Category Archives: Estate

June 9, 2021 · 6:20 am

The Fawcett Bros

“I’m *freezing* in here, Mr. F. Why, um, why don’t we close the windows?”

“I like… the billowing drapes,” he said coldly, without emotion. “Allows… me to thiiink.”

“Sure, sure,” I spoke back, shivering as usual. I guess they didn’t name him Mr. Frost for nutt’n.

“Torchboy,” he spoke to me, using that nickname I hated so much. “Turn down the space heater.” He pointed to the floor at the softly humming device. “You’re ruining the effect for me.”

I guess it would help if I put on a shirt, but I liked to show off my scorch’n tattoos. Over there is a tiger, and then there is another tiger, and then another tiger over there–

“I’m going to interrupt you here, baker b.,” said W., coming out from behind a curtain. We need to return to Picturetown, Canada. It’s the only way to properly end.”

—–

They sat for hours like this, one still too hot and the other too cold, despite the hot body art. “Torchboy” had caught on. The wind speaks!

“Has the wind… ever called itself ‘W’ to you?” he asked at exactly 1/2 past 6. Maybe they should eat something, but neither could pry themselves away from the mesmerizing voice.

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June 8, 2021 · 6:42 am

sticky point

“Why are we here, Summerhill?”

“You know why. Because it’s the only place I absolutely *can* stand in this here flat piece of–”

“Summerhill!” interrupts high priest clown Amos Sandman, her colorful opposite in ecclesiastical matters. If only the *owners* could hear. He peers around nervously, as if the bushes and trees and flowers had eyes. Perhaps they do. “Do you know how much *rent* is around here?”

“Arm and a leg, I know. Angel’s Rest indeed, pheh. More like Devil’s—”

“Now, now!” intervenes Sandman again, eager for a break in this line of talking. Perhaps they should resume walking. If the vegetation has eyes and also ears, let them hear leisurely chatting of a lazy summer afternoon, see random smelling of roses and thistles, and the occasional prick of a thorn or needle despite carefulness, for there are so many around. He stares at the wienies stuck on a finely waxed, hand crafted stick between them, hot dogs if you speak uncouth around these here parts. Maybe that could be a new topic.

Summerhill Nova, white as Elmer’s glue (that was the point), shuffles her feet on her own luxurious forest rug before her. “Can’t *stand* it.” She stifles an urge to stand to emphasize her point. She too now stares at the wienies in their midst, recently roasted to a delicate crisp. Not too languid and limp of course, but also not too staunch and rigid. On a scale of 10 to 13, about an 11, then, or maybe a 12. From her perspective the two objects perfectly cover the head of the clown priest except for the eyes that see and ears that hear, albeit the latter hidden in thick, curly red clown hair. She ponders the meaning of the juxtaposition. Does the vegetation lushly lying around them also know that Sandman is full of unknown ingredients of dubious origins? That must be it. I see you for what you are (etc.).

Sandman catches her stare and makes his own interpretation of the framed overlap, opposite in direction for him. “We are like two peas in a pod, you and me.” He points between them and then they are perfectly done.

Summerhill has to accept that.

(to be continued?)

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June 7, 2021 · 10:19 pm

neutrality

She looked toward the northern mountains from her home not away from home, her *real* home, in the dreamscape, or what we would call the dreamscape, as close a name as we have for it perhaps. This angel from above, this demon from below. *Both*. She was here to make a difference. “*There*,” she exclaimed to herself, pointing. A craft in the V shaped gap. Her original mother and father, or perhaps a prominent relative, like Uncle Stu or Aunt Zafflemorph. Always the red-green-red message. She was not alone.

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June 7, 2021 · 9:38 pm

angel manners

She had no book still, red or any other color, so the only thing she had to read was her palm. Heart line equals head line. Good fortune ahead, and a lifetime of happiness. Bah, hand! The wrong hand obviously, just like she had a wrong foot, a wrong heel. The right heel was the one. The right hand was the one. She’d have to reverse the picture to make it fit.

Yet she was still physically in her bed in the small doctor’s office not 400 meters from the center of Collagesity, this newly moved in Dr. Paul Mouse, formerly of the Hope Clinic over in Black Diamond Lake. She had the power to be in two places at once, since the dreaming realm was also real to her. Powers this new incarnation of our old friend Ruby had!

And now the show was about to begin. Big star arriving soon. It was her! She was a singer in a band of unknown design before and of no design now. She was on her own, yet she was not alone. Fans! More than ever before. She felt her right heel beginning to itch again. Time to switch over to the other reality; someone was prodding her slender Grey body, the color of insect green just like the stage before her. And she was about to go on! Oh well, there was always the return times.

