It was almost too painful to bring back Marsha “Pink” Krakow, or catch up with what happened to her after her — after her…
“Death. Go ahead and say it Baker B.”
“Death, yes. Thank you. I guess, then, I’m sitting beside you now in some guise.”
“I talk to him, you know,” she deflected, or got more straight to the matter. “Tom Banks, I — we, talk to him. Me and myself and maybe I as well. He sits in front of us and we ask him about his soul, his own destiny. Will it be Hell forever and ever? We determined early on it will be not. *We* are murderers just as much as him, that’s what we determined (early on). W-ierd, eh? You eat through time; you see these things, like ants in cheese. Something.” She stopped here. She asked if she could play a song for me. She had become a composer in the afterlife. “Nice,” I replied. She was about ready to move toward the guitar just over there, about to play her song. The one about “Jackie Blue”, if Blue is Pink. I suppose she would have had to rewrite it, then. Or revert it (something).
—–
She asked me to stay for a spell, saying I helped brighten up the place. I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t. But maybe someone else could. I’d have to ponder on that for a while as I went about doing other things in other places. Starting with…
—–
“Has he figured out — how you are?” came the question on the other end in a familiar voice. So hoarse and raspy Blue, like FLY.
Sunklands 