Category Archives: Estate

00350414

“I’m telling you, Kurt, we’ve gone too far with this horse shit.” She looks back. “A *tail*?”

Softly, offstage: “We have to make it realistic.”

“What’s that, Hybrid?” Janet Zzyzx’s new nickman for Kurt Strawb was Hybrid, because of the whole fruit-vegetable thing he’s got going on.

Less softly, less offstage: “I said, it’s the White Horse Inn and Bar, or so it says in the new script. We’re setting a scene (to use one of her favorite phrases, he thinks).”

“I look like a *showgirl*. *No*. Make that a *show horse*.”

Kurt: “Debbie (wardrobe manager) put a lot of work into these costumes. And this way we leave the door open for a Black Horse Bar and Inn, an opposite. It has to be this way, Janet. We can talk offstage more if you wish.”

“No no. No no. I don’t want to hold up production again.” Janet Zzyzx felt she was acquiring a reputation for being difficult, a no no in the film industry. You have to be there, you have to say your lines, you have to *show* up. In this case she has to show up as a “show horse.” She bends her head and says nay to her inner doubts. Kurt probably knows best. After all, he has a way with animals as demonstrated by “Black Jack in Hell,” about its only redeeming quality. The hounds of such turned out to be very obedient beasts thanks to his training and influence, working well in every scene. Contrast this to contemporary Tim Spellwell’s “Tortures of Satan” which had the Hades dogs running amok and even attacking the cast and crew. He never even made it to freshman class, film directing career almost literally going up in flames with that one. *Show* a little respect to Hybrid, Janet thought here. At least he had “Studio 342” under his belt, perhaps representing a one hit wonder but maybe not. The critics will reassess after this one; they always do.

“Okay, send in the first loser,” Janet requests, and then starts to get into character. Lichen Roosevelt, Lichen Roosevelt, she says in her mind. Not the first bar, not the last. She’s a bar hopper but not the way you typically think of the term. She’s *experienced*, and she answers to Fern, despite being better at comedy, which is saying a lot, especially in her mind. Could Fern be a successful opening act for the Comedy Pouch in Possum Ridge, Arkansas? She thinks not.

“Alright, is everyone *ready*?” Now he speaks up, Janet thinks. Darn — out of character again.

“Aaaaaaaaand ACTION.”

—–

“Biff?” she repeats his name from the end of Take 42. “Like the detergent?”

“Annnnnnnd CUT.”

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Project Pin

“I love you Chuck, baby, but this is not my bar.”

“Oh… okay.”

“Goodbye.”

“Good–” Chuck looked around — no blonde. More chicks in the joint where that came from, though. There’s a red haired one back there, a black haired one over there. Looks too smart for me. I think I’ll choose the red.

—–

Later:

“No one, *sob*, danced with me!”

“Aww, Ferrn. You still got me. Your old friend Bookie!”

“*Sniff*. Thanks.”

“Here. Use one of my pages as a handkerchief. Go ahead. It won’t hurt.”

Ripp. BLOWWWW.

—–

A soggy, wadded up piece of paper appears between Shelley’s legs, waking her up.

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00350412

“Ever been to Franklin, Kentucky?” asked Biff Carter to Claude Cash, outer facing inner. “Do you want to?”

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00350411

Actress Janet Zzyzx heads to the haystack for fresh straw to suck on before her shoot. “Okay,” she said, satisfied after moving it around in her mouth, testing for texture, width, etc. “Ready.”

—–

“Today,” said director Kurt Strawb, a fruit-vegetable hybrid, “we’ll be returning to The Void for more North-South action. Hurrah, thinks Janet, believing she’d be going back to the bar that provided her free drinks after her last shoot there. But, alas, that place has been shut down, as Kurt alluded to next. “*Instead*,” he said, “we’ll be returning to the same place as the Cash-Carter cell shoot from yesterday.” Janet hadn’t been there, visiting Bermuda on a short break at the time. She was familiar with Claude Cash — who wasn’t? — but the Biff Carter character was unknown to her, having only appeared in the film for 1 scene before this. She said this to Kurt; she asked what happened. “Set the scene,” she requested from her sophomore director, involved in only 1 previous film before this outside of student work. “Blackjack in Hell” doesn’t count except as a big fat Zero, as wide as it is high.

“Welll,” started Kurt again, reviewing it in his mind at the same time. “Claude — you remember *Claude* don’t you?”

“Of course.” Don’t patronize me you sophomore, she thought.

“He shows up mysteriously in this police cell guarded by our Clubb — which is a double entendre since Clubb is also club, add in Carter’s reference to Kitty Kat Klub, which is, in turn, reference to the KKK and also Krazy Kooky Kentucky from Act I. Then we also have mention of Klancasterians from Act II.”

Way too much detail, thinks Janet.

“So when our Biff Carter, back on the force, at least for a handful of hours a week thanks to giving Phil that pill…”

Filburt, or Philburt, thinks Janet. Wondered when he was going to rear his ugly head.

