COLLAGESITY NOVEL 14
two three
“So they began playing together, even touring together away from Pipersville, the home base. Daughter and father; Jenny and Keith they were called in the days. Well, Keith never changed his name. Jenny, of course, became Your Mama.”
“Of course,” I replied to Detective Biff Carter. Because he was an officer of the law no more. Not since Oakley. But who am I? Just an observer for now. Call me Smart. Like a Fox. Clever, even. Back to Biff…
“I was here when they played their first gig away from home. Sitting right at this bar listening in. Oh that woman, that *girl* at the time, could sing. And Keith. Well, he was adequate on drums. Never guess he’d eventually become a member of a major rock band, let’s say. And, as you can see, he’s still got the star on the drums; hadn’t got rid of that yet.”
I peered over at the illusion on the Cassandra City stage. Keith B., bank employee of Pipersville whose boss recently told him to keep daughter Jenny out of that room at all cost. So he went into the garage, found the drum kit buried under a heap of old moss. Pulled it out, dusted it off. Practiced. Here we are.
Biff Carter stared over at me. “I’m glad I found the Man About Time, even if it didn’t turn out the way I expected.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. I decided to test my new catchphrase. “There’s a Sucka born every half century.”
“Overlap,” he replied, nodding. “Good idea. Train the replacement.”
repatriation
“So it was actually the very next night the drums changed over. To the celebrated circle within a circle.”
“Yes,” states Biff Carter, still drinking and explaining at the bar. “They were celebrity spotting in that small park outside the Seraph Club on the other side of town, the *uptown* area, when Jenny noticed the poster.”
—–
“Hey dad. You’re more into British stuff than American, aren’t you? More Union Jack than Stars and Stripes?”
“Sure, baby. If we were in Real Life.”
She pointed above her father. “What about *that* for a logo, then?”
—–
“And, as you can hear, there’s improvement even in the drumming tonight. The symbol actually makes the man in this case. He’s entered his ascent. And, sadly, this trajectory would eventually cross his equally ascending daughter’s at the Room.”
“Back to the Room, then.”
“Sure, baby. I mean — just sure.”
privacy
The 3rd night, Jim (A.) Brown came down from Pipersville to hear his home duo. Owner of Jim’s Club of course, the one everybody dug in Pipersville. Well, he got an earful; realized he couldn’t hold on to them and they would outgrow the bounds of his small venue. “Soon enough you’ll be playing places like the Seraph Club on the opposite side of town,” he declared to Keith afterwards at the bar, who was still wiping his forehead from the excitement. Jenny had gone shopping for trinkets up in Chinatown.
“Yeah, maybe,” Keith agreed, nodding. “I don’t know, I don’t know. Something’s just — *entered* me all of a sudden. He looks back at the drum kit and the circle within the circle. “I feel like (he turns back to Jim), that I’m in a different place now.”
“I would advise you to remember The Room — where you come from.”
“I mean, ahem, that’s kind of what I’m doing.” He swigs his drink again. Martini. Dry as a sinkhole.
“What about the maths? What about the theorems we worked on? You know that Sink X can’t actually be a sink. None of the Maebaleia depressions are. We’ve *proved* it.”
“Shush,” he motioned with his mouth and hands. “Keep it down.” He looked around to see if anyone else from Pipersville was in the room with them by chance. No one spotted. Todd A., who also came down this fateful night, was escorting Jenny around. But that was their plan all along: to leave Brown and Bower together for a while for a man to man talk. Because Jim and Todd knew what was going on before they arrived. The Brown-Bower experiments hadn’t even existed before this.
more
“We made it Brother Amos,” spoke Gabby, who had barely stopped talking during their whole trip down from Toppsity. “*Twin* brother Amos,” he declared. “Fellow Gemini; no doubting of that. Now all we have to do is find non-twin and non-Gemini Brother Keith B. and save him from The Shallows.”
“Where he’ll be murdered,” clarifies Brother Amos from his own bike.
“Killed at the very least,” supplied Gabby Truth, who always tells. “Hills. Of Bill. Keep him out.”
“Keep him out,” echoes Amos, almost as excited as Gabby about finally arriving in half empty or half full (take your pick) Cassandra City. It was not the destination they had planned for their escape. Not atall. Golden Sink… or even further north, had always been tops on the list. Maybe the Lake District. But something told them to turn left (south) instead of right (north) when leaving their cursed home village via Route 8.
“The 4 colored clown and her monochromatic opposum must be here,” Gabby spoke, half in a scrying trance; not unusual. “Soon at the very least.”
“Okay.”
The brothers got off their bikes and locked them up with the rest already on the rack. Jim’s and Todd’s. Jenny and Keith had come by bus. Tillie and Tealy were walking. Cindy A., perhaps the last to arrive but also perhaps the first, came or comes by plane. Wealthier than the rest she is. Later: the poorest of them all, sometimes not even being able to afford to walk. One or perhaps even two more by boat. Identity or identities yet to be determined. Maybe the Bishop and his center-no-more King. Let’s see, who else? Craighead Phillips seems trapped walking around another half empty, half full (again, take your pick) Bluefield city in West Virginia, Real Life, USA, so he may not be a candidate. Besides, he may not even be born yet, since we’re in the past, before Jenny became Your Mama (for example). Tracy Austin appears similarly stuck around the Blue Feather Sea, another BLUEF (since the variant name is Bluefeather, pronounced BLU-fe-ter by some). But, again, it perhaps doesn’t matter since she may also not be born. Think that about covers it. Oh, I guess I should explain more about the Man About Time/Marcus Fox Smart/Professor Suckaluck triangle. But I might not have time tonight. Have to get to Tillie and Tealy!
—–
“What are you doing?” Tillie questioned her fellow, colorful travel mate.
“Calisthenics. What does it look like?”
Tillie faces the yawning gap again. “Yes,” she agreed, pondering doing some stretches herself. “Looks like we have a longer journey than anticipated.”
Northerners
“Whale! Squid!” She waits a beat. “Whale!” She waits a beat longer.
“Do you want me to make any more?” questions Shallot’s brother Jinn by her side, knife in hand.”
“Aww, no use. Chinatown is not what’s the happening place tonight. *Everyone* is up at the Seraph Club exploring Dean Martin!”
“Martin and Lewis this week,” agrees the more English fluent Jinn. “Rowan and Martin the next. Then after that, who knows. Maybe that Mr. Rowan Atkinson Bean who is so popular on television these days. If patterns hold,” he furthers.
“Too true brother.” They wait again.
“I’ll take one.” It was Jenny (future Your Mama), approaching from the bowels of the sub-town, fellow Pipersvillian Todd A. in tow. Trinkets filled her small backpack.
“Whale or squid?” Shallot asked expectantly.
“Don’t let her tell you that’s whale,” blabbers Jinn. “It’s a shark substitute. But shark (name) doesn’t sell as good as whale.”
“It’s *not* shark, Jinn.” returns an annoyed Shallot. “It’s just… a different kind of whale.”
“I’ll take it,” responds Jenny, looking up at Todd A. “Whatever — both of them.”
——
Then, around the corner, Jenny leans against the side of a building and opens the 2 containers, one after another, studying the contents in each.
“You’re not going to actually eat that are you?” queries Todd in front of her. “Because I’m sure not.”
“Nah.” She throws the food into a nearby gutter. “Just wanted to see what these Southerners eat.”
“Southerners,” grumbled Todd A. with her, and they moved away from Chinatown after that with only plastic souvenirs.
perspective 01
Cassandra City was certainly big enough. Difficult to take a long range picture of, though. Too much of the infrastructure not rezzing in properly with that draw.