Dr. Paul Mouse was asking her to wake up while softly shaking the top of her long arm with his hand. He knew she was on the other side, and he had to be gentle. Thus the operation; thus the establishment of this clinic in the backwoods of the south, far enough off the highway not to even count. The bonafide doctors here had to pass efficacy tests in order to test themselves, sometimes the aliens but not a lot, since the flow had died down due to the epidemic, which may be a bonafide pandemic since it had spread to the outer isles.

She wakes up to the other reality, the second one to her because it is not so good. The first will remain there; the stage is set. She has her setlist, with the top being Plastic… Plastic… she can’t recall. She stares deep into the doctor’s eyes, wishing she had the second part of the name. Something about a bug.

(to be continued)

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June 4, 2021 · 8:41 am

where’s the beef?

If we could just recreate the original crime scene. Pigeon roosting on ass; Amanda Stoorm placing an ultra important call to Buster Damm.

Call? Looks like we just did. Duncan Avocado brings it home.

—–

“I knew you’d be here, Ginger. Because of the face replacement clinic and all.”

“500 lindens for a whole new look. Worth every penny!”

“Yes, you look great, you look fantastic.” Could Duncan date a high class white chick like this and get away with it in this town, this place in the center of it all? It would be controversial. Maybe *he* should get an operation. He knows a certain Dr. of Mouse who might be able to help. He ponders the outcome, black to white. But is he running away from his heritage because of that? He’s *tired* of being discriminated upon, but he’s in the same boat with the rest of his color. He can’t date fair, red haired Wendy down at Mac’s Diner either for the same reason, that damn white racist rat Pansy watching over it all. If only he could get rid of the Pooping Pigeon franchise, maybe create a reality where Wendy branches out on her on, dumps the hot dog angle, and goes all in for burger. Pure Angus beef; not those ridiculous fillers for the dog like lips and genitalia, even if that isn’t quite true. People could be trained to *think* that.

And that’s what he decided that day in the late of May or early June or whatever. Kill the Hot Dog, stick a pigeon on its rump and call it done. Killer Andrea Stoorm, trained in the Death Star battalions, knew what to do, Buster guiding her and then Buster telling Duncan what actually happened. “We manipulated probabilities in that Middletown alley that day in early May.” “June,” I corrected, but understood it all now. There was only one actual killing, the other 5 being deflections or subterfuge. Although it still thrived in other realities, in this one the Pooping Pigeon was over almost before it started, with Pansy behind bars behind a bar instead.

“What’ll it be Duncan, my man?” Always the “man” for the black dude, he observed. But at least he still played his old music here.

And now: Hidi.

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June 3, 2021 · 2:15 am

dopple effect

“Figured you might be here, Biker.”

Well. I had to go *somewhere*. *Burt*. Wasn’t that your name the last time we met? Black Lake Bunch?”

“Brutus, actually. But enough of the past.” He fondled his skeleton heart medallion hung from his neck like an underweight albatross, knowing he had to further the plot. Biker was merely following steps.

“Evening wood be too kind for this sky.” He waited. Nothing. This must not be Eveningwood.

“Amazon is awfully hot for June.” Nothing. But then:

“Ama*zonia*.” Bingo. We can continue the dance.

—–

She stepped out of the subway and into the light.

“Mother?” Cory asked at the top of the stairs, hands folded. He hadn’t seen her in nigh on 20 years.

“Cory?? My little baby???”

“It’s me, Mother. Your little Cory.”

They hug. They embrace. Cory had heard she had been gunned down in a crosswalk over in Urqhart or thereabouts but here she was, full of blood again and pumping like hell. He could feel her heart pound through his. He hugged more. She embraced more. It was a warm moment, hot even.

She drew back from him, arms still entwined. “*My* *little* *Cory*.”

“Yes, Mother. It’s me.”

She exhales bigly. “Wellll. Where’ve you been??”

“Where *haven’t* I been.”

“Biking. So Peter tells me. And Jonathan.”

“Biking with a man named Biker, yes. I’m a biker, he’s a biker, but more than one. TWO TO KNOW.”

“What did you say, darling??” She hadn’t heard that expression in years and years, the last time being…” She unclasped his arms from hers, stood back, staring, no love in her eyes now, or just shock. She knew this wasn’t her little boy all grown up. She knew that this was some kind of doppelganger manufactured for a reason. *A* *reason*.

“Mother? Anything wrong?” He couldn’t even see it in her eyes, but he wasn’t programmed that way.

This Middletown was big, far as the eye could spy. Women wearing red wishing they were wearing blue. Visa versa. It was all a big game of 2 in this most central of cities.

