Category Archives: Dokken Hollow+

February 15, 2026 · 8:29 am

00490404

“Who are you, woman? Really.”

“I told you, Arthur ‘Orient’ Morgan. I’m Wheeler. And this is my place. Wheeler Wilson. Hence: Wilson’s.”

“Convenient, I say,” said Arthur back to her, smelling a rat the size of a town.

“Well… you tell *me* who you think I am?”

Demon, sprung forth in Arthur’s mind automatically, staring at her forehead and the placement of her flip style hair upon it. He said the word aloud.

“True enough,” she admitted. “All women are evil to a certain kind of man.” She let that hang in the air. Arthur stared at her.

“I’m a killer,” he declared about the core of himself. “I kill for hire.” He let *that* linger in the atmosphere. He gazed at her through the haze of untimely death.

“I know,” unfazed Wheeler Wilson said back to him. “But you’re *my* killer.”

Arthur thought about the various ways he could take that. Do I *kill* her? he thought. Or is she saying that I belong to her, as in a beau or something? Before he could ponder further, she said this:

“I’ve known you before, I’ve determined. We were married.”

“*Married*?”

“Yes, after you were buried. I killed *you*. Shot you right clean through the heart.” A smirk appeared on her face. She was way beyond him now, she felt. Try to top *that,* she seemed to present in her haughtiness. “But then I dug you up, brought you back to life. You presented me with a ring and I accepted the call then I accepted the proposal. Buried *then* married,” she reinforced.

“I gotta get some air,” Arthur said, shaking his head once more, as was customary around this confusing, confounding dame. “Am I, I don’t know, free to go?”

“Go where you wish, Arthur ‘Orient’ Morgan. Just don’t leave town. The boundaries of the town are the sims of Arang — here — then, Baekga the great forest, Kumiho the city center, Mago the beachside, Yongwang, and then Dokkaebi from which the closest Oracle match of Dokken Hollow comes from. You know, the Bang Bang Club, where we first met in this town. I sent you a teleport invite just like you did for me tonight. We watched Julee Cruise and then uncovered the truth of Dr. Tom, Cruise as well. 2n1… so common in this world.” She paused, not knowing how much to reveal right now. She decided to end it like this: “You are as much an actor in this world as you’d want in any world class Shakespearean play.”

“Hmm,” he said, getting up, having enough. “Can I take the drink with me?”

But then he looked down and he had none. Came with the booth, came with the place. Wilson’s drink. And now he was apart from her. TBC

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February 7, 2026 · 8:02 am

00490315 (Caledonia?)

“Who’s the cowboy in back now?” asked Chet to his on again off again girlfriend, this time toggled on.

“Oh, some guy Mom says owes her a favor. Working for free because of that. Or snapshots… something.”

“Interesting,” Chet says, envisioning the poses. Not abstract.

“Is it?” Alice Tart slumps even lower in her seat across from her still upright, toggled on lover. From this angle, she can barely see his eyes above his perpetual handkerchief, worn not for fear of disease or anything like that but just because of the look. The lead singer/guitarist of Scissorrun© is all about style, and of the Christmas kind in particular. He never wants the holiday to end. Else: he’ll have to think about other things. Like death. Because of his emphasis on style over substance, he’s never really learned to play the guitar properly and that’s understandably held his band back. Drummer Sherwood is pretty rock solid with his naturally hyperactive hands and all. And bassist Karl is at least good on “Paper”, their hit single and perhaps the only song of theirs that really matters in the end. Restaurant manager turned band manager Biff Carter is urging Chet to take lessons from a local musical genius named Spiff, no kin to Biff despite the similarity of names. Not a long lost brother or anything… I don’t think (?).

Chet leans toward Alice. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.” He’d heard it hurts more the second time around but of course didn’t say this aloud.

“Oh I was over all that the first time around,” she said, dismissing the sympathy. “Anyway, Mom has a new man now,” and she nods toward the kitchen.”

“Really?” says Chet. “That quick?”

“Yup. That quick. Pictures did him in, I’m guessing.”

Chet nods. He understands the power. 319.

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February 7, 2026 · 8:01 am

00490312 (sideways (foreshadowing))

Q:

Are you Happy?

A:

Yes, I am Happy.

Q:

Pleased to meet you. Is everyone around you Happy?

A:

Let me check.

With this, he sees beyond himself for the first time. He sees… a gallery.

—–

“My Second Lyfe is over, Philip,” he spoke to the pillow at his bosom. “Banned. I should have never descended from reality to this *illusionary* place.”

