March 13, 2020 · 9:50 am

Corsica is one.

Jeffrie Phillips is in Lexicolo tonight, following up more leads. The Larch rode this train, he meditates upon. Before he became The Man. Car no. 1 here, then no. 3 in back. Plane 003 (wall) to the side. We must think of planes, trains and automobiles but also birds, planes… Jeffrie harks back to perhaps The Man/The Larch’s most prominent nemesis, the arch one: Super Duper Guy. Faster than a speeding bullet he was claimed to be. More powerful than a *loco*motive. Take ex and i out of lexicolo and there you are (nuts?). Hmmm. There’s that cleft rubbing again — deeper and deeper. Yes this assignment, obviously a blue rose one (recall the blue rose in killer Arthur Kill’s lapel), may turn him bonkers. Lip trilling finger land.

Oops. He’s off! Let’s see where this loco ride takes him.

He spots the elephants, large and small, rolling away but can’t get a good pic of them as the train rounds a bend. These will have to do for now.

—–

There they are!

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March 12, 2020 · 10:41 am

freedom 02

The gothic house near the lip of Centre Sink or whatever. He sighs and says aloud, “whatever,” then returns his attention to the crosses (knives) in the yard next to it, like little escaped, pixelated birds heckling his lack of knowledge about the whats, wherefores, whys. Like the death of Vainom Kug over in VHC City, who, he vows to his own grave, did not die in Vain (but instead in that city). Maybe he should consult with Vain and Artery Boy on the subject. He scratches his chin again. He’s wearing a cleft out on it with all the pondering, considering, ruminating he’s done lately. Hmm, sir. Hmmm again. Hmmm.

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March 12, 2020 · 9:30 am

freedom

Jeffrie Phillips begins his latest assignment proper back in Instabar, the sim highlighted in section 3. Might as well be Sector R.

Perhaps the last dinner of the late, great Mr. and Mrs. Achilles T. Pippin — The Pippins, he considers, who of course include Mary with her red umbrella we suspiciously see little of, even though at least one character says she carries it around all the time. Better check on that, he thinks…

He finds the red wine stale but acceptable for an Australian. Better start looking around for that umbrella, he ruminates.

Hold on, he ponders. This seems unusual, hmm. Cyan… cyanide. Cy Twomile, one of the two most recent victims in this here photo-novel, even though he’s locally known as Big Black Smoke. Derogatory racial name? He better find a computer somewhere.

But what’s this? In the Peppins’ living room: red, blue, and then a yellow lemon on top. And cyan turns to red in inverted color mode — which he, like Aqua Dude before him, can switch on and off when needed, which he does here.

Yes, something about that coat hanger or whatever it was, he contemplates while sitting in the swing beside the 32 square meter house that caused all the messy Instabar trouble in the first place. Buster Damm, hrmph. Popping in and out of this reality at his convenience to cause harm and mischief, like a little, blood sucking gremlin or something. If only we could trace him back to his Pot-D origins.

He decides to check the “coat hanger’s” description remotely while enjoying his hot coffee the swing graciously provided for him, pretty good for Cambodian.

Ahh. *Cage* stand. Bird cage. But where’s the bird? Or *birds*, even?

He travels further back in time than ever to find out.

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March 11, 2020 · 7:51 am

angles

—–

“Don’t turn around Jeffrie. You’ll draw suspicion — eyes everywhere here in Fearzum.”

“Okay.”

“Just listen.”

“I’m listening.” Jeffrie Phillips was patient that way. That’s why they paid him the big bucks.

TronAxis continued, leaning in a little closer. “There’s trouble in Urqhart, Jeffrie. The story there ended too soon and Baker Bloch has to fill out the rest. *Your* mission, if you so choose — and that’s why we’re paying you the big bucks (Jeffrie Phillips nods here) — is to find out who lives in that Gothic House on the edge of Centre Sink. Just a little over there in front of me. He stares toward the small, granite topped mountain in that direction, knowing the central sink lay not far beyond.

Jeffrie Phillips, from his angle, was looking toward a larger version of the same, intuiting that the answers they seek lie in that direction as well.

“I’ll get on it as soon as you pay for my breakfast,” Jeffrie requested, knowing he was well worth it. Later researchers found the tab to contain 3 eggs, toast and waffles, although they weren’t sure who ate what since it was all in one bill.

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March 10, 2020 · 4:35 am

Mouse

He didn’t know where he was. The approaching, grey ghost didn’t help. “You killed me Arthur Kill,” she moaned. Oh — *her*, he thought while watching the spectre waver back and forth, then retreat again. The *freshest* one. This sometimes happens. He must be dreaming…

Earlier:

Big Black Smoke couldn’t resist. The door was open with no one home currently — he’d checked all the windows.  The bed beckoned; he’d deal with the consequences later. That’s how the man known *locally* as Big Black Smoke met his end at the terminus of a Dead End Street in Urqhart. Or right next to it.

—–

Hmmm, pondered Arthur Kill, readying for another. A black man like me. Oh well. Duty calls. He enters.

—–

Later, while staring at the rotating tire outside that Arthur Kill buried Big Black Smoke under, a tiny rap at the door. It was Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child, longing for another bed down with new love lust and wannabe novelist Barry X. Vampire, who would escape all this mess and slaughter as fate deemed it. Onward and upward into new peaks to the south west, he wisely decided earlier that day.

