Category Archives: Slaashsides

5 cats

Prick grew up after the disappointment of losing the balloon and his childhood sweetheart along with it (Pip). Took to playing the violin; joined a band of sorts. But beamy yellow sunshine always remained hidden in starless darke. He was not a happy man. Here he bows a dirge to fallen children everywhere — one of his compositions for the group.

Don, Joe and Alex put up with the pain and sorrow, which they liked to mask themselves with drugs and women and expensive, gaudy clothes. Colorful, they were in a word. Sgt. Pepper-ish. Not Prick. Just pepper would do for him, as in sneezy and black.

They played the last sad chord of the piece.

“Okay,” offered Cheery Don, who was kind of the leader. “Let’s try something more uplifting now.”

One of *yours* obviously, Prick thought pungently, but instead it was green boy Jolly Joe’s turn. Ambiguous Alex, who was closer to Prick’s spirit as well as his body here, glanced over, wondering if he’d even lift up his arm to his fiddle for this one. Someday, he knew, the limb would not rise but remain by the side. Then it would be done. All this was written or foreshadowed or prerecorded back in childhood.

Then the group as a whole could move on to Frenzied Fred. The Purple Bunch they would become in this most likely of probable realities, archaic instruments set aside forever.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0027, 0403, Nautilus^^, Slaashsides

prick

“What happened to you? Tell me *every-thing.*”

“There was this other man. Todd. Lured me into a trap. Triangles.”

“Triangles?”

“Irresolved, he said. Called me in to help.”

“Mushrooms?” she picked up. “Should have let him down. Slow and eassy.”

“Yeah, I know that *now*.”

“Right. Okay. Continue.”

“A dreaming boy. 5 cats out on a limb. The boy dreams the cats, the limb. It is he. They are waiting for the one who chops the limb off. Fallen.”

Uninjured Wonderlady sits back. “How is High Fidelity doing anyway?”

With this they enter the sphere (*POP*).

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0027, 0402, Illinois, Nautilus^^, Slaashsides

ears for hears

As soon as I found a correct location to teleport in and sat down at the first table I saw, I realized I had not only visited here but I *lived* here. I recall Burro Alley. I recall the policeman, perhaps named Brown or maybe just living in a brownstone apartment. He was *after* me. He was asking two hookers about my location in an alley across from the alley (*The* Alley), but the one who cooperated didn’t actually know anything. The other did, but she was from the country. *My* country.

I was part of the Black Lake Bunch, also known as the Black Lake Gang or Purple Bunch. There was one in it who didn’t like me, didn’t approve of me. She said: why don’t you appear as you really are in this Second Lyfe of ours. She also mentioned the plug. I said the plug covers an avatar defect. I said it monitors the surroundings, giving me indication of friend or foe. Right now it was hurting like a mother fo. Red. Indication of foe. I moved away from her, unfriended her, even though we were never friends. Blocked I think is the word, yes. But the other remained kind of a friend, like Thatch. She was helping protect me. Red turns to green. The Alley is just across the way. There we find PROBABILITIES, exactly what I was looking for. An ESCAPE.

“Helloo Wanda,” spoke the woman nearest me after she turned. She had a mocha cappuchino in her hand, made by Stenson the nice black lady that I also recall. The woman with the cappuchino was named… funny I couldn’t recall, although I’d seen her face a lot. Gertrude. I think. Jacksonia Andrews approached from the west, bringing me a pink drink that I realized I ordered all the time. It was a given. “Thank you Jacksonia,” I said as she handed it to me, cool as glacier. “Just what I needed for my aching feet.” “Haven’t you got a transplant yet?” she asked. “You’ve been talking about a transplant for forever, Wanda. Also: hadn’t seen you around in a while. We figured… we figured you were back at The Factory.”

“Feet,” I said back, trying to remember what she spoke of. I remembered her name at least. Now to the details. *This* was a factory as well, I remembered. But faces, not feet. Alice over there, sitting with new hands on old knees. I then knew, I then recalled. Not just face: feet, hands, any body part could be remodeled and redone and revitalized. I was here because of my feet. I stayed in a brownstone apartment, but not next to the officer who was looking for me. I was on a waiting list. Jenny said they could fix me up.

I poured the cool, glacial water on my feet. I had just added 5 more minutes to my stay, with a total at 7 minutes now. I had time for a couple more angles of investigation. I knew quite a bit more already. I decided to talk to Alice. She worked at the airport as some kind of receptionist. A lot of people around here worked at the various airports dotting the continent. Planes kept this landmass alive, vital. It was at the crossroads of everything.

Then I remembered *The* Crossroads, like this place had *The* Alley. 61 and 49, green and gray. Back there at the Airton airport on the mountain that is also a hill there was a gray grey laying next to me. My duplicate was being formed, but they couldn’t figure out how to move gray into green by gaining 12. They weren’t working in base 12 and remained in base 10. I had been saved so far by their more primitive mathematics. But still: time was running out.