“… shows up, it’s not previously seen Arthur Kill in the cell — or Kill van Kull or maybe even Lampton, all being part of one entity that was killed and then raised from the dead in the last photo-novel…”

*Please* don’t go back to that, thinks Janet. The current one was confusing enough.

“… he is able to, ahem, *fill* in for him, ha, and thus use his old squad car, which has fallen into disrepair in the meantime — as opposed to *being* repaired…”

Pu-lease, thinks Janet.

“… anyway, he uses this to track down the girl, he hoped.”

Another stalker, thinks Janet here, suddenly getting interested again. Just like — what was his name? — the guy in black, the *prevert* who stalked that other girl, the one who also always wore black, as in bikini, as if they were joined at the hip in some way. Or someplace else, hmm.

Kurt Strawb had stopped here, waiting for Janet to complete her reverie signaled by her glassy eyed nature. She looked at him and then looked around at the crew, all ready to start, all waiting for Kurt to finish his spiel. Too much talk! most were thinking around him. He’ll never get a third try at these things the way he’s going, thought some even. Sophomore he would remain.

(to be continued)

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00350410

As soon as he logged back in, Biff Carter, former police officer now just out on loan, drove his old, battered patrol car — maintenance not kept up after his retirement much to his lament — over to the cell where they were *suppose* to be keeping Arthur Kill. Or Kill van Kull — whatever. He’d know the shape if not the name fer sure. And this wasn’t him.

“Where is he?” he barked to Policeman Clubb in terse greeting. Clubb and he go way back, had their hands in the old style beatings of ’73, miracle year indeed. It was all in the book that Shelley at the tavern somewhere below — beyond — just put down in favor of her tablet and dream related material. “Big Red Machine.”

“Dunno. This guy just appeared in his place while I was looking away for a moment. Said he’s a Receiver.”

“*Receiver*. What’s *that*?” Biff Carter was feeling the pressure of the beat again, the anxiety of not knowing what’s around any corner. Like this. He purposely fed Filburt those pills so he could get him ill and take his place back on the force, so it was all his doing. He had to keep up with the girl. He asked about her next.

“Missed her by a day and a 1/2,” replied Clubb.

“Darn,” cussed Carter. But maybe he said “damn” or even “f-ck” here. Then to this “Receiver”: “Who are you? What did you do with Kill? Did you *kill* him?” Carter might have emitted a small smile here but couldn’t manage it through the anger.

“Kill van Kull?” replied our Claude, who we met back in Section 01 and last appeared in this photo-novel (don’t say what # in the series) at the beginning post of Section 02. Seems like so long ago. “Lampton?” Claude recites another name this killer of the film went by, kill or be killed being one of his mottoes. He’s working on some more.

“Whatever he goes by,” replies Biff Carter bitingly. “I know *you’re* not him. Despite being a [delete name] too… sometimes hard to tell you f-ers apart.

Ah, the f- word n- word, thinks Claude here. Another one due for a visit to The Void. He’ll see to it asap. “He turned… into the Receiver that I am,” spoke Claude, knowing this wouldn’t make any sense to Carter, Clubb. He dare not mention the dog.

Carter finally emitted that smile, which turned into a laugh, which turned into a doubled over guffaw. Surreal truths sometimes do this to people. Witness George Washington Carver exclaiming that he invented a phonograph needle made out of peanuts to a world wide audience in ’84. Not a dry eye on the planet. Hmm, Carver… Carter.

Finally he recovered. “Bring him down to the station,” he barked at Clubb while dabbing his face with a handkerchief. “I’m going to the Kitty Kat Klub,” which Clubb knew was one of their old hangouts while on the beat. Wasn’t even invited. Who was in charge here after all? His old boss Carter or his new boss? Maybe, deep down, they’re both the same.

“Sure, sure,” he relented, not wanting a beating himself. Because he knew what was going to happen to Claude BOOF!

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00350404

She hadn’t shaved her legs in a week, it seemed, so she decided to do so, despite the circumstances. She knew that shaving cream could be substituted for laundry detergent in a pinch — why not the opposite?

It kinda worked I suppose. Now for that black dude… Kill van Kull, synthesizer specialist for the Oil Can What. Seeing him, she suddenly had an urge to wear purple, uh oh.

Reversion.

“It should have been you in here instead of me.”

“I know.”

“30 minutes, Miss.” The policeman purposely didn’t call her Mrs. This was *illegal* what they did. So the town of Morgan (Orient PO) has spoken.

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different

“I really liked the old office,” she answered Lemont Sanford, playing the role of Arthur Kill currently, “but it was too laggy. Kept crashing. You know how it is.”

“Yes I remember.”

“You were there in the underground for a while. Training.”

“Yes.”

“After Wheeler raised you from the dead (nods from Arthur). After Tessa killed you. We buried you, the firm, but you wouldn’t stay down. You went to Tennessee.”

“Yes, Tennessee.”

“You were looking for a spider, an 8 legged being, but you eventually figured out it was a dog. Spider is a dog.”

“Right, yes.”

“You retrieved it, brought it to me for safekeeping.”