Jenny attempts to draw parallels with ancient Crabwoo. “2 sims, not 1,” she utters to escort Todd A. another night, because their act had been so successfully that they were extended for 2 more weeks. 2 weeks! Jenny would have plenty of time now to explore the burg. “Crabwoo was larger spacially,” she continued. “But perhaps not psychically.”
Todd A. was getting the sinking feeling that developing Cassandra City was just Pipersville heated over. Where’s the equivalent to the room? he wondered. Where’s the missing laundromat, record store, bakery? It all seemed overly ambitious. And, as we all know, Our Second Lyfe has definite limitations. Lag is always an issue in such crowded spots. And it’s just going to get worse as the city fills out more. Perhaps smaller Pipersville had it right, Todd thinks another time. Build around a lagless, forbidden void (Sink X). Crabwoo too in a way, since the 6 protected sims of the Blue Feather Sea laid just to the northeast. Waterless sink vs. filled sink: which was better? It was a debate that underpinned all life, all activity on the continent, really. This is where TILE comes from.
Jim A., of course, scrutinized the large Seraph nightclub at some length. Soon Pipersville’s Jim Club would be no more. He knew he couldn’t compete. And his house band was leaving soon — he could feel it in his bones. “Might as well rent the building out when I return,” he spoke to Keith B. after another successful gig here. Sweat was pouring off his body. What fun! The circle within the circle certainly did the trick. Keith commended daughter Jenny on the idea again and again. Until the end.
And Jim and Keith were doing maths together. Keep that in mind as we continue our story.
What about the others? Tillie and Tealy had finally arrived in town after circumnavigating the big lake just to the east of Cassandra City. In fact, that’s what most of the local yokels called it, simply enough: Big Lake. One of the problems with that appellation is that Northerners applied the same to their Blue Feather Sea sometimes.
Which brings us to another issue I wanted to talk about: the division between North and South on the continent, how it all got started. We turn back to the handy “Second Life Tourist Blog” entry on Satori/Maebaleia:
http://thesecondlifetourist.blogspot.com/2016/09/know-mainland-satori.html
To get an historical perspective: In 2007, when this continent was constructed, the media was full of articles about Second Life. It was less than a year since Ansche Chung’s picture had been on the cover of Business Week, and there were many residents wanting land. According to the old forums, the Lindens were auctioning off multiple sims at a time, and some went for very high sums….
It was not until late in the next year that the roads in Satori (Route 8, 8A, 8B, 8C, and the Old Wagon Road) were completed. Because some of the sims that were in the right-of-ways had been sold, many roads have dead ends and are connected by false tunnels with teleports, or billboards with teleports. The map kiosks along the road are a big help.
Bottom line: Roads were split between North and South on the continent because of bad planning. You can see the gaps on this continent map I provided before: Route 8b (blue) was suppose to connect to Route 8c (yellow), and so on.
Only the eastern part of Route 8 ran the entire length of the continent north to south. Not by accident, the most heavily bombed highway of the brief yet intense Maebaleia/Satori Civil War. They couldn’t even agree on a continental name. And, I think, this is where Real Life Bluefield also comes into play…
(to be continued)
Trinity
Yoko sometimes had this daydream of a vast underground behind the red doors across the street. She wondered where it all came from.
—–
She met with Cindy A., Jim A., and Todd A. in a secret Cassandra City niche on Wednesday. The A.Team they’d dubbed themselves, the seed of the surname erasures. “You sure you guys want to go through with this?” Yoko asked after the niceties had run their course. All nodded in tacit agreement. No one dare speak the deed aloud at this point.
Jim A. had worked and worked at the maths, making sure everything checked out. Now all they needed was a test. But where? Jim thought again of the forbidden sinks, particularly the 13th on this day, the so-called Super Bowl. Could it be possible — no — but: what if… what if… in ancient times…
—–
It was a combination of abilities. Jim A. had the maths, the brain, Todd A. was the genius in project management, and Cindy A. provided the technical expertise. Planes to rockets — not a big leap in her evolution. Professor Suckaluck should have seen it all those years back (“Maebaleia, pheh. *Satori*”); reported it to the Northern authorities. Because the A.Team — Cindy A., Jim A., Todd A. — were never really from the Pipersville area. They’d rehearsed the accents for years before the move.
Cassandra City, Queen jewel of the Deep South. They were home again.
—–
All looked around the table before leaving, realizing they had a Keith problem. Keith knew too much. Keith was in the middle, which, as we all know now, is unfortunately in the way. They had lured him (and themselves!) down here through trickery. Now the trick was to throw him under the bus. A Magic Bus.
Yoko
It was as if the world turned upside down on her. Witchery in Cassandra City. She knew it had to come from Toppsity slightly north, where the elements were all f-ed up thanks to the battles. *She* was a witch. But what did it all mean? She couldn’t remember that crucial bit yet.
Triangle: the triangle must be signed and sealed. That’s where it all starts. One hand on top of another on top of another on top of another…
Star
“Well it all just sounds so fascinating Tillie. Seraph Club. Dean Martin!”
“And James Dean the week before. We just missed him!”
Tealy turned to Tillie. “I’m sorry. I know. One of your heroes.”
“Marion, Indiana,” she spoke. “I was there when it happened.”
Tealy pats Tillie’s near hand. “I know.” Tears began falling from her face, splashing onto Tealy’s hand even. She changed.
“But looks like he’s back!” Tealy then encouraged.
“Marion, Ohio this time,” spoke a transformed Tillie, clutching the L$50,000 tight in her his lap.
Brothers Three
Gabby Truth always thought he’d be a good writer if he wasn’t busy gabbing this and that. “Put it down on paper,” his brother Amos often urges. “Stop yapping and start tapping (typewriter keys).” One day he’ll get round to it. And finish reading “Moby Prick”, the great whaling story partially set right here in Cassandra City. “Write a ‘Moby Prick’ yourself,” Amos said upon hearing this desire. “Start *now*.”
So he sits here. Wondering what to put on paper before even inserting the paper. What was the first line of “Moby Prick”? Maybe he can just steal that to start.
—–
But we must get to more urgent matters tonight. Brother Keith is in danger and they know it. Gabby, also a seer as well as a gabber (but apparently not a writer — yet), moves from 1st floor typewriter to 2nd floor fireplace, intending to get more scrying type messages about how to proceed even more forward. They got set up in a swanky Cassandra City apartment thanks to Toppsity connections in town. Keith and daughter Jenny would be joining them later on. The window for information was now. Can’t let Keith know the future else he might damage the threads.
“Well?” his other brother Amos urged after several minutes. “Anything?” Amos was trying to be patient but could see the writing on the wall. Brother Keith could be dead in a matter of days. Maybe even weeks.
Gabby continued staring into the fire. Scrying times were the only times he seemed to be not yammering on about this or that. Maybe he should do it more often, Amos thought. Like: every waking moment. But, in truth, Amos deeply loved his brother — both of ’em. They’d been meaning to visit Keith up in Pipersville for the longest time. Now he had come down South to them. But at what cost?
“Triangle,” Gabby suddenly blurted. “3 A.s.”
“3 A’s?” Amos tried to translate.
“That’s all for now.” Gabby looked away from the fire and toward Amos, wondering what to talk about next. How about the weather.
Amos jumped in first. “We’ll subtly introduce that phrase into our nighttime talks with Keith. See his response.”
“‘Scarlet Triangle,'” blurted Gabby, shaking his head and realizing his powers might be off tonight. “It could be just another book I’ve been meaning to read alongside ‘Moby Prick’. You know, what we were talking about earlier down on the 1st floor. About the novel I always wanted to write.”
