Category Archives: Juho

00460405

I took another day off to explore the town more. I’d taken a lot of days off lately. Perhaps I was already pretty bored with the mayor’s job, I don’t know. I found myself wandering… and wondering. Here I sit in Downtown’s subway station watching a train that never stops. Where is it going? Where’s it been? Never here apparently, or never gathered people here or dropped them off. I move on…

… to an abandoned petrol station, wandering and then wondering about the name Clyde on the window over there behind the tires. I knew the town was formerly called Blue Ball or Blue Balls so that didn’t seem to fit, despite the name Clyde being applied to a lot of towns across our fair country of America back in the day. Like one in Ohio where famed American author Sherwood Anderson grew up, along with U.S. independently affiliated senator and so-called father of the TVA George Norris and a couple of other famous people, including a Civil War Union general I can’t recall the name of.

I know, I’ll go ask Charlene. But maybe Emily would be a better target, having been here in The Burg longer. What’s her story, why did she move off the Makah Indian Reservation after being raised there? Something about Wolvie? — probably something about Wolvie. So that ropes in Charlene who’s the sister of what clearly is a shapeshifter in this here town, probably a werewolf by the sound of it. And he recognized me (!). In that service station with the black and white wolf poster over in Juho. I wonder how Newt is doing over there (her thoughts deflect). I wonder if he’s done anything with Newtonia since I’ve been… away.

That graffiti artist over yonder (she triangulates between useless subway and abandoned petrol station, a right one it appears). Maybe they will know something about Clyde. Worth a try.

She approaches, notices the cigarette in both his mouth and spraying hand at once. James Smoker he quickly becomes in her mind. Until she learns the truth.

(to be continued)

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00460313

She thought she’d go back to the beginning of the road, where she started her story in this here Burg of the general Nawt Vaya region of the Jeogeot continent of the Western Hemisphere of virtual Our Second Lyfe. A call, I believe. No, perhaps a calling, as in a profession. She was always bright, super bright in fact. The unusual drew her attention. Cryptozoology was eventually the chosen study. She’d be a professor, occasionally publish articles and present papers and have a rather easy life of it as more a skeptic on the subject than a believer per common public opinion. Then the call — yes, a call was also involved, as in phone. Someone dialed all the numbers except 4, which would instead connect you to The Moon. “Hallo?” she said from her faculty desk next to the faculty lounge whose thin walls enabled her to keep up with all the local faculty gossip. Dr. Brown dating Dr. Green to the chagrin of Dr. Blue? All in a day’s listening.

“It’s me. Wolvie.”

“*Wolvie*. You old dog. Hadn’t heard from you since–”

“Lester’s Bay, I know. I ran away, sorry.”

“You ran away as a *dog*. Dude, what gives?”

“I’m… not who I seem.”

“I *gathered*.”

“Anyway. Charlene. I need some help. Something in your department.”

“Tell me about it, bro of mine.” She knew it was one of those loose ends in her life that eventually had to be tied up. Her own flesh and blood brother a shapeshifter! But academia called and she put such psychic phenomena out of her mind. She had grades to worry about, peer pressure, etc. She was young in her position, with tenure a fur piece down the road.

“Bigfoot,” he just blurted the name out, which he knew would catch her attention. “Sighted in your vicinity.”

Her vicinity, let’s see. Yes I guess this would have to be Nawt Vaya State University, then, hmm. Interesting. Perhaps a strong Psychics department. Or maybe that’s Physics. Anyway, the link had been made, the one between Charlene and Wolvie her brother, not Psychics and Physics. Although maybe that fits in too.

“Give me a location,” she cited rather mechanically, more a professor’s standard tone in this dog eat dog world of general college academia, especially for a female professor who, by default, had more to prove.

He did more than that. He sent her a picture. “Bigfoot!” she cried aloud, giving Dr. Black a start from his faculty lounge chair just beyond the wall. “So it’s real.” And just down the road from her in that Nawt Vaya underwater tunnel, she observed.

She understandably took the rest of the day off to investigate. Which eventually landed her on the doorstep of Roberts and Franklin in one of those 2 locations shown before, just as Wolvie planned. Charlene would do the choosing for him, as it turned out. Should have seen it coming.

(to be continued)

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00460309

It was like the old days for Wolvie (=Bert), staring at bamboo from the perfect spot 108 108 108, triply beautiful. Not Shelley any more doing her moves on the bamboo yoga mat but Wheeler, mother having reabsorbed the child in section one of this here current photo-novel, just this morning named for her. He’d seen her again last week at the convenience store he manages over near Juho. She knew that he knew and he knew that she knew. Then: winked out. Gone. Like she was never there. And perhaps she wasn’t (*knew* I was going to add that, didn’t you).

