stories

Now who will play the part of Moe, h(u)mm? ponders private dick Biff Carter, still redding that read book, ahem, *reading* that *red* book. *The* red book. Maybe a dame, he thinks. How about that new gal with the dangerous curves, aheh. Uhum. Danger… that reminded him of something. Something dead. He sniffs the air. Oh… something *new* again. Dead cat soap — just in at the local Hurdy Gurdy. He can’t stop washing with it. Wash your hands wash your hands wash your hands…

He heads downstairs toward the sink with the stinking, gritty, extra strength soap for the 15th time today.

—–

“Scrub a dub dub (whistle), scrub a dub dub (more whistling).” The phone rings upstairs. He patiently counts to twenty using Mississippi’s as the rings mount to 7. He rushes back while drying his hands and putting on his bullet proof work gloves before eight. *Riiiiin-*

—–

“Pizza?? No thanks, ahem. I’ve already ate.”

—–

He set the reciever back down in the antique carriage. Took him a while to figure it out. Wrong number, he ruminated. Or was it exactly the *right* number, ohho?

—–

He consults the magic eight ball at the other end of the bar for the next move. “Uh huh. Dead and Danger *are* the same thing.” He knew that something with the word dog in its name was coming up. Stand back!

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break


Off to play video games in the Shallows with the boys.


Everyone taking their positions.


And… FIRE!

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one more

“I think Moe stands for Missouri, Hucka Doobie. I believe Moe may own a Moe or Mo Island above and beyond a CC tavern. He knows the Parkville guy. They have the same boss.”

“Bed,” Hucka simply says.

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World of Tomorrow

Sticky prepared to explore the city, birds in hand.

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“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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blacks

New Nun opens the attachment.

I do declare I believe that woman needs a cross and a crucifix to hold!, she thought, staring at the silhouetted figure and its dangerous curves.

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Who?

“How’d it go tonight, Duncan?”

“Oh, pretty good. I didn’t arrive until the meeting was almost over. All I heard about was some virus infecting the town. Something about zombies.”

“That would be the Resident Evil influence,” quickly spouted Baker Bloch, owner of this here Sunklands Institute, a private or, at best, semi-private estate. Collagesity was no more.

“I suppose.” Duncan Avocado was wondering when he could return home to VHC City and his apartment. George was probably hungry (and lonely) by now.

“Cindy A., Todd A., and, let’s see, Peter A.” Baker paused. “No that’s not right: *Jim* A. Who turned into Jim B.”

“Jim Brown, yes,” spoke up Duncan A., realizing where this was going.

“Anyway: the A.Team. Unwittingly borrowed from Resident Evil by me, but obviously for some kind of bigger reason.”

“The bomb, right.” Duncan A. looked around; dared to glance over his shoulder at the institute projecting largely from the water. It seemed right, seemed good. A good placement. He stared at Baker Bloch’s hat. He’d heard that if the hat was slightly iridescent it wasn’t really Baker. It was someone else. But no iridescence spotted in the moonlight on this table topped islet next to the new home. This must be Baker, he correctly deduced. Not the other one.

But who was *he* tonight?”

(to be continued?)

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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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Judgement

Although she was still probably the 256th most craziest thing in a crazy town of 256, it was determined by the court that Yoko Ona most likely had high functioning autism. Thus the lack of facial expressions. Thus the focus on marriage as a 50-50 split. She didn’t ask for more, but she also didn’t expect less. John and she were one zygote, traveling toward a rebirth across the universe. There was nothing evil in her since she was acting logically according to this premise. It was divide and conquer to others but just separation from unity for her. The verdict: innocent for reasons just listed. She had to undergo therapy. Thus the reason for the construction of this additional floor in the Burger Joint building. Her mental health and well-being were just that important.

All the witches in the coven chipped in to pay for it, Mid-Hazel footing the largest chunk. They all showed up at the first meeting, ready to support. Prosecutor George A. was not allowed, since he would just focus on the spitting, the humiliation for blog owner Baker B. in front of a cluster of Heartsdale fisherman eager for a show. Any kind of show in that milquetoast town. Baker B. through Baker Bloch forgave her.

The elemental battle within Toppsity was just theatrics, the court also judged. Tronesisia was not dead. Most likely she would appear again, fully functional and unscathed, in the next photo-novel (21!).

Yoko Ona had already been rejected by the town, thrown head down over the wall about a 1/2 year back, only to find her way further south, in the *deep* deep south, to Cassandra City to attempt to create a roshambo triangle, one hand on top of another hand on top of another hand and so on and so on. This created the bomb.

She *had* to make up for it, reverse the powers as it were. Another zygote affair. She and John together synthesized World of Lemon to parallel Lime World (aka Linden World or Lindenwold) in order to heal Our Second Lyfe and make North and South function together again. In the other directions, World of Lemon controlled the east, Linden World the west. From *Our* Second Lyfe perspective, it all begin in Da Boom with a great boom signaling fusion and spread. From the *other* way, we have Ratzenberger as the original sim and its absorbing, black (hole) rabbit, a sucking mechanism. All this was logical and true, one begetting the other (begetting the other). The problem had not been solved because there was no problem to solve. All was good, all was balanced.

—–

I have decided to downsize in Our Second Lyfe and My Second Lyfe in particular. Corsica turned out not to be the be all end all of mainland continents, the best fusion between virtual and real, namely through the state of Pennsylvania. All this still applied, but Peakology in and of itself is not the way forward. Neither is Sinkology, although that may be closer. With this I have created the Sunklands Institute from the old Blue Feather Building of Collagesity and set it down near the middle of the Heterocera continent, its eye. I will not worry about North-South-East-West from this point on as much as *Center*. I have made stories of all mainland continents and a good number of estate regions. Corsica is essentially “covered”, along with Jeogeot, Satori/Maebaleia, Omega, Gaeta, Heterocera, Sansara, Nautilus and even Linden home masses like Nascera. I have taken Collagesity about as far as it can go. I do not make collages any more outside of the photo-novels and that context. It is time to go home. Heterocera is as close to home in Our Second Lyfe as I can get. I have to return to the source.

END OF “COLLAGESITY 2020 MORE MIDDLE”!

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Keith B.

Sacky Doll (the band) made a sudden reappearance in Toppsity 11 years later, attended by Bert Bright, best pal Bud Dimm, and best gal pal Abby [delete name]. Since all 3 knew the band members, they were also invited to the rehearsal, but only Sun showed up, announcing himself by saying he was between a Moon and a Star(r). He was egotistical and self-centered in that way, flying too close to himself perhaps, with a fall likely anytime soon. But who was this Sun? No one in the crowd seemed to know him.

“New drummer,” responded Bert Bright to the sight on stage.

“Same as the old drummer,” amended Bud Dimm, innate facial recognition kicking in to make up for lack of brains.

“He *is* old,” added Abby, trying to decide all night between the two of them. Like black and white pillars they were around a central heating system.

“Bert, Abby, Bud, would you come up here on stage? I want to share a secret with you.”

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