“Oh,” said Amos. “Well… it’s worth a try to slip it in still.”
Indeed it was.
Bunkie
“We could use the rocket for good instead of evil,” Cindy A. spoke over to Jim A. after straightening her hair. She had recently been influenced by a book she’d been reading. A famous trip to the Moon.
Jim A. laughed at this. Todd A. joined him. Yoko, having done the deed and brought them all together as a sealed, signed triangle, had slithered away again into the web of time with no rosy prognostication in sight.
“2 rockets will do it — we all agree?” It was Todd A. this time, manager of the project.
“We can send the 1st and see what happens,” offered Jim A. “Gauge the reaction before moving forward with the second.”
Cindy A. was getting sick to her stomach. What had she set in motion?
But they had trained for this. It was always going to be. Forward in time, and then backwards in time to the original point. Cassandra City. Home. But the hitherto thought of home — Pipersville, at least in its original form as Chip Shot: doomed. Worse than doomed.
“How far to be accurate? Would we, say, have to go all the way north to Regaltown to effect the launch?” Todd A. again. “What say you mathematician of the group?”
Jim A. spoke up. “As close to the Neutral Zone as we dare get.”
“How about Golden City?” Cindy A. reluctantly chipped in. The others readily agreed to the future hole. “They had remembered Chip Shot but not their own, retaliatory fate. Much worse it will be for them in the afterlife.
—–
back in Cassandra City, then…
“Well here it is. Little Jimmy. The bastard.”
“Over here,” beckoned Keith B. “Wrong car again.”
“Oh.”
“Let’s take a spin!”
“Where to?”
“You know where.”
“The end,” Jim B. mutters to himself while walking toward it, resigned to his fate.
Cassandra
—–
‘”I come here as a representative of the great, honorable Blue Feather Douglas, Marcus Fox Smartville. Who do you represent?”
“Also the forces of good and evil,” Marcus shot back smartly. “Your Mama in my case.”
“*Your* Mama. Good enough I suppose. Anyway, let’s hash out a deal. And I don’t mean drugs.”
“Of course.” Smart again.
“I should apologize for my protege Eighty-eight not showing up. The astrologer gave her some bad news. Turns out — get this — the stars say she’s an *Aquarius*”.
“Oh.”
“The dreaded sign which seems to be water but is actually air. The most misunderstood of them all. I think the stress opened her up to that flu everyone ’round here seems to be coming down with.”
“You feel okay? Did the breakfast help any? Sometimes when I eat…”
“I didn’t eat,” she protested. “I *nibbled*. The only, real way to a really long life is nibbling. Full stomach foods will get you killed by the age of 88. Unless you’re mowed down by a gun earlier on. Like those people in Gunn City, Missouri, US of A. Now I hate a vigilante as much as the next duchess or duke. I prefer corrections through verbal acerbity rather than, well, steel on bone.”
“I agree. Wholeheartedly. Pen over sword — that kind of thing.”
“The tongue is mightier than the quill,” Tracy Austin (Wheeler Wilson) fleshed out. “Nothing like a good tongue lashing (for corrections). You should know all about that.”
Marcus Fox Smartville sticks out his tongue here, revealing the diamond inlaid steel ring piercing it. “Sthiny,” he says while his tongue is still projecting, also pointing to the object. Not so smart now. Something is actually quite wrong with the male in the current post. He had a breakdown in his early twenties and some say his mind hasn’t quite recovered, and that he’s actually more sucker than smart. Like Sunklands Sucklands sucker, reading patterns (synchronicity) where they don’t exist (randomness). Your Mama thinks this. And, behind her, Grey Scale Kimball, who they needed to talk about next.
“Why didn’t you say you represented Grey Scale Kimball instead?” asked Tracy Austin on cue, indicating the house around them. Grey’s House.
I can answer that. Because Kensington’s Turtle Hill, aka The Green Turtle, had been skipped over. Negotiations concerning the War of Aggressions have moved to Cassandra City in the Deep South, where correct history will always place them. Corrections again… tongue lashing. Your Mama gave Marcus Fox Smartville an earful on that hill. He wonders when the smarting will stop. Not here for certain. Not in this Deep South residence.
(to be continued?)
spine line
Huh. The rooster simply is not rezzing in for me. Just the hens (to my right). Better get over to the Horns of Hatton tonight. Or wherever.
Goodbye Cassandra City. Perhaps not for forever. We’ll see. There’s always “Moby Prick”…
—–
But Horns of Hatton, the actually capital city of the South during the Civil War and more in its center, was also laggy. I decided to reboot my computer and start fresh. I returned to my current home base: the big map of the continent — stood on the Primrose sim with primmy rose still in hand and looked west across YOUR SIMS 01 02 03 04 05 06 07. Mentioned by Sweet Alice last night.
The 4th: Sifton, where I met Your Mama on that hill also straddling Kensington (3rd). Got an earful, a tongue lashing. Remembered, through Cassandra City’s secret resident Tracy Austin, that I had my own, pierced tongue. Piercing… pierced. You are what you is.
First some terminology checks. The (Neutral Zone’s) Hills of Bill lie between what, on this big map, I call the Satori Flats to the south and then the similarly termed and constituted Satori Shallows to the north. I realize that this is probably a North-South naming conflict again, like for the continent itself. Southerners preferred Maebaleia, referring more to their famous whale, and then the Northerners favored Satori. Since the North defeated the South in the war (I think), Satori won out. But some stubborn Southerners still refer to it as Maebaleia, and proudly wave their chicken centered battle flags in their yards. Heck, some even drape it over their whole house. But I digress (again)…
—–
I tried to get this straight in my head. I stood on Turtle Hill, the actual one. East was YOUR SIMS (00) 01 02 03.
West: the rest. Turtle Hill, although the most famous (because of the supposed Lemon-Lime treaty signed there, etc.), was actually the shortest of 3 main Hills of Bill. The first actual hill one would encounter while walking west from Primrose, which we’ve accomplished symbolically. Oh there was that somewhat interesting mound just beyond Athlone (in Kensington) where I stood when snapping these 2 earlier shots, the latter while looking west toward where I’m presently positioned. And Athlone is where I entered Real Life Bluefield from this Our Second Lyfe. Think, Marcus. Think! Detective Biff Carter drew his north-south hands together to make a prayer. Church choir saved. Synchronicity! Also with Gunn City, more sadly. And then, and then…
“Hi.” It was Yoko, walking up from behind, surprising me. We exchanged pleasantries — talked about John a bit — then I decided to show her a trick, “Man, that chicken I ate for breakfast just isn’t agreeing with me, BLEH!” *splat*.
—-
I stood alone on the hill after that. Yoko had run away.
COLLAGESITY NOVEL 20
consultation
Gabby Truth turned over the last card.
“Ahh. It’s just as I suspected. 19 again. The Sun. This means a positive outcome. You *will* be infected. The results will come back positive.”
Tronesisia knew she was a mechanoid and would not contract the strange flu that was going around Cassandra City and the South as a whole. Something else must be afoot.
“What do you mean — infected?”
—–
He decided to consult his trusted magic crystal ball next to augment the magic cards. The meaning of the cards was not wrong but just needed clarification. He had Tronesisia’s question in his mind as he stared into the sacred, smokey sphere. Not ordinary glass by any means, its value more comparable to a Diamond. Gabby’s mind became its mind. He saw — Paper. It was obvious what the next scrying device should be.
—–
“Go!” Tronesisia puts forth her hand to match Gabby’s.
“Good. Paper covers rock. Now we’re onto something.”
return?
