He was laid down in a trench and then covered head to foote with mourning flowers but not the expensive Amazonia kind that would quickly burn up the family’s meager savings. Toothpick stood back after throwing down his own bluebell blooms, picked fresh from a Meat City field behind Francis’ club just this morning, maw beside him in her Sunday finest which was actually just her everyday rags, and her hopefully soon-to-be new roommate Mr. Z beside her, complete with his continental mask laden backpack which he took most everywhere for fear of theft in this here backwoods suburb. Elberta was absent since she wasn’t suppose to see the groom the week before the wedding; Toothpick borrowed her hat to give his now sister/soon wife a type of presence.
They took one last look at blossom bedecked Uncle Luther, killed by a flu-like disease just 2 days before yesterday’s tomorrow, a stark naked Luther not wearing any overalls for the 1st time since way back in ’76 when he inherited them from his recently deceased Cousin Ferdinand, dead from a fire in the old mansion that ended the rule of the 100. Poverty: the rule of the day ever since. Some named it the Curse of the Coveralls, another word for overalls back in the day and what Uncle L. called his own, but Toothpick might have just made that up after the fact, in his head; he had an imaginative brain, almost invisible to others, or he tends to hide it behind a perpetually straw embellished mouth that he also feels distracts from his damaged teeth as he whisks it about rapidly, creating a kind of blurring effect in that area.
It was time to leave the teeny tiny cemetery next to a corner of Marwood’s scaled down Eiffel Tower and let gravedigger Big Hand Eddie do his work. Goodbye Uncle Luther. But hellooo coveralls!
“Oh you’re just a big chicken is all you are. Right Mr. Z?”
“Right Mrs. M.”
“Hey over there. Hey: look at me.”
Both stare at Toothpick almost surrounded by pecking hens.
“This *h’ain’t* an episode of ‘Happy Days'”, he spews over. “There h’ain’t no happy bluebird atop Blue Berry Hill finding his trill. Just ask Little Robert Plant Variant over in Nowtown. Or is it Zen City. *Anyway*…”
“Oh I don’t know what you go on about 1/2 the time, Toothpick. If only *Z* here would have been my real child instead of one from another mother, he he. How is your maw anyways, Mr. Z.?”
“She’s dead thank you.”
“That’s good. Good to be dead in this day and age. Toothpick over there wants to off himself again. If he wasn’t already dead. Right Toothpick?” his mother shouts over. How much more of this can he take. And his *best friend* from high school or thereabouts siding against him now. Must be all that worldly corruption seeping into his bones. He didn’t use to be this way when he was little, provincial Little Z. I remember him sleeping a lot — maybe that was why he wasn’t controversial back then.
“Wake up over there Toothpick and talk to us.” His maw was *so* tired of him dreaming away his life. She just wanted him to get married to Elberta and move the heck out of her trailer. Maybe Z could move in then. But she can’t go there quite yet. First get the young’n out then deal with a potential new lover.
(to be continued?)
There was a giant book, just out of sight. 6 fingered people.
Toothpick wants to dig himself a hole and hide away from his sister problems forever.
But Baker Bloch won’t let him.
“Wake up in there! Time to help me out again, ha.”
Supper Man is determined to work off those extra pounds he’s put on lately before his marriage to Dinner Girl Saturday after next Saturday after next Saturday. Super!
I wanted to fit this in here too. Meat City, a suburb of NWES City. A paper named Post formerly owned by Grahams.
Strange do’in’s in this here NWES Island. Like New Island but different. Less sand for one thing. More green, if not more grass. But I think the two are related. Both Big Escapes, perhaps. 10’s. The search for perfection in a microcosm.
Toothpick’s best friend from high school Mr. Z returns to his home of Meat City after extensive world travel. Note the masks on his pack representing every continent he’s visited. Fra- Fra- Francis tells him he’s can’t get in the club because he’s not a member but he says he just wants to use the phone and he won’t look at anything he isn’t suppose to. He remembers the pay phone from days gone by. He remembers (Fra- Fra-) Francis as well, the only black kid in his 5 child class who use to train ants to wage war in his playdough fort. Good days, good times. Francis remembers them too; he lets Mr. Z pass through after a stern warning. “Don’t look at the girls,” he requests almost under his breath. “They’ll remember. They’ll report me. Don’t look at them,” he repeats and then steps aside after a lengthy, glary stare. Mr. Z recalled that stare from his ant vs. wasp battles with Francis back in the days. The wasps never stood a chance. Mr. Z promises he won’t look at the girls. He knows something much worse than ants awaits if he does. Fra- Fra- Francis has evolved beyond his childhood times into something much more adult oriented.
