Category Archives: Long Islands

00320413

It was getting foggy again. They must be close to the library. “Who are you?” she demands from the nefarious agent before her — ‘nother one — on this 3rd of levels, with yet another door to go through to reach the absolute end. “47,” he said, still reading, which was a lie because he was 23. Woman now: no hair on the lip atall. Thanks to the drink. “Reading about you, actually.”

“Oh yeahhh?” She was trying to act tough, heard gays or lesbians tend to do that. Stereotyping, even though she is one of ’em now.

“Um, yeah,” he answered plainly back, wondering about the posturing. She adjusts and leans left. She thinks it is the right thing to do — to back down from this man who seemingly has a plan. “Panama,” he continues to follow that last sentence. “Bridge between North and South.”

“Phooeysticks,” she barked, and then actually covered her mouth, wondering where the words come from. Phooeysticks? What kind of childish utterance was that?

But then she remembers saying it, long ago. In a crib by the silver shore. She said it to her Pop.

She looks toward the end which is not quite the end. “What’s behind the curtains, Pop?” She was talking in her head to her long dead father, going on 20 years now. “Oz,” came the kind voice back. “Or Ozzie; whichever you wish, darling.” She now knew she was dreaming but couldn’t wake up still. “Go to the pulpit and see,” requested the voice again. Agent 23 remained silent and frozen, his role done for now. She proceeded forward and sat.

—–

She still held the pop in her left hand, which was the channeling device. She still heard Pop in her head. “Feel the landscape, feel the *ground*,” as the lightning struck all around the picture before her. The tree! she thought. The swamp tree, but a… tamer one. One I can actually deal with. Not the one…

She recalled the last level. Sykes.

No need to go there now.

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games now

There it was, plain as day. Between the Whac a Pirate and Pack Man. And bottles at that, or so it said. She’d been fooled before. Dare she? She approached the portal, prepared her quarter for entry into the proffered slit. More channeling tonight, because Joey was about to turn gay. One touch of the magic pop to her lips (*drop*)…

There, ahhhhhhh.

Now to ditch this bitch wig and find the next door.

There! Behind the Hook A Duck.

She ain’t scared of no witches (but she should be).

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, Nautilus, 0412, Wild West, Long Islands, 0032

00320411

The cracks of thunder behind the door should have been a clear warning for danger ahead, along with the illuminated cracks in the wall beside it. But Joey ignored them all, going through door after door to reach the ultimate end. John L. Brown tried to warn her, albeit faintly, albeit sarcastically. “Don’t go,” he whispered over after she went through, and then had a giggle. Count him among the nefarious agent types. Joey: good. But Ontario had become malfunctioning thanks to the deletion of half the town and so she was back here, trying to retrace her steps to the… tree. Or whatever the thing was: family tree perhaps, like in genealogy. She had to fill in the memory gaps. She resisted the urge to become plastered beforehand; wanted to keep her mind open just like the doors that were presented to her, 1 2 3.

Onlooking John, seen by us but unseen to Joey, tried to determine what species she was and correctly guessed Venusian because of the blue-green skin. Or blue and green skin. But orange eyes. Alien obviously.

There she goes!

“Don’t go,” he whispered as the door closed behind her, even hitting her rump a little bit. The giggles begin.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0411, Long Islands, Nautilus, Wendy-Ontario, Wild West

retired, 2nd foothold (between black and white)

“So here we are again. Water. Mask. But you hear me clear as a belle.”

“So pretty here,” Baker Bloch deflects, emphasizing the so so much he shows up. “Oh… hello.”

“Hello,” Peter Soso says cheerfully to his side, just glad to be a part of the action again.

“Always someone between us, Baker Bloch,” she says in response to the manifestation. “And look. Now Prissy has arrived. Just because I said *that*.”

“Hello,” Prissy says daintily in her octave higher register. Both arrivals merpeople, both in love. Unlike Baker and Wheeler who are faking it at best. Instead (for them), a Prime Minister-Queen relationship, with no King involved. Unless Axis-Tropp counts. And I suppose he does, at least up to two.

“We’re back to square one,” Wheeler who is not a mermaid exudes, joined feet a false narrative. Likewise for the male Baker. “257.”

“We’re just off the coast of Alien Island and that is something to hold onto,” he says. “We’re on another lead. We’re still in the Wild–”

“Don’t say it,” she requests, thinking of Adam. And his own Eve. She postulates: Baker took over. About 2016 or 2017. About the time of the first third photo-novel. Passed the baton. That’s perhaps the only reason why we’re *here*, at this far point in The Pattern. On the Shoulders of Giants, she also ponders. Time to give something back.

“Someone else approaches,” topmost Prissy says, her head strangely merged with the surrounding kelp, weed in sea talk.

Just later:

“It looks like, sir,” Peter proclaims, “that you are still trapped in black, at least a byte.”

He took my hat! Baker thinks instead of correcting him with “bit.”

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Merking about

“Ahh, my Queen approaches!”