Gabby Truth gave Judge Tronesisia a ride back to Toppsity from Cassandra City, since it was his destination as well. No need for the underwater train today. Relief! Tronesisia liked to stay on the surface of things; not get too deep. What if a window broke and her compartment flooded. Rust! The enemy of all antiquated mechanoids, with her as no exception. Gabby gabbed a considerable amount, of course, but it was definitely worth it. She decided to use a lot of head nodding early on. Then she nodded off completely for a while as Gabby talked on and on about scrying devices, his new car, the weather, the strange flu of course — everyone’s favorite topic these days. He must have talked 15 minutes about the significance of the number 19 in her reading, and also Paper. He probably talked 20 more minutes about wedding anniversary gifts starting with Paper and ending with Diamond. Unlike his speedy Little Bastard car, it took him a long time, then, to go from 0 to 60, ha ha.
But then, the witches get the last laugh (as usual). Road block. Literally, a huge block of plywood in the road. Witches sometimes aren’t very subtle in their messaging. Looks like Yoko Ona’s trial will have to be postponed yet another day.
around Cassandra City
“Where is he?” Warhole demanded to the mechanical soothsayer. “Where’s Gabby?”
“You come — bearing the mantle of other people tonight, Andy War-HOLE. You have been talking to — *people* too much. You are too — *peoplely*.”
“Well, yeah. What of it? I’m an artist. I have to mingle. Socializing sells art. That’s what I’m about. Baby.” He checks his watch with this. Gabby should have been here 20 minutes ago! He needs help.
—–
“Oh I look hideous,” Poetry Dancer complained to Marilyn.
“Won’t take long dearest (*coo*). We’ll have you looking, *exactly* like one of us in a jiffy, darling (*ooo!*).”
—–
“No sir, you don’t understand. We sell *one* book. The red one.” You’ll have to go to the other bookstore in town for “Moby Prick”.
“Aww, *geez*.” Dimmy Gene’s book review was due tomorrow, and now he has to walk all the way across town to get a copy and start reading.
—–
“It’s no good,” Gabby complains at the typewriter with its inserted, still blank sheet of paper. “I need people to write!” Long lunch break’s over. He better head back to the wagons.
around Cassandra City 02
Dimmy Gene never did get a copy of “Moby Prick”. The other bookstore in town closed 10 minutes before he arrived. He’d have to lay out of school (once more), maybe ride his motocyclone over to Toppsity. But first: an early movie. Cheaper that way.
2:00 in the afternoon and hardly anyone is here. Oh right, everyone *else* is in school, studying away. Studying to be grown-up dunces, he muses, thinking of his father Daffy Gene and his family run chain of fine clothing stores. He’s set up to be another Gene in their line of production. Well I’m *bucking* the system. Buck “Moby Prick.” Buck the red book, even, although he’s heard it’s better than the other. A whole bookstore devoted to that one book, he thinks again, not quite understanding the impossibility of it.
Great. Another movie about the future being in the past. Oh well.
He runs and gets some popcorn, mountainy dew, and candy before settling back in for a long one.
portal
Keith B. was back in Cassandra City, exploring old haunts, some still around, a lot: gone. He doesn’t remember, for instance, Big Dick’s Halfway Inn. He quickly figured out that BD stands in or resonates directly with MP, that is, Moby Prick. Here was a famous white whale manifested, perhaps. He better check it out.
He waited for the clerk to show up but one never came. From the corner of the lobby, unseen until now, a man spoke up, his voice crisp with confidence and intrigue. “Place is filled up, sir. You better go elsewhere. Gabby is on one of those long lunch breaks again.”
“Gabby?” returned Keith B., thinking the name was wrong. What was it in rehearsal. Jimmy? Dimmy? No, that wasn’t it either.
The man introduced himself instead of gabbing more about Gabby. “My name is Wendell “Biff” Carter and you were lured in here by the sign. Lured in so that you could meet *me*.”
The *whale*? Keith B. thinks while staring over, trying to get a better estimate of the man while not being so obvious about it. That was it: someone was attempting to create a *report* on this man. And failing. Failing in general. Keith B. was here to help. At least that’s what the last version of the script read.
“Big Dick I assume.”
He extended his arms and scooted forward a little. “In the flesh.”
Keith B. turned away. He was finished studying for the moment.
portal 02
It was night for Biff. Maybe he overdid it with the BD thing, he thinks while staring over at the now sleeping Keith B. Had to sleep in place since no rooms are available. Maybe he’ll get some decent rest tomorrow; maybe find that couch over in Hoboken or whatever they call that place now. Hobo Ken. Ken the Hobo. That was it. And that was his couch. I bet he’s over there right now. Sleeping soundly away. Well — let’s just switch them out. Test the malleability of this place.
There was no true sleeping animation in the couch. Ken the Hobo must not exist after all. Keith B. would have to wait until Saturday to get that good night’s rest. Let’s return to the present.
He really is gone. It worked! What’s that speck on the globe? Is that where we’re suppose to head next?
This is as close as I can get for now.
downtown bar
“You said you wanted to get closer to me, Kate, so here we are.” He turns in his seat. “At the place it all began for Jenny and me. Before she became world famous Your Mama and all turned to rust and rot.”
Kate McCoy was tired of hearing about Keith B.’s daughter but bit her tongue right now. He had brought her along on this trip to Cassandra City and she was grateful for the bonding opportunity. If only *he* were her daddy instead of that low life Craighead Phillips. Where was *he*? Still galavanting around in Bluefield US of A? She didn’t want to know; she didn’t care. She was with Keith B. for the present. She had designs on a long term relationship. Maybe he did too — she didn’t know. Yet.
He starts pointing around the place, indicating changes. “The stage, Kate, use to be in that corner — instead of over there on the side. A lot of these booths have been added too.” Keith B. was disappointed that there’s no indication of their presence in this bar. It was apparently up to him to keep the history alive. “It’s all in the autobiography,” he often tells friends after throwing them a juicy piece of the past. They usually want more and then that’s what he tells them. He’d rather write for many instead of talk for few. He’d learned that lesson decades ago. People like to talk, but words only last if you write them down or record them in some equivalent way. He started a blog in 2008. He could better organize his thoughts about people places things with categories and tags. He had a system.
“Keith?” Kate McCoy spoke, seeing her wanna-be dad spacing out again, most likely about the past. She wanted his full attention once more.
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Thinking about the blog?”
“Yeah. I suppose.” He feels the slightly extra pressure his flip style notepad makes in the back of his pants. He senses the push style lead pencil in his front pocket against a thigh. Tools of his trade. While he was away from the computer. But he must resist the urge to pull it out in front of his wanna-be daughter. That’s not how it works.
(to be continued?)
the counter 01
He was looking for The Red Book but instead stumbled into the wrong store. “Other side of town,” the purveyor spurned upon hearing his request.
“Ahh, I’ll just take a ‘Moby Prick’, then.”
“1 nickel please.” This was 1939 after all. Or thereabouts.
—–
Biff Carter walked into the Cassandra City bookstore with the *correct* book. He laid a nickle on the counter.
“No cost,” the purveyor spurned. “You have to read it here.”
Biff Carter walked over to the bookshelf with the lone book not stuck or fused with it, took it to the store’s lone chair, and began to read. About himself.
the counter 02
Into the lunch room he stalked and deposited twenty cents upon the counter.
Biff Carter paused in his reading, looked over at the purveyor who was himself. I’ve been underpaid! he realized.
It was 1919 now. He’d lost twenty years somehow. Just by reading the book.
He went over and paid the purveyor twenty cents to make up for the time. Back to reality!
Tome firmly in hand, ex-police officer Biff Carter walked out of the The Red Book, never needing to return.
