Category Archives: GTA

June 26, 2024 · 7:36 am

00430311

“We’ve been controlling your dreams for a while, Fern, judging your actions and the consequences involved. We’ve been studying your tree in short.”

Fern knew to be quiet in the moment. Fern knew this was important.

“We see you’re *clearly* qualified to join our group, The Masters. What we, as a group again, aren’t sure of is if you should become president. It’s either me… or you.” He looks at the golden gun on the table. Fern wakes up.

—–

“Were any jokes involved?” asks fellow cereal eating Lichen that morning at the breakfast table, the sun rising over her right shoulder in the window behind her from Fern’s perspective, just like it did with her “rival” in the dream. Lichen’s usually twirling and swirling mouth straw kept still as the sun kept rising.

“No,” she answered. “It was all dead serious. The guy even had a skull for a head. Dead — serious.”

Lichen knew this was bad and that somehow someway she had to enter Fern’s dreams with her. A mind meld came to mind.

(to be continued)

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June 24, 2024 · 4:56 pm

00430309

“It all started with Redd, Doc. We were just sitting in my car at the time, an old Oldsmobile I believe. Some piece of junk or another Stinch talked me into buying from his uncle’s cousin up in Grapeshot. Anyway, Redd was there, telling me what she could do, the prices — kind of like you, Doc, ha. Screwing me over.”

“Yes,” said nonplussed Clyde from a nearby chair. “Go on.”

“Bj was the standard for the car, she said. Quick yet effective. The back seat and the others will be more, she indicated. I glanced in the back, realized I hadn’t cleaned off the seats from all those Burger Shot wrappers and stray fries and such. Damn Stinch and his junk food habits. You see, I’d just bought the car off his uncle’s cousin day before yesterday’s yesterday.”

“Wednesday,” Clyde clarified more for the reader than anyone.

“Yeah, suppose. Drove all the way up there with him and still had to pay 50 dollars more than what Stinch said he was asking for the old thing.”

“You mentioned Gold earlier. Color of the car?”

“Color of the *man*,” Frank Lynn corrected to his June-July-August therapist, soon to be replaced by Fremont in the Fall. “And the car. Everything gold about him, even the teeth.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Clyde. “You bought a gold car from a gold skinned man with gold for teeth.”

“Yeah. Midas kind of fellow for sure.”

“Sounds like a robot to me.”

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June 24, 2024 · 4:23 pm

00430308

“I have a weakness, Clyde. I  can think wide easily enough, think about it all day long, all day and all *night* long. But I have trouble with *tall* — height.”

“Height challenged, yes,” spoke the psychiatrist back to his most famous and most wealthy client. Money to throw away on a doctor of the mind. All night and all day.

Clyde looked over at the 5’7″ Frank Lynn, soaking wet. He’d just emerged from the pool; took a quick swim to relax himself before the session. Albert didn’t have time to towel him down today, so busy he was with all the horses out back in the unmowed pasture. Dr. Clyde Ramsey came to him — house call. 2x the amount of money compared to back in his downtown office, he warned ahead of time. “No problem,” Frank replied, and they set up the 1st session. This was the 4th. This was the one where they started into the nitty and the gritty of the Martian problem, Asylum Inc. and all. This is the one where Frank revealed his big big plans for the future.

Albert came in through another door, smelling of stallions. Now Frank could get dry and gain an inch or two. Like the instant haircut he can receive from entering one of his many short cars except reversed.

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June 24, 2024 · 7:31 am

00430307 (1/2 mil at least)

But does he really?

He goes into his bedroom to make a call to Lester, telling him the assassination is done and that he wants his money and new house for the job. After Lester says it’s a done deal, all his personal belongings disappear before his very eyes.

“What the???”

Frank Lynn wakes up, rises off the wide if short couch he fell asleep on. 8:30 in the evening: time to get in a real bed, he figures. He has 7 king size ones to choose from now, depending on which direction he wants the sun to be when he awakens in the morning after a refreshing 8 hours, beyond just these dratted accidental “power naps” of his. Ghetto dreams, pheh. Aunt Jen can only haunt him from them on a couch like from his youth, falling asleep to “Aqua Dude Hunger Force” reruns on the boob tube or something. He’s so far above his gangster roots and Aunt Jen and her woman power ways it’s not even funny. He thinks about the wide if not high garage full of short, powerful yellow cars — horse-powerful. He runs through other aspects of his wealth and influence in his head. Asylum Inc. He *will* make it a reality.