“No, Philip,” says the pillow, because they both have the same name, one taking turns with the other as in any good ventriloquist act. “The energy of Rose Heaven here has entered the sphere of Rodentia and lives on accordingly. And Rodentius of course, the male at the center of the feminine circumference in this case. That’s why he has that bit of brown to add to the predominant white. That’s the rogue brown Thornwood sim here. I’ll take it from you.” SLIIIIIDE.

Philip, the bigger one still clutching the littler one, turns in his chair at the noise. “Oh,” he says staring over at the back corner of the Rose Heaven Yarn Shop he sits in the middle of on his own little island. “Another case, eh?”

“Yes.”

Happy stares too, knowing a certain book is involved, perhaps a journal. Philip turns back into Jeffrie. TBC

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February 6, 2026 · 9:11 am

00490310 (the truth)

“It’s suppose to be a representation of the Red Room from Twin Peaks but, as you can see, it’s not quite finished yet. Gotta get that zig zag black and white texture for the floor… and so on.”

“Really nice, Wheeler,” I say, wondering again why she hadn’t shown me this before. “And the painting — I assume it is a duplicate of the one over in Salty’s, in the old storage area behind the cooking section.”

“Or the same,” Wheeler answers. “Maybe this painting is in the past and the one over at Salty’s is more in the future. Or visa versa. Depends on if Arthur is still tied up over there. And I think he might, making this the, um, future?” She looks over at me. “But you’re not Arthur. And we haven’t made a deal yet. Better get over there, then.”

“Okay,” I said to end things here. Because I was never really here without her. I wanted to talk about the old core of avatars and her role in it. Baker Bloch — me, in essence — came before Wheeler. Baker Blinker came before her. Baker Blinker is more me than her. And then Hucka Doobie came along to make an original three. Hucka Doobie is of course the spiritual guide for the blog and attached photo-novels as a whole, although she hasn’t been in the recent ones as much. That might change. Then there’s Karoz, kind of my blue-green alien brother, if I am the same as Baker Bloch which I mostly am (Whitehead in Da Woods). Then and only then came Wheeler, and, at first, she wasn’t who she is today. All that changed with the photo-novels, 2 if not 1. She came… in 2. All the rest were there long before even 1. She was the last who became the first. Arkansaw.

But we never got around to that discussion.

I watched her disappear up the stairs and then I did too.

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February 3, 2026 · 8:04 am

00490305

She looked over at the files that go with the painting before leaving the door, debating in her head whether to throw that into the deal as well — as a sweetener. If only she had a copy… or a copier. “Wheeler… is that a last name? Or first? Or some kind of nickname, I don’t know.” In his chair, Arthur struggles against the tight ropes to no avail. She’d tied him down good. Old girl scout, let’s say.

“Wheeler is a way of life,” she answered cryptically. “Wheeler is something that goes and goes only to circle back in on itself again. Wheeler is love; Wheeler is… truth. Wheeler is. In short: I don’t know either,” and she emits a soft chuckle with this.

Arthur is shaking his head now. “First you appear to be someone I know, then you knock me out — don’t know how you got the drop on me so quickly.” And here, Arthur laments being overpowered by a woman again. A man would have been bad enough. He puts great pride in his strength and agility. Maybe she’s some kind of athlete, Arthur ponders, struggling once again in the increased frustration. Or a *witch*. He’d heard about such creatures roaming the streets of St. Dennis at night. And also over in the swamplands. “Then, you drag me in here,” he continues after finding the ropes as tight as ever. Arthur then looks around, sees the car tires, sees other objects he doesn’t understand. “Where are we anyway? This almost looks like it’s not St. Dennis any more.” How long was I *out*? he thinks.

“It isn’t,” says Wheeler. “We’re in a place called Rodentia formerly complemented by a giant white — and brown — rat named Rodentius, a male for the female. Yet Rodentius has left the scene. Giant bathroom in the sky is all I’ve got so far.”

“Nonsense, lady, er, Wheeler,” Arthur quickly decides. But he’s shaking his head still, trying to absorb. “And what about that *painting* you mentioned, the one I could trade for. Answer me!” His frustration had spilled over into rage. He’d reached a limit of whatever patience he had left.

Wheeler kept silent. “You’ve had enough for today, Arthur. I’ll come back tonight and we can talk more about the 2n1. I’ll let you cool down for a while.” TBC

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February 2, 2026 · 3:17 pm

00490304 (Queen)

*CLUNK*

—–

She paced behind me, asking me question after question that turned into 1 question I couldn’t answer. “What did you do with the picture?”