“It worked.”
review
Cassandra City still holds promise but probably not for this here current photo-novel. Baker Bloch must take his leave, rented apartment in town unused. Big Dick, a Phil actually, waits patiently in the corner of his hotel lobby, looking forward to more communication through the aether.
—–
Story possibilities in Heartsdale, a major driver early on in photo-novel 20, have most likely been exhausted as well. Let’s return there for a similar, final shot: Baker Bloch in front of Small Wood posing with Teddy, a black and white horse owned by an avatar named Zero.
Both glimpse Philip Strevor through a broken gate to the sidewalk. Strangely, the duplicate Yoko Ona that also walked around this particular Heartsdale block is gone now. Yoko as a whole has probably moved on from this sim.
—–
There seems to be more in Iris, a place to be focused on still. For example, there’s a kind of, um, inexplicable “hole” in the center of the 4-5 sim region owned by [delete name], who may actually, in Real Life, be [delete word]. If so, *Crooked* seems to be a link. The prominence of the Moth Temple seen in the background here, the “eye” of the whole Heterocera continent, could play a role in the hypothetical overshadowing of this mystery spot.
—–
Toppsity? I’m not sure what took place in the trial of Yoko Ona. We *know* that she spat on Baker Bloch when he tried to turn her right-side up from upside down while both were fishing in Heartsdale Bay, the last Heartsdale related post in this here photo-novel actually. You don’t spit on the chief avatar of a blog, the one the owner most identifies with, and get away with it — at least in the blog itself, where we still are last time I checked. (pause) Yes, I just checked. We are still in the blog.
But the witches of her coven eliminated original judge Tronesisia: drowned, with a possible saving ship arriving too late in the early afternoon after the late morning accident. Then the several witnesses we know of — Miss Raincoat (aka Sammy Whatammy), Uncle Stinky, and probably Crayola as well (aka Tammy Whatammy?) — have all been linked to maleficent forces too. Wait, let me check that again. (pause) Uncle Stinky has *not* been associated with such forces. He still can be used by the prosecutor George A., who we’ve not talked about since that particular post either. So we should return to Toppsity and finish the trial. Defendant Yoko Ona may be called to the stand herself. *That* could be interesting.
COLLAGESITY NOVEL 21
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.”
“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.”
World of Tomorrow
Sticky prepared to explore the city, birds in hand.
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.
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!
Moe’s
Ready for business?
We better check the 8-ball again.
Magic 8-Ball: It is certain.
So is Dinah Moe’s wife? Is that why they humm?
And who is Moe again? This is (old) Keith B. That’s not Moe.
A tea table (re)appears. We must have tea at Moe’s. With the Chancellor? How ’bout Gerald? Hope it’s well strained.
Let’s end with a map.
completio
“Pretty good, Keith B., dad wanna-be. But me thinks the head must go.” Both look over at the 2-dimensional version of Dr. Who’s Cassandra entity, at the eclipsed brain.
“Homer? Nah, he’ll stay for now.”
“Variables,” warns daughter wanna-be Kate McCoy. “Danger,” she adds.
Keith ponders what she said a lot as he attempts to sleep upstairs. 1 prim remaining of 60 — just enough to rez a bed.
Kate stays with him all night. Kate doesn’t need any sleep. Since, contrary to popular opinion and her last name, she isn’t real.
customers
Andy Warhole had been looking for Gabby all over town and finally found him in my new bar called Moe’s on the west edge, a low rent district. Art was on his mind again, and how to make money from it. “Look into your marvelous crystal ball, Gabby,” he requested, “and tell me my future.”
Gabby gazed deeply into the smokey sphere, saw the future, and then lied about it while starting to sweat. “Nothing, Andy. Sorry. Shall we talk about the weather instead. So hot, so muggy!” He nervously wiped his brow.
What he actually saw was a muscular man of reddish complexion walking underwater and wielding a menacing metallic golf club. Heading right toward him: The Boss. He knew this was one a-hole of a man.
He stared at Warhole. He reviewed the vision of the man. He stared at Andy Warhole.
——
“Ok, my turn, my turn.” Andy got up, Hilter from the couch sat down. “Ahem: How do I become chancellor of all of Germany?”
—–
customer too?
Hilter sat back down on the couch. He realized he was already chancellor of Germany. The year was 1939. Wendell “Biff” Carter sat beside him reading the red book and starting to figure it all out. He’d skipped twenty pages!
Right after his reading, he decides he’s going to head over to the Tome Raider and buy a proper bookmark.
cube
New Nun switched from the red to the gray book in front of Big Dick’s Halfway Inn and realized something was late. Really late, like 20 years. Red across the road was warning from the past, kind of Dixie but also not.
Bullfrog saw the same thing in X City last year. Bullfrog didn’t live long after that, done in by a red hatted crazy chick in the formerly “Mild East” part of NWES City.
Speaking of which…
he who holds the honeymustard has no say
“They lived by a great swamp. Today it would be called a wetland. But it was a textbook swamp. Crystal clear water, sandy bottom. Salamanders everywhere.”
I was waiting for someone wearing a trench coat but instead got Biff Carter, with only a vest. It was a nice vest, though, very retroactive and film noir-ish in a Ray Chandler type of way. I knew the man sometimes inhabiting Biff was a fan, just as *I* was a fan of the man sometimes inhabiting the man. I need to keep READing (his stuff). Honeypot — Pooh pulling. Red Umbrella: Pooh is holding in a corner as far away from centre as possible. The purple and yellow honey pot in a blue cart; noisily bouncing along the grainy, rough-hewed sidewalk of a town also in the Middle of it all. Middletown, US of A, with the Green (City) on one farside and the Gray(s) on another. Farside — another relation to the man inside the man. Fox Island. Swamp — Swamp Fox. It was all coming together. Or completely falling apart — I knew it was one or the other but didn’t know which yet. Biff Carter slid into the booth again, starting over. This was take 21. Director Bob Waffleburg was a perfectionist like his hero Stanley K. but not Stanley Kowalski. He’s different.
“I was — expecting someone else.”
“I know you were, I know you were,” he said. Biff Carter tended to repeat everything twice. At least on this take. He was tired of takes. He was ready to go home to his lovely wife Rowanda and play with his kids Sven and Duplexitous of 7 and 5 years old respectively. Duplexitous especially had skills in reading and math, although Sven was a wiz on the tracks and fields. They all mattered to him greatly. But filming paid for their swanky educations and star studded outfits and costumes. He needed to keep acting. Or at least accin, to use a Jim Jarmusch term. He makes a mental note to return to the Centerville concept and explore it more. But to the acting (or accin).
“I was told something about a trench coat. Did you forget?” Sandy Beech was *acting* offscript now. Bob told him to improvise when the moment felt right. Bob Waffleburg trusted his lead actor in this way. The 35 year old former used car salesman *using* Biff Carter for his arms and legs and torso and head and other bits right now was a bit more of an unknown. *He* was holding them back this time, not Alice Frame playing Wendy O’Donnell or something. Wait, it was Wendy something but not O’Donnell. Not yet — they hadn’t shot those scenes. That was her acting partner in that other film we’re trying to lure her away from. The one with all the Popeyes gathering together to gawk at the splashy, stormy sea. “Burger Wars” was a working name, and involved Alice Frame’s Wendy caught in a love triangle between King Winnifried Orange and Clown Renaldo O’Donnell. Then the hurricanes hit, and, yes, I said hurri*canes*, because there were two at once. (“Burger Wars” director) Chip Wassleboro tended to repeat as well when he got tired. And he wrote that part of the script about 2:01 in the morning before last Wednesday’s Monday’s Tuesday. So it was Thursday.
