Percy peers over as well from her somewhat less advantageous position in the booth. “Never moves, huh?”
“No. Not even to go to the bathroom. Not even to change clothes. I suppose she does both remotely.”
“It’s just a bot,” concluded Percy. “Marwood’s full of ’em. Have you seen the mime?”
“No, this is different,” countered Jodie Tanner.
“I don’t *think* so,” offers up a convinced Percy, matching her tone.
“Alice Farrowheart’s in the same apartment building. The Monarch Too.”
“Yeah? Your point?”
“I mentioned it to her the other day. When we were discussing the (Red Umbrella) collages — just catching up with all that (after my vacation), you know.”
“What’d she say?” Percy’s interest was perking up again.
“She didn’t say anything, which was odd. Alice F. likes to *talk*, you know. But she was strangely mute when I brought the woman up.”
“Alice F.? When did you start calling her that?”
“Oh it’s just we’ve been seeing each other so much lately. Farrowheart’s kind of a long word. So we agreed to shorten it. Alice F. she is now. When I’m off duty, of course. Alice Farrowheart, the full name, around other police people.”
Private detective Percy Pierce looked over again, trying to see more details. “Maybe — we should arrange to go see her.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” But Percy was thinking of Alice F. and not the woman.