He couldn’t help himself. He glanced over while talking to Toothpick (aka Filbert — *not* to be confused with Filburt! (he’s different)) about his journey to the Eleph Trunk and finding Venus and Mars combined into one. “Oh God,” he then sputters into the receiver, “is that Aunt Fannie over there?” He looks away quickly but not fast enough. Aunt Fannie has eyes in the back as well. He recounts why she is so named as he hangs up the phone and scuttles out the door.
A deep metallic voice: “Ah yes, this must be the tube that LRPV used to destroy formerly Zen City and set up his Nowtown to rule NWES Island. Until it too was destroyed by a spawned fireball emitted from the Zen City detonation. The rule lasted about 10 seconds, then. Wait.” He checked his script. He saw the word “improvise” in bold italics after “Wait.” “Uhm. I don’t think that’s right, Wayne.” Who’s Wayne? I look off in the distance.
Sandy knew it had to happen. As he had changed others to make them appear as he wished, so too must he now pay the price. Karma, a word not to be thrown lightly around. He lay in his bed, dreaming he was another. Another Sandy. Seems like Spongebub images are everywhere these days, ba ha ha ha ha.
“Dig that chick at the bar, King Orange.”
“Sandy?” replied King Orange, now staring at her instead of clown and fellow burger baron Renaldo O’Donnell. “Sandy Chic?” he completed.
Renaldo O’Donnell glanced over his shoulder again, taking her in better. “I’d like to get her out of that little purple skirt,” he said in a male bastard way. “Like to get some of that tail.”
Sandy overheard with her sharp squirrel(-like) ears. She walked over and complied. “*Here* (*pop*), you can have them (*slam*). The things were getting stuck in the bar anyway behind me; keeping me from standing properly.”
She walked out of the Bigfoot Bar as they called it, also slamming the door.
Sandy Beech fully awakes with this, remembering everything. The stand, the poster. “Wendy,” he says aloud. “I forgot about Wendy!” He rushes downstairs to see if anything he was dreaming about remained.
Nothing but a cold, naked air blowing through an open door with a suddenly broke off handle. The wind slammed it shut again. Who would do this?
“Oewa, we have to get ready to move into the big city. Like ‘Green Acres’ except in reverse. Are you ready?”
Oewa couldn’t answer properly, being just a simple cat and not one of those talky ones like you can purchase in the city down in Black Ice. Or so he’s heard.
“Guess I might take this chance to fix my teeth, hmm.” He moves the straw around his mouth anxiously, feeling all the holes now.
Again? thinks the cat that can’t say it aloud, at least to humans. Maybe she can get one of those talky tubes she heard they sell down at the Black Ice market. Frenchy told her this. Frenchy knows stuff. Frenchy is a bird but not one of the tasty ones. Frenchy is a fowl parrot. What a mouth! “G-d d-mn m-ther f-cker you can get a tube down there,” he said upon hearing her plan piggybacking on her master Toothpick’s plan to get new teeth to go along with his new apartment. 50 lindens a month! How did he get such a great deal? And with only one neighbor, albeit living right on top of him. Someone called MAT.
“When you stare at me like that, I don’t know *what* you’re thinking, mm mm mm. We better start packing.”
(to be continued)
“There.” Toothpick pointed past the scaled down Eiffel Tower and other 1/2 rezzed in objects and structures between the two temples. “Just like I said… *Berry*.”
“I’ve never heard of this Temple of TILE.” Master Berry couldn’t believe Toothpick had broken free of his power. Through a *game*? “Tell me more about this Carcassonne.”
“I’ll do better than that. Why don’t you come with me over there this Sunday. You have to choose a color ahead of time. I’m always red. I don’t know why but that’s what I always am. And… well, you’ll see.”
“Thank you, Toothpick. I might.”
Toothpick gandered back at his former master, took him in again for what he was. Human. *Not* like Carrcassonnee. She’s alien through and through. A real avatar to base a real religion around. Berry will see. Maybe he can join us too. Give up this sham temple out here in the boondocks. Move to the city as well. Maybe something else will open up in the Kidd Tower where I live. Heck, he can move in with *me*. Be *my* slave for a change. “Berry,” he decided to test, “how are you on fixing flapjacks?”
“I just don’t feel very… religious lately, Master Berry.”
“Feel the grass around you, feel the fern, the bamboo, the butterflies, the temple itself.”
“That’s just it. I’m thinking of changing temples.”
“Oh?” Master Berry’s voice was filled with surprise. What temple? He decides to say this aloud. “What temple?”
Toothpick told him. “I believe the sim is called Diamondfyre,” and then beamed a snaggly smile at his *former* master, piece of straw still clutched between two or three remaining teeth. He was free. Maybe. 1/2 and 1/2.
“Time out,” called Jim Peterson playing Master Berry. “I thought we talked about this.”