Then Sugar O’Cotton showed up, 10 minutes late. “Mind if I slide in?” she squeaked to now booth mate Pervimus Rex while doing just that. Pervimus couldn’t reply anyway since he wasn’t real.
“You know these spots on my blouse might look like blood stains but they’re really ketchup.” Still no answer.
(to be continued?)
new again!
After publishing for real, I add categories (essentially: locations) and tags (essentially: characters) as needed. I’ll just do it again in this new post (“new again!”) to illustrate. Then if the reader desires, they can check back and look at the history of a particular location, a particular character. Here’s what we have for Andy Warhole, for example:
https://bakerbloch.com/tag/andy-warhole/
From this you can see that the last post he was in before “new!”, published a couple of weeks ago and called “customers”, also contained the same characters: Hilter, Marilyn, add in Gabby Truth this time. So let’s just, for fun, check Gabby’s past posts:
https://bakerbloch.com/tag/gabby-truth/
Ahh, you see? He also has a history with these particular characters, stretching back to photo-novel 14 and his time in Toppsity on the Maebaleia/Satori continent while living there with his brother Amos, who was, let’s see, about a month and a 1/2 back, declared dead due to repeated self ignitions, 7 to be specific as I’m checking.
https://bakerbloch.com/tag/amos-truth/
A sad tale. Gabby still lives in Cassandra City
https://bakerbloch.com/category/virtual/maebaleia-satori/cassandra-city/
to the south of Toppsity
https://bakerbloch.com/category/virtual/maebaleia-satori/toppsity/
and last time I checked (“customers” again) was working in my Moe’s tavern there as a soothsayer, using tarot cards, 8 ball, and roshambo together to create the most effective vortex of timely prognostications. He told Hilter recently that he was already chancellor of Germany even though it was only 1919, another time and space and collage confusion. He dispensed timely if watered down wisdom to Andy Warhole about his art career and the impending doom he sees. Casey One Hole, one a-hole of a guy. We should get back to him.
https://bakerbloch.com/tag/casey-the-alien-casey-one-hole/
And what of Gabby and Amos’ seldom seen brother Keith B., hmm?
https://bakerbloch.com/tag/keith-b/
So much to keep up with these days.
(to be continued)
new deal
“We may not be finished with Cassandra City, Baker Bloch. I hope you can mustard enough energy to ketchup with me.”
“I relish the thought.”
“I thought you would I thought you would.” Then he became mild again, his normal self. Man About Time, MAT, knew something. I had a meeting with him tomorrow to discuss Beet and the making of their next album, “Lived to Tell”. Lived to tell *what*? I want to ask him. Why did they pick The Crossroads to record that album? I separate myself from MAT for now and fade from the picture.
“So we begin.”
—–
“Is he gone yet? Oh HI!”
“I want to buy this place.” Simple and soft from the end of the bar. “And the jar.”
“Homer?” Moe couldn’t part with Homer he didn’t think. Best to start over somewhere else.
“Bar not jar,” he gruffed over to his old friend in his course manner. His old *enemy* friend. Best to keep them close to the vest; know of their whereabouts. New Nun and Sticky between them nodded, since they were one with his mind. Shut up mind! Did I say that out loud as well?
MAT spit in his hand and moved toward Moe, arm extended. Dare he shake it? he asked internally while shaking in a different way. So mild. So dangerous.
“No jar.”
He extended his figure upward. He reached.
NOVEL 22
Crossroads
Not yet.
NOVEL 29
contemplating blackness
Lena Horned waits at the park for everything to rez in. Then she takes a picture to remember it by. The day she met Jim A., aka Jim A. Brown aka Jim Brown. But don’t call him (just) Jim. What would they talk about? A new gig at his old club? Hardly. Jim A.’s a washup; she’d moved on, starting with the success of what turned out to be her signature song, “The Ballad of Stormy Daniels.” Who knew a court transcript would so successfully transfer to song lyrics (!?). But she’s having trouble following up on her initial success. Repetition for gain of fame is not the same as mutable creativity. Ask David Bowie: she’d been getting into his music lately, determining he’s half black himself. Has a black wife, his soul mate. Lena Horned had met her once at a fashion show. She had wisdom in her eyes. She was a deep soul — just like David.
There: a picture.
And there: Jim A./Jim A. Brown/Jim Brown.
“Hiya.”
But Jim wasn’t fully formed and apparently only Lena could see it. Instead: walking dead. Too late to run.
“Hello.”
not a full deck
She sat as far apart from him on the bench they shared as possible without being *too* obvious about it. Along with looking just plain awful he also reeked of dead flesh — death itself. Yet he talked as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He was chattering on and on about his club — Jim’s Club, before he insisted that you add an A. to it, a Brown, or an A. Brown if you wish. But not plain ol’ Jim; not after his club sank after, first, Your Mama and Keith B. left, and then Lena herself. She’d never known him as Jim A./Jim Brown/Jim A. Brown, since she hadn’t seen him since the fall of the Club — last fall she believes. She only knew him as Jim.
“Jim,” she began innocently, trying to excuse herself and daring to insert his name in his soliloquy. Bad mistake.
He waited for more which didn’t come, then: “Jim. That’s it? As in Jim’s Diamond Club, red and black together to make something not quite as good as either separately? *Jim*?”
“Yeah: Jim,” she repeated. “Isn’t — that your name?” She was sweating now. She shouldn’t have wore her fur costume she was going to sing in tonight. Probably brought back bad memories for Jim (Jim?) and his club — same outfit she wore at times there, she now recalled.
He stared at her: no life atall in his eyes. “Call me that again and you’ll be as dead as me. Get it?”
Lena Horned got it. She just let him talk and ramble on about the past after that. Finally he’d unwound everything he wanted to say to her. He got up. “Well, ’bout time to head back into the grave, honey. I thank you. I think you’ve — saved me.” He left the park, sauntering up the street he came down from, into the sunset. She stayed on the bench, wondering what just happened. She better get back to her apartment and talk to Zach Black about all this, before she forgets. Was this all a dream? she wondered, snapping her fingers and finding they just pass through each other. Yeah: dream.
Thank Gods. She takes the tension out of her shoulders and heaves a deep sigh and wakes up, Zach’s arm draped about her midsection. Her new man. Her new *club* man.
“The past again?” She’d been fidgeting for a while, keeping him awake. He contemplated prodding her but just let the dream unwind. Always the sigh at the end to wake up. He knew it wouldn’t last long; never did. The dead can’t leave their grave for too long.
(to be continued?)
00290103
“Oh it was just awful, Zach. That *look* in his eyes.”
Always the same, Zach thinks. She repeats herself over and over about their description, these “walking dead” as she calls them.
“But then the last dream I had about David Bowie was *fun*. Cute umbrella people — New People they called themselves, but come from a flooded country. They turned into umbrellas — that stopped the rains. Very cute,” she reinforced. “And David Bowie was their leader (!). Except he called himself… umm.” She couldn’t recall the name Bogota, because that could put a kind of damper on the cuteness. Because: another walking dead obviously.
like corn
—–
It was a Red Land, mix in a bit of yellow (“Yelloo!”), a kinder, gentler Axis for the modern agogo world of yesterday’s tomorrow, mix in a little propeller (whirl, whirl whirl!). Okay, let’s ditch the propeller cap actually. Here he is.
Bit of midriff showing but we’re working on it: we’ve called him Windmill Man, as he stands at the bottom of another Diagonal that acts as the axis for the Chalet subcontinent of Bellisaria. Bellisseria. This is the path to FREEDOM, starting at Brady Stream. I check nightly for name changes to the surrounding base sims.
