Charlene Brown the Punk and Jeffrie Phillips sit in the car again in the center of Harbourtown, the twin city of NWES. “Rose Heaven seems to have closed up for us, dearest,” she spoke to him. “Gaston too.”
“Don’t go there?” asked Jeffrie Phillips again, to which she responded in the negative. “Too many ghosts,” she added, looking over at the Happy Travels Travel Agency, Harbourtown Branch, with its 3 featured portals.
“Karma,” he elaborated, or perhaps just added onto what Charlene said.
“We still have Guy. In the temple over there. Shall we go worship?”
Where a door closes a hole opens. Guy had protected one he knew was important, thus preserving the past as well. The past to the future. UNEXPLAINED ANOMALY.
“We reached a dead end in NWES City, my love, future present past.”
“We did,” agreed Charlene Brown the punk beside him in the car at the center of the new city, whatever he or she or they decide to call it. Maybe just New Town.
“Oh… look over there, dearest. Another Happy Travels office, just like in…”
“Don’t say it, sweets. Let’s put that name behind us, move on to the new. New Town?” she then guessed, mirroring my thoughts.
“Anyway, there it is… again. Probably the portal to Gaston once more as well.”
“Don’t use it,” wisely advised Charlene. “Seal that up too. Let Barry X. Vampire the writer and, heck, Barry Deboy the artist deal with it if they wish.”
“Are the Barrys still around?” I ask through Jeffrie Phillips, borrowing his voice for the moment.
Charlene shook her head, but not as a denial. Instead: “Not our problem.”
“And a MacDonald’s,” Jeffrie joked when looking more behind them. Funny.
Official Guy Linden Temple in “New Town”.
“A message to all my fans out there. Some like their Pink hot.”
“This will never work, Elberta,” Toothpick states at another low point. “You’re so beautiful and I’m so… ugly. Never mind the whole brother-sister…”
“I’m going to stop you there, potential husband of mind. No, better, I’m going to *absorb* you. I want to see what happens.”
Toothpick/Filbert was at a low point, as stated. He had nothing to lose. “Take me.”
“He must never find you, Ross C. He’ll destroy our little square world if he does and make everyone in it miserable.”
“Happy (*zip*) unhappy,” she sputtered.
There’s only one way out. *Become* the world, see. See me in him and him in me.”
Robot from the future Ross C. saw the truth in it.
Hotgirl was freed from Misery Cabin but was unable to speak about her experience there for a while.
Old reality was flickering on and off.
She eventually made her way back to GASTON.
“What we *need* to do,” old companion Domino told
Hotgirl Hitgirl Hitgerl Hitgurl Hitgal while they watched piled up house band Firesign Theatre play for the 4th time tonight at the Rhino, “is to similarly change *Misery*… to *Mystery*. That’s what [delete name] indicates.”
“Shuts your trap.” But the seed had been planted.
“Been a while since you’ve been here Hidi. Who you hiding away from now?”
“Oh, the same.”
“Where’d you like to go today? I believe the trailer park is new since you last stayed with us.” Zack Black himself lived in the trailer park now, the residents of which complain all the time about his loud playing of Firesign Theater and The Residents. Eyeballed beings both.
“That sounds good. To begin.” Off they went.
“Helloooo boys. Seen any dead hookers lately?”
“Hidi Widi, as I breathe and stink.”
“Delbert,” she addressed the stockier bruiser who just talked. “Filburt”, she said to the other. “Smells like a hot piece of coal in here.”
“Yeah, mom’s cooking up some rust for din din,” spat out Delbert.
“*Your* mum,” corrected Filburt. “*My* great great grandmum.” He turned to Hidi. “We both look the same age, yeah? We ain’t.” Filburt was very vain about his youthful looks and trimmer waist.
“How old are you?” Hidi was truly curious. She guessed 60 but it could be 20 the way he talked.
“40.” Split the difference, yeah. She should have bet him on it.
“Forty-*two*,” also answered the other: Delbert. The stockier one with a beard that would make alternate Spock envious. But people round here wouldn’t understand that reference, since Star Trek wasn’t invented until sometime in the 1800’s. In contrast, Star Wars was all the rage, with 16 talkie movies so far to follow the 7 silent ones. The ones no one talks about any more. Charlie Chaplin as Yoyo (or Dada) and Buster Keaton as spittoon carrying Chewbacco. Mary Pickford as Princess Leida, the role that made her famous for a while. Until she opened her mouth for the camera and tin came out instead of gold. She was great to look at but that voice. Gene Emmett Kelly the dancing clown dumped her for another with a golden voice to match at least a silver look. Not quite Pickford but close enough. And no tin or lead spewing from her lips.