“Yes. (pause) Do you have it?”

“Of course I have it, Arthur. Would you like to see?”

“Yes, please. I mean, I have the money but… actually, nah, I’m good. You’ve given me the money. I’m happy. Wheeler and me, I mean *Shelley* and me, I, can retire in comfort.”

“Is she still wearing purple?” Roberts questioned from her opposite chair. “Or has she moved beyond that?”

“Moved beyond I think. Last time I checked.”

“Ask her to wear something purple and see how she responds.”

“She seems okay with it,” Arthur reinforced. “She’s changed, she said.”

“Are you convinced?”

Arthur paused just enough to indicate he wasn’t fully convinced. There was, well *Roberts* now, for one thing. How surreptitious they run into each other again (!). But, deep down of course, Arthur knew it wasn’t coincidence. The Gods have further plans for them, which means The Void has further plans for them. They work hand in hand on this.

Roberts leaned back, folded her arms behind her head. “So strange that Franklin was spared. I’m overjoyed of course, but whether Black Jack, Kentucky or Black Jack, Tennessee, the helicopter that acted as a plane in the moment purposely missed her, swerving to one side or another. If only Mantell could have done the same — I think he tried, I think he saw the, um, irony. Do you know the case, Arthur? It’s quite famous, at least in UFO circles. Cradle links to grave, creating an uroboros scenario. The Cross (in the middle) is eliminated. That’s the point. I’m sure you understand, Arthur, given that you’ve been there now — you rescued Shelley from there. The Cross can *trap*.”

“I think I’m still on The Cross,” Arthur admitted. “I never made it back to Nautilus. I never made it back to here, then, this office in Towerboro on the Jeogeot continent.”

“Oh you’re here,” Roberts countered.

Arthur saw a spider on the floor behind her. He then saw 5 others, 10 others maybe, all lined up like military rank or file.  Roberts didn’t glance around, seemed oblivious to them. But Arthur knew she wasn’t. What was this psychic-detective up to?

“This is where it starts, Arthur. The agency. I want to know who tried to kill Franklin. In a strong probable reality she is dead. Only the actions of a rebellious, artificial pilot, a Mantell wannabe, saved her. He broke the pattern. Cradle to grave was unlinked. You were there too. You saw — how close.”

“Yes.”

“It was either the boat on fire or the rose colored cottage on fire.”

“I remember the boat.”

“And I remember the cottage.”

—–

Now where is that receiver?

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00350314

“You stay in the van dear,” Draken requested, heading toward the only structure on Horse Island. “Damn horse piss,” he complained along the way. Pretty rainbow, though.

Yes, this will do nicely. Memories.

Oh dear. Told her to stay in the van and over there she is.

But an ass gets in the way, blocking our view. Must be a Clydesdale.

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Big Boy

When I was a boy, I use to have dreams about The Void, but I remember them as a TV show.

Always the face, always the eyes. The girl reached out but could never find me. She remained trapped.

I can’t recall her name. Shirley?

“Shirley?” I called in the past. No answer.

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00350308

I was wondering when you were going to show up.

The duck, not the screamer, although they obviously could be related, especially since there’s a hand pointing from the former to the latter. Now to back up…

—–

“I’m going into The Void, Shelley. If my face is worthless then I want to do away with it. My rocket launches Thursday after next.”

“After next what?” she replied calmly, taking this new development in stride. She was expecting something drastic — just didn’t know what. Tension had been too high lately.

“More details later,” the ironically named Johnny Ubermodel responded. He was just making all this up. He simply wanted a reaction. Would she come? But (he though while staring at her) — why would she? Her face was *perfect*. Child-like and innocent but old and full of wisdom at the same time. “I bought The Void Machine on the marketplace. You can check if you wish.”

“I believe you.” She didn’t believe him. This was all about that comment with the TV. And, of course, the attached threat to leave this place, this lake with its forest in the sun and set out for — sanity?

“We could live at 7000, 100000, heck 1000000. Sky’s the limit as they say,” and he couldn’t help a small smile here on his goofy mouth too close to his nose and eyes. And that nose!

“Johnny. Johnny Supermodel.”

“Ubermodel,” he correct.

“Yes…” She’d heard about eels but couldn’t fit it in here. Irrelevant in the big picture.

“You’re not going. I know. You’re going to the bus instead, despite the lack of animations for what we need to do to make us happy.” Make *me* happy, he thinks here. Her: obviously not so much. “You can drive away into the sunset.”

“Johnny,” she tried to placate. “I know I made that comment earlier about your face, and how are you going to be a porn star and make money to redo it when you have it in the first place. I mean…”

“I know what you mean. I’m too ugly to get my foot inside the door of the business, even though I have talents — enhancement — elsewhere.”

“Yeah.”

“So you think I chose The Void over reality.”

“Umm.”

“Shelley.”

(pause) “Yes?”

“I’m going into The Void.”

—-

But he didn’t. He eventually got another job that paid even better than the porn one and got that face and went on to live a successful and happy life. But not with Shelley.

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