The Diagonal moves upwards beyond Bellisaria into the Maebaleia continent, almost as hard to spell. And this is where we must begin tonight, because new things are happening in Cassandra — just off this Diagonal or affected by its energy. Developments continue…
It was a poor, shivering girl indicating that lawnmower guy Jacob I. was still alive and awake and kicking like a little baby here. Somewhere. Thank you. I said: thank you. Watch out! (swerve at last second)
Close enough.
A girl within. Looks like Jill Valentine but it’s not. And I’ve run into another girl named Valentine recently. Can’t remember where…
Oh, of course: *Faye* Valentine. With the gun. On the *other* Diagonal we’re currently examining.
Cowboy Bebop. Mimosa Lanes. Ur-parents. Still guiding (“We: here”). Hoooome cooking, Andy Griffith NC style.
—–
Marion “Star” Harding, cowboy for life, ponders the death of his lover, his *director*, in that awful explosion over in Paper-Soap. Oh Heidi — or whatever your actual name was — I will miss you deeply. I will miss the *money* coming in, because I was one of your favorites. You cast me in every film you directed, and even though I didn’t get every part (too obvious!), I got a good heap of ’em. We were together tonight, albeit briefly.
All we have are memories.
Cass City > Horns of Hatton?
“You know, she really is the complete package, brother Jer, this Lena Horned.”
“I hear you brother Ben. I hear *her*.”
They listen to the completion of “The Ballad of Stormy Daniels,” preparing for their pitch. Come with us, they’ll tell her. Come back to the capital of all of the South, not just the Deep South. Help us make the South great again, that’s what they’ll say.
“Thank you (applause whistles applause). Thank you very much (applause applause applause).”
brown bombshell
Back down at her lake house, cat-girl Coffee phones up Zach to spill the beans.
“Hello sweetness, have you heard the *latest*?”
—–
“Leave??” He spat it out toward Lena like it was a meal of fresh shite. He didn’t like it one *bite*.
“It’s only for the holiday season,” she tried innocently.
“Listen honey, I *know* how these things *work*.” He shakes his head. “Lord lord lord, first Jim A. and now *me*.”
“It’s not… like that.”
train of thoughts (for now)
Guyd on one side, Rebl on the other, the director of the current film (“Sunklands 2021 Even Later”) talks with newly synthesized Axis Windmill Man about further developments in the plot. Don’t want another giant diamond ring in an open casket situation to end!
“Scratchy is the destination,” began Axis-Windmill in earnest after the niceties were over. Down to business now. Cass City business. “The show within the show that is Our Second Lyfe.”
Director Percy Pierce tried to put new lover Marion Star Harding out of her mind. She’d been thinking about him ever since they parted ways several days back — left him back at Starfish Lake or Sea or whatever the f- they’re calling the body of water these days — the new trend. She knew he, in turn, still thought about Heidi. Actually: another show within a show, since it is a mere window in his mind now. Job at hand…
“Snowball in Hell is… reality?”
“There are 2 sides to this,” explains Axis-Windmill, looking at green and yellow eyed Guyd to the left, then red-blue eyed Rebl to the right. He moves his right hand toward his left hand to meet in the middle and form praying hands.
“Are you saying we should *pray* for the correct plot direction?”
“Erm.”
“Ob-JEC-tion,” overruled Guyd from the left. “This show should be non-denominational.”
“Secular even, yes,” interjected nodding Rebl from the right.
Director Percy Pierce peered at them as well. “The feline-people will have their way. They created all this after all, like toys for their boys.”
“Did they?” Axis-Windmill obviously had his doubts.
“Yes,” doubled down Percy Pierce.
“That’s not what the manual states.”
“The manual remains a draft in places. I’m sorry — I meant to update before you were synthesized and acquired lines.”
“The manual states–”
“I *know* what the manual states.” They sat silent for a spell, all 4 of them. Percy’s thoughts involuntarily drifted back to Marion… and, within the window (she almost thought “windmill”), the director that preceded her.
(to be continued (?))
00290114
In the mirror, Percy Pierce stared at the device on her chest that made her controlled. At least it’s not in her *head*, she ruminated, trying to cheer herself up. And, after all, it’s what makes her a top notch director, able to think in many directions at once, see many possibilities. The problem, then, becomes *choice*. And that’s where Axis-Windmill Man comes into play; why he was manufactured in the first place. She needed someone imaginary to do battle with. Manual, pheh. There *is* no manual.
—–
“What are you looking for little boy?”
“Toys.”
She spreads her arms wide. “Alll around.”
controlled
“Awfully nice for you to come over and cook me dinner again, Alysha.”
Alysha, she thinks. *That’s* how he sees me now? “Sure, honey,” she says. “Anything for my number 1 man.” Number 10 at best she calculates to herself. She’s just that deep into it. Horns of Hatton, pheh. Manga, huh. She sprinkles spice on the meatloaf and asks him what he’s up to today, hoping the heck she wouldn’t be involved. But she does feel sorry about the hands. The Abyss will have its price, she thinks. And the Abyss is very close here. Very close indeed. About as close as that big whale circling around this treehouse.
“Business down South,” he answers from his rocking hammock. “Have to take Pricky.”
Thanks Gods, she ponders. “Oh? Big haul, then?”
“More marine life, yeah. Squid, I think. Or octopus — can’t recall right now. Anyway have to go to Cass City to pick it up; haul it up North somewhere. Meat Town I think it’s called. I’ll have to look it up on my map.”
*Neat* Town, Alysha thinks from the sink, pondering whether to add poison to the recipe to stop the whole thing. She knows why she’s here now. But not to kill him, she realizes. Instead: kiss; use her magical powers.
By the time they’d finished, Alysha had had a chance to alter the map. The whale ended up going the wrong way and never reached its intended destination. Roth wasn’t fired, but he never saw his precious, red headed Alysha again. Blonde Wanda filled the void, but Wanda couldn’t cook worth shite and had to be disposed of herself. Fed to the sharks, some say, although she actually just went back to Bombtown and eventually married a man with 3 eyes. Then came Sally. Or was it Shelley? No: Sally.
“Do you want some meatloaf on your spice tonight?” she called from the kitchen, preparing for the worse.
—–
the sphere is the cube is the sea is the whale
She couldn’t stop playing with the Cube of Space, no matter how hard she tried. She’d given in to the urges, complacent in the moment…
—–
She always knew she’d return to (the general) Crabwoo (area). Horses — in the middle of Horsa, or at least an ass, donkeys they call them around these here Northern parts. Loaded down with flowers for the market. And where was that place? That’s what she had to find out next.
—–
She hadn’t heard good music in what seemed like ages. Yet here she was, listening to the beautiful crooning of famous Lena Horned in a cafe she just stumbled upon by accident it seemed. Rehearsals of course, else the place would obviously be packed. Another black person accompanied her to her immediate right drinking bitter wine. Zach Black — caved in to the pressure from the central government of the South. “You help her reach her highest peak pitch or else,” Jer Left Horn demanded in the alley out back of his Cass City club, brother Benny Right Horn with grease monkey wrench beating in hand next to him. A threat in other words. If nice doesn’t work then it’s back to the routine of being bullies, which they’re better at than regular diplomacy anyhoot. Horns of Hatton must be completed. A continental tour will be the warmup. And thus here she is, in the far North, ready for conquest like the British Beatles did with America. Similar. “We have to get you another hit,” said Zach Black after the alley scene was over, now understanding his position in the big scheme of things. Else: walking dead. Like Jim A. Brown before him.
The phone rings for her but is answered by another. She has a personal assistant now. Thank Gods. Time for herself at last.