(to be continued?)
Goodbye Ant Castle at the end of Eleph’s Trunk. I feel like I hardly knew ya.
The only related castle remaining on The Trunk is Harrison Ford Jett’s, whose enhancing apples were recently mentioned in relation to a city crime. The City now. But was he suspected perpetrator or victim in a series of 4? And is he truly a man or a woman? Perhaps it doesn’t matter; let’s go with it doesn’t matter.
“Sure you can stay with me, Ant. Until you get your 6 feet back on the ground.”
That taken care of, let’s move back to The City and the Happy Travels Travel Agency…
“Hellloooo. I’m ready to go on vacation. Hide away again.” It was typical of Hidi to do so; in her genes, one could say. Speaking of which…
The house seemed empty. But it had a portal room.
In the thin woods eyes were watching.
Maybe 1/2 and 1/2.
We should walk back to GASTON.
.daor eht ssorc mih gnihctaw ,nacnuD desserpmi na denipo ”,onimoD ,naem uoy tahw ees I“
She glanced past Harrison Jett through the window. “You know, I thought that was Bigfoot out there for the longest time. But it’s not. It’s a man — carrying a woman. The woman looks like 2 arms.”
Harrison Jett also looked out, not impressed. After all, he was a man fused with a woman as well. He was the real deal, the Real McCoy. He told this to Charlene the punk, then asked her how the heck she got *here*. Last he’d heard, she was in Gaston.
“Well, Barry X. Vampire — *sorry* — *Jeffrie Phillips* got tired of me and separated his place from my place. Yeah, I was in Gaston for a while. Yeah I saw Firesign Theatre perform there, a house band at the Rhino. But then I started hanging around Randolph the Pirate; hanging around that Dark Peak of the two, the one without the topping Christ.
“I believe he’s called Jim in some realms,” offered Harrison about the bastard buccaneer while sipping on his mysterious Xplicit drink. She had a parallel drink, held in the opposite hand. Male and female, once more. They should clink and get it over with.
She had to ask. “Those — apples. Are they real?”
Harrison Jett looked down. Were they?
(to be continued)
Now eyepatched Jim the Bastard Pirate, still working from his magic typewriter, looks around the 2nd floor of his new Bogota Gallery in NWES City and sees it is good.
Soon he would reach the 3rd and enter a new level of understanding about what happened to Hucka Doobie when she was pushed into that collage to the left by thought-to-be friend Tammy Whatammy back in photo-novel 7. Instead: fusion.
“When in Rome” (2018)
“I remember that day like it was yesterday,” spoke Jiff the former staff psychologist at Gaston Police Station. “Gastion, they sometimes called it when they were all drunk and slury down in the basement beside the torturing devices. Best to be intoxicated down there. Too many ghosts and memories. But it was the only place they could get away from chief Golden
Josephine Jim and expect to get away with it. Chef Golden Jim Josephine often joined them. Cook at the upgraded Joint Joint, now a hip place for those who think with their hips instead of their head. Which was seemingly everyone around here. The Dark Peak dominated once more — Dark Days again.”
Jim the Bastard Pirate, formerly Randolph the Bastard Pirate, was typing away as Jiff’s cartoon-ish, Ickle voice yammered on. The words almost came too swift. He needed something better than a manual instrument for his craft, his trade. Because, he determined early on, this one will *sell*. I’ll hide all the things I’ve plundered from others, like that graphite gray map on the, let’s see, wall behind me. There. He turns.
Half of it remains screened for now.
138 dead. Chain reaction. The words reverberated in his head like a broken record or something. A repetitive sea shanty — that’s better. He remembers to paint again. Dreamy dreams can wait. He tries to set them aside but more return en masse. Chain reaction. 138 dead, 138 dead, 138 dead. Perhaps it is time to write; maybe the *other* voices will drown out *these* voices. He moves from the canvas to the typewriter to begin a long overdue project. He inserts a blank sheet. Like life itself, waiting to be written upon, he thinks. Fresh start. He presses caps lock and centers the page 2/3rd up with 3 backspaces. He types a G, then an A, then an S. He stares at what he’s typed so far. T, then, O. He pauses again. N to finish. It has begun.
That should keep the bastard busy for a while.