“Just *stop* it,” he heard through the water and mask.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0201, Long Islands, Nautilus

Sykes

She closed the door but dare not look around.

The swamp tree.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0117, Long Islands, Nautilus, Wild West

death

“What did *you* see Mr., um, *Head* (snicker).” She wasn’t going to dig this dude out as well. Write it off as a lost cause, she figures as he automatically starts her worthless, chat received fortune. “You will find a sock you thought you’d never find.” Hmm, maybe not so worthless after all, if sock equals key. And it probably does. Still not digging him out.

She moves to the house. Coke machine still there, as Billy Dancer reported before getting stuck. Chef-inspector Petty gone — must have either crawled off or the body disposed of by Billy. She only mentions the supposed killing, the bloodless slashing of the dummy’s throat. The old boss dug short and succinct like that; wanted to rack up the cases instead of going over the nuances of each individual one. New boss was different. Not the same as the old boss, as The Who famously sang about. Or maybe they are, she pondered further. Wanda and Sykes: different in their own nuances. But it’s all still about numbers, the bottom line, no matter what Sykes promised at first. Maybe she’d be asked to pare it down as well. Probably, hmph. She’s already starting to resent the new hire, even if it’s all in her head.

Joey moves upstairs. The computer Billy also briefly mentioned still plugged in, still given the blue screen of death (BSOD). Those people we, the readers, saw before around it near the beginning of this section, Frank Pinocchio and Fay Blue: gone. Just like the chef-inspector.

Next room; low voice:

“Yeah, she’s about to come in here and discover her dreaming self and wake up. Better amscray.”

Voice demanding something on the other side. “Okay, okay, I’ll bring the body as well. No waking self.”

The voice on the other side seemed to repeat the same thing although it was hard to tell from a distance.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0116, Long Islands, Nautilus, Wild West

key lost again

One of the oldest tricks in the book, she thought from her observing position. Lure ’em down to the beach with a piece of watermelon, then, BLAMO, instant terrain change in the shifting sand to trap them up to their motherlicking balls, she’d always heard the expression. Or at least knees in this case — enough to do the job.  She saw she could still dance the bill but it must be hard in the grainy resistance. Old habits die hard as they also say.

Time for another agent to take over from this obviously inept one. Another *Venusian*. Welcome back Joey Avatar. Digging the purple hair.

She dug her out and then sent her packing, even taking her badge. We’ll continue this obviously important story soon.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0115, Long Islands, Nautilus, Wild West

00320114

She came in on a ship bound from Wommington (island), this belle of the billy dance, tradition over there. Navel motions they called it during acts of war. Wommington had fought Constance (another island) but dare not directly attack Long (yet another island but bigger — bigger in a longer if not wider way). Subterfuge was the answer. And positioning on Jourdain-Benvolia (another island similar in size to Wommington and Constance) nearest to Long (see above) and, especially, Capitol Hill, one of the high points of the island and a popular tourist attraction during season.  As we’ve seen, atop Capitol Hill rests the old gypsy wagon with the flying key inside a cage, unable to get out because of its self-enclosed nature. Then just outside this, another cage, another trapped *thing* (thankfully!), Democrats ruling for now. So Capitol Hill represented a pivotal spot.

As the sun came up, she turned away from it and acted like she didn’t want to have anything to do with the small, caravan topped summit. All was good over there, she pretended to anyone who was looking on, which she imagined were at least several, and perhaps one or two spies amongst them. She couldn’t take any chances.

She carefully avoided the rocks that guarded the opposite beach like anti-tank obstacles. So many lost already! Like that bigger one over there perched high in the air and later transformed into several apartments for the Jourdainian rich and trendy, second or third or even fourth homes most likely, often purchased just to show up those poor, lowly Benvolians that they’d always be attached to by that cursed little isthmus strip of land. If only our God had remembered to cut the cord from those *babies*, they lamented about the tag along, more undeveloped eastern side of their joined landmasses. They looked down on them fer sure.

Somehow making it through all that crap and pulling up on the beach, she spots Chef-inspector Petty still studying the prize he received from the otherwise empty coke can days and days ago, because time was frozen here. Strangely shaped, gold: a key in one word. 319 he knew. Triangle. He stuck the key in his pocket to go along with his (paper) pills and threw the empty coke can on the floor after crushing it with his free hand. The billy dancer looked on, thinking she had found the answer. She moved swiftly. Petty was on the floor with a slit throat in a second, a seeming mortal blow. The belle took the key. Now to find the proper door.

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0114, Long Islands, Nautilus, Wild West

investigations continue

Blue Rose Thorn is at it again, stopping at Escanes this time in the Wild West’s Long Islands. Check out the sign: “YES… WE CAN!” Es… can(es) again you’ll notice. Democrats as well, since this is Obama’s presidential slogan. It’s all about symbols this go around. Signs.

Blue Rose Thorn writes down what he’s found in a local beauty spot before moving on.

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