—–

“Wolvie’s gone. VHS tape still in there. Let’s just look at it. I want to know why Blue Moon wants to buy all existing copies so bad. How, aherm, *bad* could it be?”

“Double anal?” guessed Emily who didn’t even know if that was a thing. And I suppose she’d know, since she runs the store. So let’s say she was jesting.

“Could be at least double, as in 3some,” speculated Charlene further. Charlene the Punk. Not seen in these here photo-novels since (as I’m checking… checking…) 31 really, minus a cameo appearance or two. Pre-retirement, then. But we also know that Charlene is actually Fern in the past. Or another timeline — something. The two can be lined up and made as one is what I’m saying. If that, once more, is actually a “thing”.

They both crowded into the tiny viewing room meant for one, setting aside the chair to make space. Plus… well, neither wanted to sit in that chair now.

“It’s just static,” Charlene complained.

“Keep looking,” urged Emily, knowing secondary and then primary letters would form out of the nothingness. Because this was a special tape, very much so. I to E to T to L and done. You get your money’s worth.

“Yes, here they come.”

(to be continued)

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00460304

“Isn’t this a beautiful view of the harbour, Newt? Just lovely.”

“Well,” opined her opposite eating ice cream partner at the stand. “They could have done a better job with the line there dividing the 2 sides of the texture. Makes it obviously unreal. And the blurring–”

“Blurring only makes it more romantic,” quickly countered Wheeler. “This skyline could be any city in the world you want it to be, any virtual burg for that matter. It could be Sydney to me, Melbourne to you. Our choice. Just pick the most romantic city you know and you’re sitting across from it, eating strawberry or vanilla ice cream, also your choice. You like vanilla, I don’t.”

“We better start talking about Nawt Vaya,” said Newt, tired of meaningless chatter. “Why we came here. To this *rendezvous*,” he couldn’t help tack on again. Next time, he promised himself. Gowns and formal attire.

“Okay.” She finished the last 1 1/2 scoops of strawberry in one huge gulp just to try to speed things up and maybe add a little comedy to the matter, then continued to talk with mouth open and muffled voice. “Ow, fthatt *hurfts*.”

“What do you expect, Wheeler?” he said, watching her now deal with brain freeze. He decides to start while she heals. “Let’s take account of the residents of our fair land there in the center of Nawt Vaya. First off, there’s me and you obviously, then Lexi and Philip over in her house on the south edge of the property, then Fink is around too, then Jack is not far away as well — Jack Dogg, I’m obviously talking about here and not any of the other Jacks we’re attached to now. And then Barry De Boy and Wendy are up in that cottage perched above my own home of Newtonia. Do you like that name, Wheeler? Newtonia? Are you able to properly speak yet?”

“Mmmmm. MmmMMMMMMmm.”

“Obviously not. I’ll continue, then. Then there’s Veyot up on the hill, Pearl just up the coast a bit. Then in Juho we have Greg Ogden who’s also an artist — runs STAB now — and then I believe Nada New Year is there too, and also Carolin. And, let’s see, Peter Melanchton–”

“Gone,” Wheeler managed, ice cream headache finally subsiding.

“Right. And then the girl who’s suppose to take his place as summa cum laude graduate of Nawt Vaya State University and her, er, boyfriend I guess we’ll call him. And then Edward is still around.”

“Backwards positioned waterfall,” Wheeler identified his location. “You’re okay with that? Aren’t you?”

“Ahh, *sure*.” He was 1/2 and 1/2 on the issue but he really didn’t have any choice. Unless he did. He’s trying. Date first, then other things. Has to start with a proper date, which apparently this wasn’t. He tries to focus on the census again and away from the Wheeler+Edward continuing issue. “And then Princess Pinky Gumm.”

“She doesn’t count.”

“Oh…. right.” Newt remembers that Wheeler is playing that role, actually. “And… I can’t think of anyone else. Can you?”

“OH. I saw… I saw *Frank*! I totally forgot to tell you.”

“Frank?”

“Yeah. *Frank*. In Juho. At the barber shop when I was getting my hair cut the other day. I was getting the Butterfly No. 25 while he just sat there getting nothing, no styling no treatment, no anything. *Frank*,” she emphasized.

“Frank *who*?” Newt had to question. There were a couple, including a bunny man who hadn’t figured into the plot of these here photo-novels since the middle of the last. But it turned out to be Frank Lynn of GTAV fame.

