Category Archives: Gaston^^

November 12, 2017 · 10:20 am

in the dark

The place was way too dangerous for George, so Duncan had a go at it alone. He teleported into the very center of the sim just like the characters in the blog suggested — this Central Park.

But it seems George might have already been here! Duncan thinks, looking at what he supposed was a child’s fort. It wasn’t.

Duncan unwisely walks into Main Street from his concealed position in the park. Now if I remember correctly, he deliberates, the police station will be up here to the right.

It was a little longer trip than expected in risky territory, but then he was upon it. Potential sugar house! Hard to even tell it was a police station from the ground level.

Qwirty21 smiles at him from behind some walls. Best to get inside as quick as possible, he realizes, and walks through the main door.

But the barred entrance to the inner sanctum of the station was locked. Duncan decided to wait in the reception area until a policeperson or other employee showed up, so’s he could hopefully get some of the story behind the structure.

Brushing aside a couple more propositions from the outside for the next hour, Duncan then watches Sugar Dumpling enter the station in a huff, beating her rolling pin repeatedly against an open palm.

“I’ve been waiting for one of you to show up and stay a while, ” she started. “Where is he? What have you done with my Jacob?!”

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November 11, 2017 · 1:08 pm

ss

Perspective enlarged, Chuck Cheese finds herself in a strange place again, walking on a spiraling path upwards toward a rocky summit.

“Both of us can’t be women,” uttered Wheeler Wilson at the top. She changed.

“Right you are, Wilson Wheeler,” returned Chuck Cheese. She also changes.

“A pair of suave, swarthy dudes we make, eh?” said Wilson Wheeler.

Earie was thinking about himself: although just as swarthy, not so suave. “I am almost wholly invisible now,” he complains. “I am just an object to be seen right through. You don’t respect me as a person, Improvio. I mean, Pretty Man. I mean: Wilson Wheeler. Whatever.”

“Do you remember?”

“What happened? Yeah. A merger of church and liquor store.” He looks down into the valley to his right.

“We are the Malefic The Kidd spoke about,” continued Wilson. “With sickly, green wings; tucked in the opposite corner of her, um, building. Imprisoned even. Do you feel like you’re in jail? I do.” He indicates his outfit with a gesture. “This suit. The suit of Bowie.”

“Bowie protects you,” counters Earie. “Without Bowie you are nothing here as well. Object.”

“And who are you suppose to be?” he returns sarcastically. “Sid Vicious?”

Earie lays it out as plain as possible. “We are 2/3rds of the punk band Story Room. Banned from Olde Lapara Towne because of the noise, moved to the hidden vilage of Gaston where there was no ban, turned into pretty things there in order to survive, and then confined like flies to its Central Park. Paper.”

“Fly paper, right,” agrees Wilson Wheeler. “We burn to death again every day. Central Park is without dark and always on fire. Core of a volcano.”

“Seed into tree,” Earie continued even more abstractly. He uncrossed his legs. “Atonal punks we are, Wilson Wheeler.”

“Please,” Wilson Wheeler finally countered concerning his name. “If am that you are The Musician.”

He stops thinking about the spot marked with an “X” in the valley below and turns back toward his counterpart. “Then I am Earie…

… and you are Pretty Man.

But I also get to be Chuck.”

“Get yourself a shoulder pet and we’ll talk later,” compromises the suaver swarthy man sitting opposite him.

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November 2, 2017 · 6:34 am

Flies

They were told to stay close to Gaston’s Central Park and act like flies on the wall. Pretty Man disobeyed one morning and wandered down to a side patio beside Sugar’s House, thinking he would be concealed there behind a tall fence. But he was almost immediately spotted by BitterAlmond1995 and propositioned. “Cure for your ails,” she claimed about herself through the intervening walls. Quickly teleporting back to safety, Pretty Man wiped his brow, seeing he wasn’t followed. He was not an alien, true, but what cost for surface beauty? Sugar’s Berries (their slogan: “ripe for pick’n”) stick pretty tight to her house, just like he and his fellow escapees Gregg Oden, Chuck Cheese, and Maury “Jiff” Monroe should keep close to the park, the calm eye center of a storm which contrasts to that eyewall location of greatest sound and fury.