—–

The doctor got out of his car. He had been there all along, observing and listening, taking notes, just like me.

“I heard something about numbers. Should we be working with different numbers? Would that solve the problem?”

I hate when people get in my head like that.

(to be continued)

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boy next door

I was five years old. And I was preoccupied with the prop that was in my hand, because it was a toy turtle. But I had to pretend it was a real turtle that the audience just wasn’t seeing, and it was dead, so I was supposed to be crying and very emotional, and I remember him looking at that little turtle and talking to me about how it was kind of funny to have to pretend that was dead. So I recall just a very relaxed first impression.

JOURNAL, DAY 5

I met Thatch at a Northern Sea location. He said (in essence), “Come with me and I’ll take you somewhere. Kings Stone,” he said. “Or maybe Kingston… King *Something*.” I knew he was trying to communicate effectively. I had just been to the place he perhaps indicated, but I wondered if it was really the jazz club in Kings Stone he meant. He seemed confused. I knew Kings Stone was next to Druids Post, and there was also a Kingpost to the west. Maybe Kingston was (instead) Kingpost. I would go to both locations and check. In the meantime, I noted that we, in this underwater location, were just next door to the Slaashsides community up in the air in the sim west of here. My neck was starting to hurt slightly. I knew I had to move. Here is a picture of Thatch. He claims he didn’t know what he was looking for here (in Our Second Lyfe), or whom. I told him that maybe he was looking for me, but he hesitated about becoming a friend. I of course knew to quickly back off, then.

His shirt appears to have the word KANE upon it. Or maybe, upon inspecting again, it was KANI.

I looked at the dress code rules (at the jazz club). I would not fit, perhaps. I would have to return, in a different costume. My energy was running low. My wrists above my feet were beginning to ache a little. My arm, where they punctured me with a willy tip day before yesterday’s tomorrow, was sore. My feet were sore. My RIGHT HEEL hurt a bit, always a bad sign. Sign of trouble. I would check out the second “Kingston” location of the night.

It was a small place, giving better indication that Thatch was a true messenger.

On to the second.

I had also been here before. I noted that there were cypresses, in its two expressions, dotting the doubled islands of the sim, its only land. I channel some of my energy from my right foot to my left foot to remain grounded. I had about 15 minutes before the pain would come back. I also decided to dip my feet in the (cool) water by dangling them over the edge of the pier.

I watched a helicopter land in the strait between the islands. It didn’t stay long enough to make friends with the pilot. Thatch might be the only avatar I talk with this night.

I noted from afar that the pilot then disappeared but his helicopter remained. This would be right on the line between Scar and Funnel. I noted that if you slash someones sides a scar would remain. A scar is also usually a line. The pilot appears to have “talked” to me after all. Slaashsides is the true destination.

I returned to Thatch and stole a bit of energy from his feet, since he now seemed inactive — AFK as the locals say. I calculated he wouldn’t mind. He was kind of my friend after all. Friends help friends. After draining the energy of his feet and also the wrists above them I figured I had 20 more minutes to work with than before, making a total of about 30 now. I had time to visit Slaashsides itself. Just next door.

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0027, 0313, Gno Kingdom^, Maebaleia/Satori^^, Nautilus^^, Outer Islands, Slaashsides

Cory’s win

“Oh it smells *awful*, Buster,” Duncan spoke about the green pocketbook mounted in a display case on the side of the newstand. “Nothing new in there atall. Something *old*, and rotten. Smells like rancid sauerkraut to me, maybe mix in a little mustard. Can you imagine? My hands are turning redder just thinking about it. I need to amscray outta here! (reply/order). Red it is (*click*).” Duncan will have to stay a spell longer. TILE is strong here in Slaashsides-soon-to-be-part-of-Middletown, Buster believes. Continuing his pained face beyond the odor, he walks toward the subway, intending to turn himself in to Officer Davis Jefferson and his pseudo-supervisor Martha Wiggins for the murder of Hot Dog, then spill his confession at the merged jailhouse and mental institution later on. It’s the only way he can get the inside scoop. He purposefully bumps against Cory on the way down, one with the mother now. “Happy, bud?”, he asks sarcastically as he spots Jefferson and Wiggins at the bottom of a long long flight of stairs.

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00260601

Middletown subway:

“We found a dogg, Police Chief Vice Chancellor Inspector Martha Wiggins. But *not* in *this* Lyfe.”

“Where, then?”

“*Reality*.”

“*Where, then??*”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0026, 0601, Nautilus^^, New Mexico, Slaashsides

where’s the beef?

If we could just recreate the original crime scene. Pigeon roosting on ass; Amanda Stoorm placing an ultra important call to Buster Damm.

Call? Looks like we just did. Duncan Avocado brings it home.

—–

“I knew you’d be here, Ginger. Because of the face replacement clinic and all.”

“500 lindens for a whole new look. Worth every penny!”