“And Sep Felton was there too,” said Wheeler. “You know Sep. Butterflies again. Over on Corsica. She’s a stylist in both places. I didn’t even ask her how that worked, dufus that I am. I was *so* focused on getting it all chopped off, letting my scalp breathe again as Winter turns into Spring. I want the Butterfly, I said excitedly almost when I came in the shop. I didn’t realize the synchronicity.”

“You should always be paying attention to synchronicity. Why we’re here,” summarized Newt.

“I know, I know.”

“So… let’s start exploring and we can talk more.”

“My line!”

Someone in desperate need of a haircut himself, or herself, came walking into the picture. It, we’ll call them to remain gender neutral.

(to be continued)

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00460210 (Boo!)

Sans Newt now, Wheeler was testing out more locals and taking more notes while also trying out new outfits, this one called Fern (dress) with kind of matching shoes I suppose.

“Excuse me, ma’am. The bathroom’s locked with no one inside. Do you have the key?”

“Bathroom’s *broke*,” exuded Gertrude Witherspoon from Grapeseed, a person dying on the vine.

“Well can you tell me where the nearest public restroom is? My husband and I were just passing through on the way to Chilbo (she lies).”

“Mmmmmmmmm. I *said*…. hmmmm…. let me…. think… ummmmm.”

“Well, never mind,” said Wheeler. We’ll just do it in the grass beside the road.”

“That sounds best,” the woman said with no irony in her voice. Did she really think this was the best solution? Would *she* resort to that?

Wheeler was about to walk through the front door in a huff when…

“Oh wait, young person.” Young person! Wheeler thought. The old hag had just redeemed herself, ha. “Bert’s in his office today for a change. Bert has an extra set of keys. Just knock on the door — ’round the poster there.” As if she couldn’t be bothered, Wheeler thought, watching her continue to just stand there and pose in various ways. Provocatively? Could be if she were, say, 60 years younger, Wheeler thought, and then also thought that’s not a very nice thought. *She’s*… well, she always says she’s 25 working on 39. But those days had passed. Just call it a Jack Bennyism vanity.

Going past Gertrude again — bathroom’s broke *pheh* — she gently knocks on the door.

Bert, or who she presumes is Bert, calls back in a pleasant enough voice to come in. She goes in.

But not before noticing what appeared to be Gertrude prominently appearing in that poster. Queer! she thought.

Then the same poster inside along with another surprise.

“You!”

And just like that she was gone.

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00460207

Time to go see what the boys are up to.

—–

“Thanks for joining me on this little venture.”

“Sure,” he said. “Vegetable garden can wait. Besides, well…”

“Yeah. Potential company back there. You’re going to have to be careful.”

“*You’re* going to have to be careful.”

“Soo… (sigh) This is where it happens, the magic, the view of paradise that boy mentioned.”

“Suppose so, Wheeler.”

“I mean, we saw them head in this direction. No lights. Like now.” Here Wheeler once again wonders if Newt and she would ever be a proper couple. Probably not, she concludes once more, a broken record, a record missing some letters in the middle to make it real. Simply because he’s Baker Bloch and that’s not allowed. Not *here*.

“Right, right. Stayed there — here — about an hour. I suppose that’s enough for paradise.”

“Yes,” said Wheeler nonchalantly to this. “And over there too, that building over there.” Wheeler remotely opens the window to the shack, points. “A treehouse as I’m checking; ‘nother place they go now.”

Treehouse, she ponders. Like the boys live in, with a shared robot computer on the way from their home world of Oooo as well. Should be arriving by next Tuesday’s Thursday.

“Yes, I remember when we were young and full of energy like that,” says Newt. Now just old and tired? he thinks to himself. He’s 50 going on 67. And Wheeler… he supposes she’s at least in her late 40s. Doesn’t look a day over 25 (he looks over). Well, 30 (pause) 35. Body aging gracefully, though. And so is his, he realizes. This works down here and that works up there. Both can happen.

Plus there’s The Abyss to consider, the writhing. Not Hell, but a kind of prison anyway (like Shelley is in?). Newt’s seen glimpses when he drinks his two daily 4 shot lattes too close to each other. 319. Must think about that more. Nawt Vaya — 319, hmm.

“Wheeler?” He looks over, sees the eyes. “I’ve decided to give it a shot.”

“What shot?” she shoots back.

“You know. *That*.”

“*Here*?”

He thinks of The Abyss. So many writhing in The Abyss. Trapped. A date to begin, yes. Start over fresh. Hot dog joint out in the sticks won’t swing it. Something upscale, classy. Wheeler can wear one of those discount gowns she’s been collecting recently, hmph.