But Sugar herself, being of greater vision and knowing all such storms have such centers, knew why they were there. Her counterpart Jacob I. had escaped in a larger way, with accomplice and experienced jail breaker Tiny Tina trampled under foot. These dudes and dudettes had nowhere to go, like caught in paper.

I will be a fly back at them, she thought the morning of learning about Pretty Man’s intrusion into her territory. They are in my vision and will not leave. I know where they are. There’s a secret parchment, secured by sealing wax, which might allow her control of the *other* “Sugar House” in town, the one now called the Gaston-Berry Police Station. Because there was no Berry to patrol. Berry did not exist except as a concept. This was her secret weapon.

Rolling the dice, she unrolled the parchment.

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October 29, 2017 · 12:47 pm

sacrifice

Third time’s the charm, as they say. He was up and running considerably quicker this go, right on the heels of Tiny Tina. He would not let her beat him to the dark wall again and send him back to the grass free Joint Joint, awake and cold sober. Jacob I. was going to the other side tonight.

He made it!

But not without losing a valuable friend and ally in the process.

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October 29, 2017 · 8:54 am

sugar houses

“The sugar house on the corner of William Street and Duane Street in lower Manhattan was used as a prison by occupying British forces during the American Revolutionary War,” states old-time cop Ricky Bendicky, originally from East Bennington. “Out of 2,600 prisoners of war captured during the Battle of Fort Washington in November 1776, 1,900 would die in the following months at makeshift prisons. At least 17,500 are estimated to have perished under substandard conditions of such sugar houses and British prison ships over the course of the war, more than double that of casualties from battle.”

“When did it become the police station?” asks rookie cop George Carver Washington, Gaffer George as his fellow officers had started calling him after he accidentally shot himself in the arse last Thursday.

“Built in 1763 by William Rhinelander,” continues Ricky, “the sugar house was a five-story brick warehouse originally storing molasses and sugar next to his own residence. The old warehouse was replaced by the Rhinelander Building, which retained part of the original wall from 1892 to 1968, and received reports of ghostly prisoner sightings. The site is now occupied by the headquarters of the Gaston-Berry Police Department, near which one of the original barred windows was retained.”

“Fascinating,” coos young George. “And how about Utah?”

“Sugar House Prison, previously the Utah Territorial Penitentiary, was a prison in the Sugar House neighborhood of Salt Lake City founded by territorial governor Brigham Young in 1852. The 180-acre prison housed more than 400 inmates. It was closed in 1951 due to encroaching housing development, and all of its inmates were moved to the new Utah State Prison in Draper. The site is now occupied by the headquarters of the Gaston-Berry Police Department.”

George pauses, then: “And that’s where Hidden Village comes from?”

“Yes,” answers Ricky.

“And Greg Ogden and Gregg Oden?”

“We’ll see.”

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October 28, 2017 · 10:00 am

back to

“You know you’ll have to return, Jeffrie Phillips.”

“I know. Blackstars.”

“Garson on the impossible stairs. Leading you nowhere like you were outside.”

“I *was*.”

“Police take turns.”

“Art and crime together,” states a third.

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October 28, 2017 · 7:56 am

aim backwards

There he is, Tiny Tina thinks. The miserable sod. Time to get him out of here before it’s too late.

Tina approaches. “Mr. Oden,” she pronounces clearly upwards. “Mr. Gregg Oden.”

Gregg looks down, spots her. “I’m Gregg Oden. I drink…”

“Yes, yes,” Tina interrupts, hands still on hips. “Is that all you have to wear out of here?”

“I have some watercolors. Would you like to see?”