“What picture?” I ask.

“THE picture. Of *me*… o-or, at least from the thighs down.”

“Well… who *are* you?” I ask back.

“You know who I am.”

I pause, gathering the energy to say what’s next on my mind. “I *thought* you were someone I met back in Valentine. But apparently you’re not.” Must be the illness making me hallucinate, I think here.

“Am I not?”

No, I wanted to say. You’re most likely just a common hooker. Not a noble person like Mrs. Downes. She could have made it big in this world with her heart, her determination. Instead he made her into, well, *this*. I deserve what I got. Death row for Arthur “Orient” Morgan, a man with a Far East history that would do him in.

(Red Row too, if Arthur (Morgan) equals Arthur (Kill), as I, the author (Arthur?), believe it might. We’ll see… but let’s not end there.)

“I want that picture you stole from the gallery,” she continued, emphasizing her purpose in all this. “The one from the wrong side of St. Dennis, the *Southern* part.”

“The underbelly, yeah,” I admitted.

“Right, you give me that and you can go. You can seek out the real Mrs. Downes if you wish. You can pay for sex with her, you can just pay her without the sex, I don’t care. I just need… that *picture*.”

Dutch saw this coming, I think. He said it would be worth a lot one day and to hide it in a safe place, which I did. Turns out he’s right. Knowing my own well-being didn’t matter at this point, I thought of as much money as I would need to make Mrs. Downes comfortable in her older age, put her back on the right track and potentially allow her to thrive. “10,000 dollars,” I say aloud after determining the amount I’d been formulating in my head for a while, maybe since May. “10,000 or you won’t be able to find it. Kill me if you wish. I’m a dead man walking anyway.”

She ended her pacing, went to a nearby door, peered in. “How about… a trade? Thighs up instead of thighs down. And a man instead of a woman. Aand, clothed to the hilt, military style. An opposite painting. North for South. But just as valuable, probably even moreso. You can make up the difference later on.”

“Well I need to have a look at what you’re talking about first, lady,” I say while turning toward her as best I could given my roped circumstance.

“Yeah, ogle while you can old lady,” she speaks more to herself than me it appears, still staring through the window of the door. “The King will be taken from you soon if I have my desire.” She pivots toward me with this. “Wheeler,” she says. “You call me Wheeler.” TBC

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December 22, 2025 · 4:13 pm

00490103

Per more cues in KY, she’d merrily adorned herself with ribbons and bows up and down, from the top of her new festive haired head to the bottom of her new festive shoed toe — toes. Bought for the season would be their reason, on the surface. Then she came back to the Rodentia Assembly Hall intending to give assumed ever-listening Rodentius the giant white rat with a bit of brown to keep him honest another show of information, holiday style. She even brought her Rudolph bulb along for good luck; it now lit the single room hall as much as the sci-fi floor lamp that also tagged along with her.

“What Christmas means to me,” she started after taking the podium, trying not to glance into his corner too much. Nervous for some reason! It was only a big rodent, though. Nothing more. “AHEM… Christmas, to me, to myself, to… I…” Stumped, she looks down here, saw the color highlighted in so many ways on her arms, torso, legs, feet. “… means *red*; yes, red. And Santa,” she followed, thinking of another red dominated being. “But not *Satan*, not 666.”

“Good one, ha!” Rodentius enthusiastically encourages from his thought-to-be ever-corner in the hall, named for what he would call his better, female half which represents the whole virtual town surrounding them on all sides and then some. “Keep it coming!”

—–

But suddenly, just like that, there was no one in the assembly hall except Wheeler, who just stood there alone, awkwardly dressed for the occasion. Should have been a more somber attire, black instead of red, the other half of the equation as it turned out. Black for the empty chair revealed by the vanished big, non-anthropomorphized rodent, just an oversized but otherwise very ordinary animal with no human form to him atall, or so she thought. Black for absence itself. Loss of a friend.

Rodentius is *always* here, she panics. Why now, why just before Christmas of all times of the year? Why did he have to go… so SOON?!


