Category Archives: Cass City^

July 22, 2020 · 6:45 am

“Fathers”

“I’d say it’s from the future,” studying Jim B. answered Baker Bloch about the revolving head in a jar. “Connected to Cassandra and its own head in a jar, of course. Something about dad…”

“And *root* beer,” he furthered, looking at the 6-pack on the table with the head. “Not beer beer. So something not involving alcohol. I’d say this man was an alcoholic on the wagon. Perhaps that is the thing which did him in.”

“Isn’t Anderson called Blacks?” Baker Bloch called from the back, nearer the video feed. He was checking.

“How would I know?” answered Jim B., who preferred the surname Brown himself. “But if it is, and you should probably know…”

“Yes.”

“Another lead.”

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July 20, 2020 · 9:41 am

Little Jimmy

“I coming bearing both a cross and a crucifix. I bring you Second Life. I am from Rhode…”

“…nwald,” finishes Baker for the new nun. He looks in a direction beyond Cassandra, thinking perhaps it might be Rhode Island instead.

“Ok, you’re hired.”

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July 15, 2020 · 11:05 am

review

Cassandra City still holds promise but probably not for this here current photo-novel. Baker Bloch must take his leave, rented apartment in town unused. Big Dick, a Phil actually, waits patiently in the corner of his hotel lobby, looking forward to more communication through the aether.

—–

Story possibilities in Heartsdale, a major driver early on in photo-novel 20, have most likely been exhausted as well. Let’s return there for a similar, final shot: Baker Bloch in front of Small Wood posing with Teddy, a black and white horse owned by an avatar named Zero.

Both glimpse Philip Strevor through a broken gate to the sidewalk. Strangely, the duplicate Yoko Ona that also walked around this particular Heartsdale block is gone now. Yoko as a whole has probably moved on from this sim.

—–

There seems to be more in Iris, a place to be focused on still. For example, there’s a kind of, um, inexplicable “hole” in the center of the 4-5 sim region owned by [delete name], who may actually, in Real Life, be [delete word]. If so, *Crooked* seems to be a link. The prominence of the Moth Temple seen in the background here, the “eye” of the whole Heterocera continent, could play a role in the hypothetical overshadowing of this mystery spot.

—–

Toppsity? I’m not sure what took place in the trial of Yoko Ona. We *know* that she spat on Baker Bloch when he tried to turn her right-side up from upside down while both were fishing in Heartsdale Bay, the last Heartsdale related post in this here photo-novel actually. You don’t spit on the chief avatar of a blog, the one the owner most identifies with, and get away with it — at least in the blog itself, where we still are last time I checked. (pause) Yes, I just checked. We are still in the blog.

But the witches of her coven eliminated original judge Tronesisia: drowned, with a possible saving ship arriving too late in the early afternoon after the late morning accident. Then the several witnesses we know of — Miss Raincoat (aka Sammy Whatammy), Uncle Stinky, and probably Crayola as well (aka Tammy Whatammy?) — have all been linked to maleficent forces too. Wait, let me check that again. (pause) Uncle Stinky has *not* been associated with such forces. He still can be used by the prosecutor George A., who we’ve not talked about since that particular post either. So we should return to Toppsity and finish the trial. Defendant Yoko Ona may be called to the stand herself. *That* could be interesting.

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July 12, 2020 · 4:12 pm

the counter 02

Into the lunch room he stalked and deposited twenty cents upon the counter.

Biff Carter paused in his reading, looked over at the purveyor who was himself. I’ve been underpaid! he realized.

It was 1919 now. He’d lost twenty years somehow. Just by reading the book.

He went over and paid the purveyor twenty cents to make up for the time. Back to reality!

Tome firmly in hand, ex-police officer Biff Carter walked out of the The Red Book, never needing to return.


“It worked.”

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July 12, 2020 · 10:37 am

the counter 01

He was looking for The Red Book but instead stumbled into the wrong store. “Other side of town,” the purveyor spurned upon hearing his request.

“Ahh, I’ll just take a ‘Moby Prick’, then.”

“1 nickel please.” This was 1939 after all. Or thereabouts.

—–

Biff Carter walked into the Cassandra City bookstore with the *correct* book. He laid a nickle on the counter.

“No cost,” the purveyor spurned. “You have to read it here.”

Biff Carter walked over to the bookshelf with the lone book not stuck or fused with it, took it to the store’s lone chair, and began to read. About himself.

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July 11, 2020 · 8:46 am

downtown bar

“You said you wanted to get closer to me, Kate, so here we are.” He turns in his seat. “At the place it all began for Jenny and me. Before she became world famous Your Mama and all turned to rust and rot.”

Kate McCoy was tired of hearing about Keith B.’s daughter but bit her tongue right now. He had brought her along on this trip to Cassandra City and she was grateful for the bonding opportunity. If only *he* were her daddy instead of that low life Craighead Phillips. Where was *he*? Still galavanting around in Bluefield US of A? She didn’t want to know; she didn’t care. She was with Keith B. for the present. She had designs on a long term relationship. Maybe he did too — she didn’t know. Yet.