Time to get back to the Red book colored blue. He has them all about the house to find easier. If he misplaces one, there’s always another to fill in right around the corner. Always puts him right to sleep. *No* ghetto dreams in an actual, full sized bed. Power.

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June 19, 2024 · 8:38 am

00430304 (Page?)

“I tried to lighten the mood early in our friendship by showing him the Tire Nutz juxtaposition, Lichen, which he didn’t know about despite being local too. You’d be proud of me that day. Two big tractor tires on top of an auto repairs shop just down the street from my dealership, with a phallic water tower in back if you look at it straight on. Obviously done on purpose. Can you picture it in your mind’s eye, Lichen my partner? Do you even remember what those things look like, how they’re configured and such?”

“The tires are nuts, right,” says Lichen, serious in the moment while trying to figure all this out with her lesser brain power. “And the Blue Balls were nearby?”

“The Kentucky sculpture, yes, with three balls instead of 2, so: moons. Made by Tennessee. This was the fulfillment of her unfinished Mars project, poked through into another dimension. But Asylum was behind all of this still.”

“So we’re beyond… the Black Wall?”

“I’m not ready to go that far, my blonde buddy. It’s beyond me right now. And you know how I don’t like limitations of the mind.”

“Dangerous,” responds Lichen to this. “Keep ’em at bay with jokes.”

“Hmm.”

—–

One sector over, Clara Bellissaria is keeping tabs on tobacco selling Redd back at her station, noting that she is a 2n1 now and that the new left is different from the old right. The white horse leads, the black horse steers. Hasn’t gone off the rails yet. But soon she knew there would have to be a decision made, and Fern through her.

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June 18, 2024 · 2:49 pm

00430303 (transparent meanings)

Augusta ponders blame and culpability. Looking at you, city council.

In the mind’s eye, Frank drives by the now empty lot after the disaster and thinks of his own emptiness, as in the past he came from. Growing up in Davis with an aunt he didn’t respect enough in retrospect. Didn’t take her woman power ways seriously enough. And now here he is desperately seeking the feminine in himself. Too much masculine: too many powerful, horse laden yellow cars and such.

Who to turn to in a crisis? Certainly not questionable tea dispensing Albert from Murkville. Should’ve screened him better before the hire.

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June 14, 2024 · 9:47 pm

She arrived here in a boat.

But not that one. That one is just a collection of rocks. Art on Eve Street. By Rust of all people.

—–

When he got the vehicle home, he found he had to get rid of the extra horsepower to fit it into the garage. Oh well: there’s always the pasture out back for when he needs it. “Albert, see to, er, Wilbur if you would please,” he said to his thought-to-be faithful servant, cooking up a name on the spot while handing over the reigns. “Some place with a lot of mowable grass to munch down on.”

“Right, sir.”

“And women. Don’t forget the women.”

“Sure thing, sire.” But he was talking to the horse now.

“Well — I’ll be,” Frank Lynn said to this surprising new turn, noting the long boner he had just thinking about it. What a grand scheme that dolphin wizard in the swamplands cooked up to make him the richest person in all of GTA V on top of being its most successful novelist. “Why not go all the way?” the wizard said about the original wish, knowing he had the power to amplify and extend. A chatting stallion would be worth more than the sum of all his cars, he realized while driving his VW with the now allowable headroom into his wide if not tall garage. He’d see to that challenged dimension too soon enough.

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June 14, 2024 · 8:43 am

00430217 (moomeries)

The moment Fern realized she was in the story too.

“The 3rd ball!” she exclaimed aloud in the Martian rust and dust. “I use to work there!”