“Can you *wear* watercolors out of here?” Tiny Tina chirps acidly, making Gregg pause. She blows out a minuscule puff of air. “This will have to do, then. Get up. No time to lose.”

“I’m Gregg Oden?” he says while rising off the jail bed.

“That remains to be determined. But we have to get you out of here. If they found out what you *really* were there would be tests after tests. And we don’t want that.”

She sprints across the floor and back to the open door of the cell. Gregg takes steps to follow. “You’ll have to move faster than that, Mr. Oden,” she shouts upwards and forwards while waiting. “Burt’s on a coffee break. He always takes a coffee break at 3:45am sharp. He always returns at 4:00am sharp. So *move*.”

“Too late,” Tina whispers as loud as she could, peering down from over the top of the stairs. “We’ll have to kill him.”

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October 28, 2017 · 7:11 am

small

Mr. Babyface arrives at his apartment entrance after a so so meal of perch at Perch. He had but a small word to his (headless?) garson about the blandness, so small that it passed unnoticed.

Speaking of which…

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October 26, 2017 · 10:27 am

Sugar House 02

“Are you all right in there Gregg?”

“I’m Gregg Oden,” the green being replies. “I drink Baileys from a shoe.”

He’s all right, Baker Bloch thinks. I’ll have to have a word with Baker Blinker on what she *thought* she saw here. Red instead of green, eh? Greg Ogden is scheduled to arrive back in town tomorrow. Better clear all this confusion up before he gets here.

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October 26, 2017 · 8:52 am

Sugar House

“See?” encouraged Baker Blinker. “It’s very nice here. I’d recommend turning up your RenderTreeLODFactor under Show Debug Settings in the Advanced Menu to, say, 10 instead of the default 1. That way the trees will fill out better in the woods.”

“Are you allowed to hunt?” the raccoon queried. “Or shoot atall?”

“No. I’m afraid not Mr. Racco.”

He put his paws on the table. “How about pot? Is it legal here?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Racco.”

“Rocky, please.”

“Rocky,” Baker Blinker complied. “Do you want to sell it or just smoke it?”

“Both,” he replied rapidly. “That was my plan in Lapara. Before The End.”

“I’m sorry about your bar, Rocky. I’m sorry about Terry more.”

“One and the same,” he said softly, looking down. He paused, then, wiping his eyes, raised his head back up and stared intently at Baker Blinker. “I wish to see the body.”

Baker shook her head. “It’s not a good idea.” She thought back to how Baker Bloch removed Terry from the ceiling with a spatula yesterday. It didn’t happen in one piece.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s talk neighbors… citizens.”

“Well, there’s Baker Bloch of course, then Wheeler Wilson…”

“Who I know from Lapara,” Rocky interrupted. “But explain the clowning. Never understood that. Does this have something to do with Levi Clownski (owner of Olde Lapara Towne along with mate Shoshi)?”

“No, (the clowning) predates the family being involved with that town. It stems from VHC City. Something about The Underground there. Something about the story of Clare Nova.”

“I’m all ears,” Rocky said, leaning forward.

Baker Blinker instead suggested they walk up Old Cannon Road to the apartment and talk along the way. Rocky gleaned the truth.

“You don’t know why she’s clowned. Do you?” Baker admitted she was hazy about all that. Rocky shifted in his chair. “Then I want to see this Gregg Oden, the killer.” His tone had become harsher. “Is *Gregg* a clown?”

“No,” states Baker Blinker plainly, taking it all in.

“And you’re sure?”

“Positive.” Rocky shifted back. “And I don’t think it’s wise to go over to Gaston looking the way you do,” Baker Blinker continued. “All raccoon-y. They forbid aliens there.”

“Aliens smaliens,” he huffed. “Let’s go to Gaston. I have all the time in the world to look over your town. I want to see this *old* Gregg. Gregg with the extra ‘g’, pheh.”

—–

“I thought you said he was green.”

“He *was*,” Baker exclaimed.

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