“Are you asking me *out*? Hubby?”

(to be continued)

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00460206

She was sitting on a trash bin at a local hot dog joint, taking mental notes.

“What do you think about Nawt Vaya so far?” asked senior Wanda Spotify to junior transfer Leonard Johhannssonn about the state university they both attend, the former destined to replace Peter Melanchton as summa cum laude graduate of her class.

He smiled, thinking of what just went on in their secretive 12×10 getaway cabin just over there. He’d seen… paradise!

“Welll?” she asked, addicted to answers (which made her such a good student). Then, looking over at Wheeler on the trash bin, she caught the synchronicity. Oh, well *that* won’t happen again, she thought. Until tonight. Studying and attending classes first, of course. Then they’ll meet back here at the hot dog stand around 6-ish. Wheeler took note of that too.

—–

“Why are we here Wheeler?” questioned on again off again hubby Newt.

“Just shussh,” she said not much above a whisper. “I’m trying to listen.” To soothe Newt’s then perceived hurt feelings, she added, “I’ll tell you when they leave.”

Their one hot dog came, neither being much of a meat lover. Unless it’s Wheeler.

(to be continued)

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00460201 (time reversal)

—–

“Well it’s just beautiful hair, Ms…”

“Wilson,” said Wheeler. “Wheeler Wilson.”

“Like the dams, then,” responded stylist Sep to this.

“And the Vice-Presidents, ha (!).”

“Oh yes, that too,” said Sep, barely remembering the latter fact from her “1800s Sex/History Education” elective humanities class taken over at the local college along with all the cosmetology ones needed for that associate degree. “Soo… what’ll it be today?” Marveling Sep was thinking while continuing to wash: I personally wouldn’t change a thing if I had such luxurious locks.

“Chop it all off (internal gasp from Sep?). Dye it pink. In *short*, I want the Butterfly. Number 25. I saw it on your ad.”

“Oh, *very* popular. All the Butterflies are selling well currently. Must be the Spring in the air. Time of transformation,” she waxed philosophically. “Change.” Washing done now, Wheeler sits up as Sep begins to towel her dry.

“Indeed.” This long hair Magika style is for the winter, Wheeler thinks. She wants her scalp to breathe now. Sunlight; warmth. And… a new man. Who is the same as the old man. Old Man Newt, ha, distinctive in his growing greyness. Will meet him next. Under the parrots, or as close as they could get.

—–

“What do you think?”

“Perfect.” But while saying this she was looking at the reflection of the guy in the next chair over instead of her own. So familiar. Where had she seen him before? And why was he just sitting there instead of getting his own hair cut or styled? Queer.

(to be continued)

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00460113 (letting the butterflies loose)

https://bakerbloch.com/2022/07/30/00340113/

—–

“Soo, why are we back here again, Jack? Pink again?”

“Yeah,” responds Jack the Dogg, his 1/2 brother and also bestest friend in the world. Unless it’s Todd. “And you know what that means?”

“Errr,” went Fink, once more sloow to catch on.

—–

15 minutes later, after earning another F- on the new quiz.

“I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy!”

You certainly aren’t, thinks the newest iteration of Princess Pinky Gumm in Our Second Lyfe dominating above him but, of course, biting her tongue. Fink remains a powerful ally. And friend.

Now to deal with Art and Ed, she thinks; break the bad news to the duo so use to having their way up to this point. The buck stops here.

She looks to the sky and thinks of all the power she has. 319.

(to be continued)

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00450704

Oops, he thinks while checking the photo-novel 45 clock behind Redd, its time quickly running out. See ya, my new muse. Gotta go meet Tobor down at the beach to end this thing, but not before leaving my door slightly ajar of course. This could be a deep one.

As it turns out, Greg’s Makers Way is not the only Maker in the area. There’s what appears to be this fashion magazine located in a small, out of the way radio station in nearby Seogwipo about 200 meters away, which DJ Carolin “Wind” Willows is just entering to begin her long long workday isolated from the rest of the world. Tough since she’s a sociopath, I mean, a social person. She rethinks her career choice every time she walks through that door. She also leaves it ajar? Could be.

Ahh, a little Blue Moon Kentucky from her independent label Sun Records will help first thing in the morning, she thinks. Little track called “Elvis Esley” penned by Scottyd Bill that helped put her back on the musical map after the breakup of the Cracks. Here goes!

Listening to the lyrics, Carolin can’t help but wonder again how such a depressing song ever made it to the top of the pop charts. Suicide! And more.

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