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June 1, 2021 · 9:09 am

Duncan’s hidden

Go to the temple of the tor now, she commanded again. Would Alysha listen this time? Before, she had teleported directly into the ship, enthralled by its shadow. But maybe she could escape the shadow this time and come into the light. “Jasper,” she spoke. “The turtle’s name is Jasper, not Meanie,” she said later on when the shades were drawn again because of the intense sunlight. Too close to a Star, dancing to the beat of a different drum. “Maybe a Moon this time,” said Dr. Paul Mouse, still with switch in hand, if not a kane. Close enough. And a reddish rear was nearby too, plopped painfully on a central log and not facing away from a wall no longer. He will get his revenge.

Peter Oesso strolled down the beach, looking for shells. Shellman some called him. Then he found a miniature Venus of Willendorf and we were on our way…

—–

“That’s not a beaver down there, Dr. Mouse.” STOP

“Oh yes it is.”

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June 1, 2021 · 8:56 am

recognizer too

“What’s the scoop on the poop?” It was the most logical question in the world, but Pansy didn’t have an answer. Yet. He knew it was still up to Dr. Mouse, despite the rain in the brain. What’s the rain in the brain? could be a follow up question.

—–

We were going quite far tonight, exploring the Amazon more. STOP

Looks like we’ll have to stop.

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June 1, 2021 · 6:51 am

Mouse Island, etc.

“Beaver,” decided the littlest mouse perched between Pansy’s ears, noting the flattish tail.

Smoking and toking Lemmy on his back had nothing to say about the matter, facing away. Pansy knew this was an important decision for the future of his franchise — *their* franchise, because he had to keep the creator in the picture for all those photo ops later on. But Dr. Mouse had, how do I put it delicately? Let’s just go with Brain Damage still to seal the deal. Endless triangle, endless loop, the yelloo sun far far away, hidden by night. Jasper knows. Jasper knows this is a beaver. His head is just below the water, right Jasper? Sorry: “Right Jasper?”

“Yeah boy.” Jasper is the littlest mouse between the ears, with the primary speaker being Pansy himself, who combed all through those drone shots the day before and the day before that, looking for any anomalies. They could get no closer.

—–

It was a place of wisdom, of learning, this Amazon or Amazon-like environment. 12 sims total, just like the river tiles of Carcassonne (game).

“The Source is missing,” corrected W, again just over there somewhere, just around the corner or out of sight. I still can’t see her secret, schweet smile. “12th,” she clarifies. “Find the 12th. Or at least have fun doing it. See you later!”

—–

“Yarrow,” spoke wise Dr. Mouse, or so he thinks. “Spirit of Yarrow over the head. Delete it and you’re lost. This island…”

“It’s not an island,” one the “pupils” dare speak up, I think it was the right one.

“You over there!” shouted the obviously mad man now. “Against the wall! It’s the kane for you again, pheh pheh pheh.” Dr. Mouse was panting he was so mad. Both mad *and* mad: both kinds. The worst possible combination. Whack whack whack! came the stick to the pants. The right pupil was obviously wrong. And later he became left behind in 5th as the other pupil or pupils graduated to 6th. It was Paul’s switch all over again.

—–

“So you’re the famous or infamous Dr. Paul Mouse,” spoke Duncan from the opposite stump later on, as if between 2 pupils, 2 ears. “Knew it.”

“Glad you could make it tonight, W.” But her schweet smile still remained hidden since Duncan didn’t have any teeth behind his lips.

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June 1, 2021 · 5:52 am

almost over the edge

“Jasper, take a look at this photo one of the drones took over the Amazon and settle a bet with us. Does that look like a beaver to you, because Marion says it’s a propeller.”

Jasper studies the photo. “Where’s his head?”

“Well, it’s underwater obviously. And you have a tail and and two little arms sticking out plain as day.”

“And how about this picture of a swimming pool while we’re at it. Do you think that’s suppose to be Vermont, or New Hampshire?”

—–

She floated on the two lips joined together in the center of the pool. She kept glancing anxiously over at Dr. Mouse and his greatest creation, Pansy, conferring about the deal at a table on the cement’s edge. She wondered how it was going. Copyright infringement? Trademark protection? That’s how it all started, this conference in the Amazon. A River runs through it, Source to Mouth. Or Lake. George had traded places with a girl, Hitgirl to be precise, not selling corndogs any longer at a Southwest Airport. Or cornogs I suppose I should say. But hot dogs remain in the news. 6 dead now in in Slaashsides over in the nw part of Nautilus continent, with the last squirted with both mustard and ketchup, indicating his kind. That brought it to the attention of Dr. Mouse, who then asked Pansy to enter the picture for more visiblity. He was planning on a national campaign. The Pooping Pigeon was going to mean big time money, big time power. It was a built in headliner.

“A chain of restaurants,” shot back the doctor. They were exchanging ideas rapid fire.

“Chocolate. No: vanilla,” came the squeaky reply. “Like the color of the…..”

“Poop. Just say it, Pansy. Don’t be afraid of the word. It’s going to make us a fortune.”

(to be continued?)

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