Just around the corner from the big spool, in fact. She’d witnessed that same adventure too, watched it roll by outside her windows, heard the noise of the crash. Even talked to Frank at the time, encouraged him to keep on with his writing even though he didn’t have the table he wanted. They both looked down at the jagged pieces of wood lying all about, remnants of the object. The car that hit it in front of the car wash had moved on with minimal damage. But the dream: broken. It was up to Fern to help put the pieces of his life back together, have them make sense to himself and, eventually, to others through his art. This was raw, this was a plateau of raw. In short, she planted a seed, yes. She remembers.

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June 14, 2024 · 7:42 am

00430216

Fern sits down with the red book given to her by Teebestia day before yesterday’s yesterday and opens it up to the bookmark. The Martian sky was particularly rust colored today, she noted at her outdoor location, picked for privacy. Just like author Frank Lynn seeked in same before starting the work in his own backyard upon a table of not spool but it would have to do. She pulls out her knife to check the color. Yeah, she thinks, spying nothing above the handle in her hand. Definitely a rusty one. Better sheath this quick before she gets caught. Don’t want to show out a Cleveland boner, as they say. She could be president, she reminded herself. Beginning with finding the Diablo-Draco reversal in that black list of the 2 quick as a wink, unlike our friendly but dense former porn star turned nudist who was destined for a lowly one instead. The Tennessee Blue Balls sculpture in Lost Sanos is an interesting, new development, she feels — right there on page 43 and not 42 where it should be to answer all. Displaced on purpose. One after, again. Like her ship taken in here this day of mid June’s May, with unrecognized and unknown Edward Daigle only a couple of rows back, on a mission of his own. She looks down and begins to read again.

—–

I had to walk by the object basically every time I went downtown so of course I was going to start thinking about how to make it my own, what I’d do with it if it were mine. First off, it was round, not square or rectangular like most tables. I could plan my Great American Novel as a circle, like a zodiac or something. I had rough ideas. All started with Redd of course, but then worked its way around to blue (Page). Then there was the ultraviolet gap to end — how to complete the thing. The last shock.

If I could just figure out how to get it to the house, I thought at the time. Too big to get into my car. Dense head that I was, I didn’t even think about borrowing Stinch’s uncle’s cousin’s pickup truck who lives out in Grapeshot in some kind of trashy trailer park or something with a bunch of white red necks. I figured I had to roll it, but maybe that was all part of the art. Because I ended up fitting that adventure into the book as well.

(to be continued)

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June 13, 2024 · 7:24 pm

00430214

“Yo’ don’t understand. I want dat spool table. Dat shitz my f-in’ ticket out o’ here.”

“Fool. Why the f- yo’ talkin’ all gansta n’ all today? Yo’ sound like Stinch!”

“Hey, Stinch be lowballin’ us. Lowballin’ us shizzle like da bottom feedin’ pyramid dwellers we r’.”

“Can yo’ speak a lil’ plainer, Frank. I mean, yo’re use ta me talkin’ ghetto. Yo’ have a built in translator bcuz’ o’ yo’ goddamn mutha. My f-in’ muthaz from Leeds n’ datz in f-in’ England or somethang.”

“*All* *right*. *Is* *this* *bet*-*ter*? *Can* *you* *under*-*stand* *me* *now*?” He even affects a bit of an English accent to further the switch for his hood-pal Laramie with his present Leeds mother and absent Watts father, hood in both the neighbor and child meaning back there.

“Yeah biatch, datz betta muthaf-a. Naw say what the f- yo’ gotta say.”

“You don’t understand. I want that spool table. That object is my bloody ticket out of here!”

“There yo’ go!” returned Laramie to Frank, matching excitement with excitement and glad his talk turned from murky to clear. Now they can go get that table, roll it through the streets back over to here if needed. About 100 yards, Laramie estimated in his mind. Trick is crossing 5 lane Innocence Blvd. with it. But if they can drive a car 120 mph through heavy city traffic, he figures they can pull off this. It will be fun for a change. What if the police even catch them? What are they gonna do? *Laugh*?

2 days later:

“Whoa nelly, dat mo f- a done got away from us, Frank!” CRAAAAASH!

Oh well. Better it than them, I suppose. But Frank’ll have to find another yard table in which to write his Great American Novel on. The book of Redd with all those pages about likewise hood-pal Page will have to wait a little longer to start in other words.

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