—–

*POP* (another one)

—–

Dawn was breaking in Arthur Kill’s dream, driving the ghosts away. But he was in the middle of novel 19, with no story there yet possible. Since this is sort of toward the middle of 18. Or a little beyond. Urqhart.

—–

“That was a short one, Hucka Doobie,” spoke Baker Bloch while staring down at the freshly inserted pin on the Big Map.

“Not over yet,” advised the wise bee-ing just out of sight to the west and/or south.

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March 9, 2020 · 9:48 am

grass ass

Aptly named Arthur Kill, just off some fresh kills in Staten Island, decided to hop the ferry over to virtual reality and Lindenwold to see if old boss Marty had any new assignments.

“Sorry everything is a little up in the air at this moment, Arthur,” he apologized about the levitating objects in the yard.

“You moving?” Arthur gruffed.

“Dunno… maybe.”

Arthur Kill stands up, preparing to teleport back to New York City. He doesn’t like to kill time unnecessarily, unlike most things. “Let me know if you do,” he declared without emotion.

“Wait.” Marty was glad of the rare appearance of his former chief assassin and decided to cook up something on the spot. “There’s a, er, *Mouse*. At the end of a Dead End Street. Big Black Smoke. That’s all I got.” Mouse was code for Rat.

“Local?”

Marty looked out at the landscape here, as he had been doing when Arthur abruptly showed up out of thin air. Urqhart Hill, he thought, staring straight ahead. That girl at the top. She’s been there for hours. He can’t stop looking at her. What’s she doing, what’s she up to? Smoking weed? Marty would like some weed. If she stays there very much longer, he’s going to assume she’s using drugs and just walk up to her and ask for some. Not the hard stuff (like before). Just weed this time. She looks the type, yes. A grass chick — sitting in the grass up there. Marty realizes he must answer Arthur Kill.

“Local — right.” Very much so.

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March 8, 2020 · 8:55 am

presents

Dawn. March 8th, 2020. She wakes up in that bed again, Barry X.’s arms wrapped around her “tip jars”. Life is good. She remembers to set her watch ahead an hour. Fall back spring forward, she recites in her mind. Best to put the coffee on; surprise Barry X. with a fresh brew. That’s a woman’s duty: to rise before the man and get his day off to a good start. Not so-so, not even great perhaps. But good at the very least.

She reviewed events of the night before. Barry read her the first few pages of his new novel he’d written that day while she was at work, his GAN he called it. She was tired and probably didn’t appreciate it as much as she should. Thus another reason for the coffee, the breakfast. Let’s see, she thinks to herself while rummaging around his refrigerator purchased the day before that, along with a proper writing desk. No more writing his GAN on the kitchen table! he demanded. “All right, all right,” she tried to calm. “Don’t get your panties all in a wad.” It was an expression her mother use to use with her all the time, and now she throws it around indiscriminately to men and women alike. “Don’t get your panties all in a wad,” she said to Gadfly the cook that day when he demanded she pick his dishes up from the counter faster so the customers wouldn’t be served cold food. “Don’t get your panties in a wad!” she shouted at Horace the dog out back, incessantly barking during her only break of the day, a 15 minuter which turned into a 1/2 hour one when she then stepped into one of his special presents beside the door. “Arrrrgh!” she screamed. “ARRRGH!” she exclaimed even louder, then took off the soiled, high heel shoe and wobblingly made her way down the bank to the stream below, washing and washing it until the present was removed and the shiny black gloss of the void revealed again. Putting it back on at the top, she fumingly pointed at Horace all the way to the door, deftly avoiding what remained of the present. “Tumblestone!” she called to the busboy when re-entering the bar. “Clean up outside the back door. And *watch* where you step!” She then glared at Gadfly, at Jake the bartender, daring them to say anything about her break running over. They’d seen her in these moods before. Best to not have a dumpster fire again. Or worse.

She removes eggs from the refrigerator and looks around for a frying pan.

(to be continued?)

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March 8, 2020 · 8:05 am

he is a good egg

Not great, not so-so. Good. Better than most of us.

The Tall Walk is temporarily obscured.

He needs to rest for the night.

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March 8, 2020 · 7:42 am

The Tall Walk

Cy Twomile knew that when he crossed this bridge leading to where the great burg of Fisher Rigg use to rest there would be no going back and his secure, blanket-like place in the world would be lost forever. Better change his avatar appropriately before ascending into a new land.

“Civilian” life begins here.

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March 7, 2020 · 9:45 am

views

He finds out the rather shocking news. “The story begins in Urqhart,” he scribbles on the blank page back at home base. “Or is it Urq-U-hart.” Classic opening lines, he thinks while staring down. He’s beginning his own “Moby Prick.” Success at last!

A preliminary name is “The Revolving Tire”, after this lone object in the yard next to his. It’s truly in Urqhart, even if he isn’t. But he must find a better writing desk to view the thing for inspiration. Can’t keep penning his Great American Novel at the kitchen table!

Cathy knocks on the door. Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child is a girl Barry met down at the local biker bar the first night in town. He needed her then, but now, since he’s started what he feels will be his groundbreaking novel, she may be more distraction than necessity.

Bed, she thinks while staring in and thinking of the first night as well. *Definitely* want more of that.

Barry rather reluctantly answers the door, figuring he can take her shopping with him for that desk.

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