She turns back to the chairs of the assembly hall after staring quite a while at the corner bereft of soul, of consciousness, trying to reorient herself after this shocking discovery. Then she imagines the red chairs being filled with not humans but aliens to balance things out, a show of planets to repopulate a darkened universe. Like here:

Planets you don’t even know the names of
Planets, you don’t even know their names

Yes, this helps, she thinks. Mars, the first red planet as it were, was just a beginning. Black and red together makes more sense on this special special day. Absence. And presents. TBC

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November 24, 2025 · 7:52 am

00480604 (00420515 revisited (1/2 way))

“Get out the shot, honey. I’m trying to take a picture of that ghoul in the cemetery over there!”

—–

“My people were tough on crime. And they didn’t tolerate breaking the law either. We grew up in the shadow of a mountain that began with Wee-Wee. My mother, when we moved over here to the states in ’79, said to be proud of the name and where we came from. But I was embarrassed, always called it the alternate name of Onigbaporo however tongue-twisty and unmemorable that was to the white people of our new land. But when I found Pee Pee Creek over on the west side of Rodentia and its crazy cemetery and its baffling preacher church I knew I had also found a home again in this world of Our Second Lyfe. My mother was priestess before in the “Wee-wee” place we came from and now I became quote unquote priestess in the Pee Pee place, as male and female polarities also switched positions there. It all made some kind of beautiful, circular loop.”

I studied the photo she held in her hand, looked at the flat headed statue of her mother in the center square the townspeople chose to erect before they left, a permanent tribute to her famous presence in their small Nigerian burg. Then I looked up from the photo at Daisy’s flat hair, the perpetually shaving razor held by a ghostly, hovering hand next to it. I started to understand the dynamics involved. But there was still the explanation of her non-colored father remaining. Non, hmm, I pondered. Could that be the reason for the obsession with creating the perfect, non-alcoholic brew? Turns out this was so… partially. TBC

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November 12, 2025 · 4:43 pm

00480508

“And so you see you couldn’t help your father because there’s nothing wrong with me and everything wrong with him. So you were right to run him over in your car while the old fool stood helplessly exposed in the middle of Route 9 over there. Like you hit him with a bullet in the past in, what was it, 1785?”

“More like the late 1800s I think,” said Alice Tart to her mother Wheeler Wilson, finally together for that talk about the recently deceased Mouse. Overdue, as are a lot of things in life. Better attend to the important stuff before death.

“I– met the town leader I think,” she then revealed, “this Rodentia of the continent of Jeogeot of the metaverse of Our Second Lyfe,” she expanded needlessly. Like assigning a particular color to white.

“Oh. The male?”

“Yeah, the embodiment thereof.”

“What was he like?” said the curiously non-surprised Wheeler at this turn. She knew that behind the female there’s always a male, often in the same body whether virtual or real, or figuratively if not literally as was the case here.

“What you would suspect, I suppose. A big rat, but with brown markings on top of the white. Add in a bit of color.”

“Chocolate to vanilla,” said Wheeler, translating hues into flavors. “What did you say to… this rat?”

“I confessed *everything*. He seemed very pleased. I supposed I owed him that, using his town, his *female* half, for a good number of posts already. He kind of trapped me in retrospect, drew me to the assembly hall that was his sanctuary. So I just explained everything.”

“Pleased, you say?” Wheeler takes another puff of her cigarette. She’d already offered one to daughter Alice who refused. I wonder if she– no, can’t be. Can it?

“Yeah, pleased. He’s probably still over there if you want to pay him a visit. Checking… checking… yeah, green dot still there. He’s waiting for us… when the time comes.”

“When the time comes,” echoes Wheeler then inhales more smoke. TBC

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November 12, 2025 · 9:26 am

00480507

Taking note of the too-similar design of this Rodentia sign with that in Sandy Shores, GTAV from the post before, we send Philip over to sit beside it, if only in a dream. He could be waiting for Wheeler (and perhaps Newt?) to emerge from the “rat hole” across the small pond in front of him we saw in section 01. Yes, there she is, waving at him from what was formerly the entrance and is now the exit, certainly glad to see daylight again however gloomy it may be. “I made it back, Newt!” she calls over to the shadowy figure whom she mistook for her oft times hubby, last seen sitting in this very chair 5 sections back.

But as Wheeler continues to wave and call, no answer is returned. She squints and notices the different clothes, the different hair, the different *man*, despite the same chair, the same location highlighted in the same photo-novel, #48 in a series. Something has changed with the passage of time in the passageways of the rat hole maze she’s been lost in. Unable-to-respond Philip wakes up, but is still in the chair, watching Wheeler in the pool now with several strange men. He stands.

Quack goes the duck. *Quack* goes the duck. My computer overheats and Philip wakes up properly. TBC

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