He starts pointing around the place, indicating changes. “The stage, Kate, use to be in that corner — instead of over there on the side. A lot of these booths have been added too.” Keith B. was disappointed that there’s no indication of their presence in this bar. It was apparently up to him to keep the history alive. “It’s all in the autobiography,” he often tells friends after throwing them a juicy piece of the past. They usually want more and then that’s what he tells them. He’d rather write for many instead of talk for few. He’d learned that lesson decades ago. People like to talk, but words only last if you write them down or record them in some equivalent way. He started a blog in 2008. He could better organize his thoughts about people places things with categories and tags. He had a system.

“Keith?” Kate McCoy spoke, seeing her wanna-be dad spacing out again, most likely about the past. She wanted his full attention once more.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Thinking about the blog?”

“Yeah. I suppose.” He feels the slightly extra pressure his flip style notepad makes in the back of his pants. He senses the push style lead pencil in his front pocket against a thigh. Tools of his trade. While he was away from the computer. But he must resist the urge to pull it out in front of his wanna-be daughter. That’s not how it works.

(to be continued?)

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July 11, 2020 · 8:27 am

portal 02

It was night for Biff. Maybe he overdid it with the BD thing, he thinks while staring over at the now sleeping Keith B. Had to sleep in place since no rooms are available. Maybe he’ll get some decent rest tomorrow; maybe find that couch over in Hoboken or whatever they call that place now. Hobo Ken. Ken the Hobo. That was it. And that was his couch.  I bet he’s over there right now. Sleeping soundly away. Well — let’s just switch them out. Test the malleability of this place.

There was no true sleeping animation in the couch. Ken the Hobo must not exist after all. Keith B. would have to wait until Saturday to get that good night’s rest. Let’s return to the present.

He really is gone. It worked! What’s that speck on the globe? Is that where we’re suppose to head next?

This is as close as I can get for now.

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July 11, 2020 · 7:40 am

portal

Keith B. was back in Cassandra City, exploring old haunts, some still around, a lot: gone. He doesn’t remember, for instance, Big Dick’s Halfway Inn. He quickly figured out that BD stands in or resonates directly with MP, that is, Moby Prick. Here was a famous white whale manifested, perhaps. He better check it out.

He waited for the clerk to show up but one never came. From the corner of the lobby, unseen until now, a man spoke up, his voice crisp with confidence and intrigue. “Place is filled up, sir. You better go elsewhere. Gabby is on one of those long lunch breaks again.”

“Gabby?” returned Keith B., thinking the name was wrong. What was it in rehearsal. Jimmy? Dimmy? No, that wasn’t it either.

The man introduced himself instead of gabbing more about Gabby. “My name is Wendell “Biff” Carter and you were lured in here by the sign. Lured in so that you could meet *me*.”

The *whale*? Keith B. thinks while staring over, trying to get a better estimate of the man while not being so obvious about it.  That was it: someone was attempting to create a *report* on this man. And failing. Failing in general. Keith B. was here to help. At least that’s what the last version of the script read.

“Big Dick I assume.”

He extended his arms and scooted forward a little. “In the flesh.”

Keith B. turned away. He was finished studying for the moment.

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July 10, 2020 · 10:27 am

around Cassandra City 02

Dimmy Gene never did get a copy of “Moby Prick”. The other bookstore in town closed 10 minutes before he arrived. He’d have to lay out of school (once more), maybe ride his motocyclone over to Toppsity. But first: an early movie. Cheaper that way.

2:00 in the afternoon and hardly anyone is here. Oh right, everyone *else* is in school, studying away. Studying to be grown-up dunces, he muses, thinking of his father Daffy Gene and his family run chain of fine clothing stores. He’s set up to be another Gene in their line of production. Well I’m *bucking* the system. Buck “Moby Prick.” Buck the red book, even, although he’s heard it’s better than the other. A whole bookstore devoted to that one book, he thinks again, not quite understanding the impossibility of it.

Great. Another movie about the future being in the past. Oh well.

He runs and gets some popcorn, mountainy dew, and candy before settling back in for a long one.

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July 10, 2020 · 8:37 am

around Cassandra City

“Where is he?” Warhole demanded to the mechanical soothsayer. “Where’s Gabby?”

“You come — bearing the mantle of other people tonight, Andy War-HOLE. You have been talking to — *people* too much. You are too — *peoplely*.”

“Well, yeah. What of it? I’m an artist. I have to mingle. Socializing sells art. That’s what I’m about. Baby.” He checks his watch with this. Gabby should have been here 20 minutes ago! He needs help.

—–

“Oh I look hideous,” Poetry Dancer complained to Marilyn.

“Won’t take long dearest (*coo*). We’ll have you looking, *exactly* like one of us in a jiffy, darling (*ooo!*).”

—–

“No sir, you don’t understand. We sell *one* book. The red one.” You’ll have to go to the other bookstore in town for “Moby Prick”.

“Aww, *geez*.” Dimmy Gene’s book review was due tomorrow, and now he has to walk all the way across town to get a copy and start reading.

—–

“It’s no good,” Gabby complains at the typewriter with its inserted, still blank sheet of paper. “I need people to write!” Long lunch break’s over. He better head back to the wagons.

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