“Yes, you look great, you look fantastic.” Could Duncan date a high class white chick like this and get away with it in this town, this place in the center of it all? It would be controversial. Maybe *he* should get an operation. He knows a certain Dr. of Mouse who might be able to help. He ponders the outcome, black to white. But is he running away from his heritage because of that? He’s *tired* of being discriminated upon, but he’s in the same boat with the rest of his color. He can’t date fair, red haired Wendy down at Mac’s Diner either for the same reason, that damn white racist rat Pansy watching over it all. If only he could get rid of the Pooping Pigeon franchise, maybe create a reality where Wendy branches out on her on, dumps the hot dog angle, and goes all in for burger. Pure Angus beef; not those ridiculous fillers for the dog like lips and genitalia, even if that isn’t quite true. People could be trained to *think* that.

And that’s what he decided that day in the late of May or early June or whatever. Kill the Hot Dog, stick a pigeon on its rump and call it done. Killer Andrea Stoorm, trained in the Death Star battalions, knew what to do, Buster guiding her and then Buster telling Duncan what actually happened. “We manipulated probabilities in that Middletown alley that day in early May.” “June,” I corrected, but understood it all now. There was only one actual killing, the other 5 being deflections or subterfuge. Although it still thrived in other realities, in this one the Pooping Pigeon was over almost before it started, with Pansy behind bars behind a bar instead.

“What’ll it be Duncan, my man?” Always the “man” for the black dude, he observed. But at least he still played his old music here.

And now: Hidi.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0026, 0516, Eveningwood, Nautilus^^, Slaashsides

Burro Alley

Andrea Stoorm (killer) and Duncan Avocado had a followup meeting to their first at Jim’s-later-Cory’s Club but it didn’t go so well. Multiple theories were tossed around with none settled on. Blue and red remain confused and muddled.

“I have to split this damn dopple town,” thought Mary Ricardo, walking away from it all. Dopple on dopple!

Unseen Alysha knew more than she let on.

She heard the alley whispers.


Real Life Burro Alley, Santa Fe, NM

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0026, 0515, Nautilus^^, New Mexico, Slaashsides

Cory’s

He places an all important call to Buster Damm, his regional boss of sorts.

“Yeah, I’m standing right outside his place right now. (reply) He’s been here for *years and years*. (reply) Mom just came back in town. Now she’s in therapy. Or jail: it’s a mixed up place, with one establishment shifting over to the next before you can blink one eye and bat the other. It’s all red and blue here. I’m ready to amscray. (reply/question) Biker? Yeah, he’s here too. He just rolled up in fact; I heard his souped up motorcycle all the way across town. (reply/joke) Far as the ear can hear, good one. (reply/request) I’ll get on it.” Duncan Avocado hangs up the pay phone, glances over in the direction of the club’s entrance. The killer could be in there right now for all he knew, cooking up another crime in some degree of seriousness ranging from blue (not very much at all) to red (very *very* much so). “Damn town,” he reiterated again under his breath, and took steps toward the entrance.

—–

“Ever killed anyone, lady?” he joked at the bar, continuing the conversation to its ultimate end.

“Define ‘kill’.” There were different degrees of seriousness to it.

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dopple effect

“Figured you might be here, Biker.”

Well. I had to go *somewhere*. *Burt*. Wasn’t that your name the last time we met? Black Lake Bunch?”

“Brutus, actually. But enough of the past.” He fondled his skeleton heart medallion hung from his neck like an underweight albatross, knowing he had to further the plot. Biker was merely following steps.

“Evening wood be too kind for this sky.” He waited. Nothing. This must not be Eveningwood.

“Amazon is awfully hot for June.” Nothing. But then:

“Ama*zonia*.” Bingo. We can continue the dance.

—–

She stepped out of the subway and into the light.

“Mother?” Cory asked at the top of the stairs, hands folded. He hadn’t seen her in nigh on 20 years.

“Cory?? My little baby???”

“It’s me, Mother. Your little Cory.”

They hug. They embrace. Cory had heard she had been gunned down in a crosswalk over in Urqhart or thereabouts but here she was, full of blood again and pumping like hell. He could feel her heart pound through his. He hugged more. She embraced more. It was a warm moment, hot even.

She drew back from him, arms still entwined. “*My* *little* *Cory*.”

“Yes, Mother. It’s me.”

She exhales bigly. “Wellll. Where’ve you been??”

“Where *haven’t* I been.”

“Biking. So Peter tells me. And Jonathan.”

“Biking with a man named Biker, yes. I’m a biker, he’s a biker, but more than one. TWO TO KNOW.”

“What did you say, darling??” She hadn’t heard that expression in years and years, the last time being…” She unclasped his arms from hers, stood back, staring, no love in her eyes now, or just shock. She knew this wasn’t her little boy all grown up. She knew that this was some kind of doppleganger manufactured for a reason. *A* *reason*.

“Mother? Anything wrong?” He couldn’t even see it in her eyes, but he wasn’t programmed that way.

This Middletown was big, far as the eye could spy. Women wearing red wishing they were wearing blue. Visa versa. It was all a big game of 2 in this most central of cities.

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