“Yello?”
killings
“Leave?” He was incredulous. “But we just *got* here; I just settled into this place, this house. It’ll work out. Just because Clovis–”
“This is not about Clovis,” Axis-Windmill reinforced. “This is about tying up things in this here photo-novel–”
“Let me guess,” Keith B. interrupted in turn. “29 in a series of nothing.”
“Close. But we want to try anyhow… anyhoot.”
“*Alysha*” he called into the kitchen to his red headed wife making soup with a fork and spoon. “Are you hearing this?”
“I’m hearing,” she said. “But the soup is boiling… may be missing some things. Something about the electricity not working properly in this house?”
“*No*,” he stated, blowing out some air. “They want to *pull the plug* on the operations here.”
More boiling. “Ventriloquists? I told you we shouldn’t move to a town with those. Trouble, always trouble.”
Keith B. gives up until Alysha finishes her soup. He shakes his head about the matter for Axis-Windmill, who was curious. “When did you acquire a wife, old Keith B.?”
“Alysha? Met her at a fair. She’d just won a beauty contest, being the loveliest girl in all of Hooktip.”
“Hooktip?”
“Yeah, where she’s from. Where *I’m* from. She’s a childhood sweetheart as they say.” Keith B. decides to turn the tables. “And where are *you* from… German boy?” He’d heard rumors of a war, in fact 2 of ’em. Germans on one side, his side on the other. But was he American? Or…”
—–
“Papa,” Jenny called from the kitchen, making soup. Axis-Windmill was gone, having been called out. Alysha exited with him, *his* wife. Not Keith B.’s. Keith remained a bachelor because of, well, The Room and what goes on in there. Jennifer thinks it is self sex, but actually it’s (see title).
“What is it dear?”
“I have an idea about the logo on the drums. I’ve been mulling it over all day. Instead of a star, like in Cpt. America, how about a circle. A circle within a circle, like in that British air force poster up at the Seraph.”
They were back in Cass City and it was 20 years ago and their star was about to rise because of this. Ironic. Star erased, star gained. Trouble is, there were 2 of ’em and there was only Room for one.
not quite picture perfect
I’m going to get that promotion today. I can feel it deep down in my bones.
Maybe if I stare into those psychedelic curtains long enough, someone will show up and feed me.
“Hi Angie! Ready for dinner?”
“Sure am, Miller!”
4:15. Where *is* Percy?
4:25. Where *is* he?
hues
“Okay, we’re definitely going to have to agree on a favorite colored tea before we get married. Here, let’s switch (*switch*).”
(*sip*) “Yuuuuck!”
“Okay, we’re definitely going to have to rethink this relationship.”
(*huff*) “Fine with me (!).”
—–
“I think you definitely said 301 East Meeting.”
“I definitely did *not*. 103 I said. I wish I would have recorded it now. I need to record everything.”
“*Anyway*, we’re here. We found each other.”
“3 hours later!”
“Aren’t… aren’t you going to drink your tea?”
“I’m not drinking that stuff.”
—–
“Annny-wayyy. The low down on the plot so far. Spill it.”
Axis-Windmill then “accidentally” sloshed some tea out while raising his own glass to his mouth. “Oooops.”
“Funny,” Percy said while watching it penetrate his duster coat sleeve, turning himself slightly green. Percy’s lone color remained red like her own untouched tea, as in controlling heart red. At least it’s not in (or on) her head. she often thinks. Speaking of which…
“You’re a funny boy,” she reinforced. “A funny funny boy.”
The green kept coming. “More than I expected!”
baby band
Clothing challenged, lawn mowing Jacobia was stuck, unable to press forward on her own.
So she decided to put on a few more clothes and join another progressive rock group, this time *not* starting with a G, or at least only the letter itself being referred to this go around. The G-Spots were born, half black, half white, all Basterds after naturally evolving into a punk band. Okay then, let’s go with The Basterds, since The Bastards is obviously taken and also the Basturds. And The Bastords doesn’t make much sense, and neither does the Bastirds. Hmmm… Bastirds.
When I spoke to Jacobia about it she said that (the name) Bastirds was silly and that they would go with G-Spots, except spell it Gee Spots, like a frisky gee cat she knew growing up in Paper-Soap. Anita (lead guitarist) agreed, and so did Stig (keyboardist) and Dirk (bassist). The band hit all the right notes, just like during good sex. After acquiring drummer Peter Sun (formerly Mitch Peterson) to complete the quintet, their first gig proper was in front of a tunnel playing to a disinterested crowd wondering why their train went missin. They would move on to bigger and better.
NOVEL 30
Scratchy
“Oh… I’m full Duncan. I can’t eat another bite of this delicious yet weighty soup. So tasty, though.” He picks up his spoon from beside his empty bowl, intending to have at it again.
“I didn’t bring you here just to give you some of Sally’s leftovers. I brought you here to…” He paused.
“Yes?” George was digging out what he considered the best chunks now from the tureen (deep covered dish). Almost done.
“Talk about *us*.”
George starts eating. Not too fast… he wants to savor the flavor. Aunt Clare taught him that. But he was tired of snow or snow derived meals. Give him something crunchy but not with ice in it! “Well… go ahead,” he says between bites. “So good,” he reinforces.
breakthrough
—–
White as Heaven, he stood at the open door on the back of the windmill, watching from a distance. Black, he determined. And probably red as well. He should join them, make his presence known. What does he have to hide *now*?
He quickly hides his red hand from observation, a medical condition but also blood. Our Duncan Avocado. He was also looking for something. He’d lost his cap, perhaps in the woods. He was scratching his head, wondering where it went, but then realized this exposed his weakness to the white guy up the hill. He’s also on something, as in onto something. A box. Could this be… Borneo?
As the white guy approached, he thinks back to Scratchy (sim) and another weakness exposed. The inability to keep track of the one thing in life he is responsible for: George. “White as Heaven” was there. He had some advice to dispense. “You’ve been working on the railroad. I can tell (by your hands).”
Was it a labor of love? he thought after the brief conversation was over. Bart might know. If he wasn’t dead as well.
“Go to the Red,” the white guy essentially commanded. The Old White Lady did. Your *ma*.
He somehow got stuck in the windmill on his way over. Back to square one.
Later: Duncan’s soup disappeared and he knew he was in trouble.
(to be continued)
Scratchy 02
“What does it mean, W?”
“You’re such a funny person, asking so many questions.”
“Stairway to Heaven, I’m guessing. End of Up(pelin).”
“So many…”
——
Anyway, this was Heaven, White as.
Better get back to George.
—–
*There* it is (!)
Ten
He gets close enough to where he can’t miss.
—–
“Aw mann.”
“No mann’s from you, young’n,” replies Duncan Avocado to the boy’s protest. “You’ve got to go back to Aunt Clare for a spell. Just until I can figure out a plot to this here photo-novel.”
“But… you’re such a good cook!” George thinks back to the ice. And snow. The crunching. He could lose a tooth this time. ‘Nother one!
“Remember to pack some extra coats. November now. On the other side of the chasm schism, there’s Tennessee. Perpetual snow.
“I *hate* snow!” Certainly sounds like a boy of 10 now. Unless he’s 13. We’ll get to a picture in a moment to properly see and deduce.
“Besides,” Duncan attempts to rationalize. “Your Aunt Clare needs you — she gets lonely, out in those granite hills.
“I’ll have to get some shoes,” George continues to complain. “I *hate* shoes.”
“Now, now,” Duncan tries to calm. “Most boys don’t have your luck in the first place to move to warm climates when they choose. Scratchy just happens to be as far south on this continent as you can get. It’s warmer than everywhere else. You’ll return soon enough. Think of Clare — think of *others*.”
“I *hate* thinking of others.” Duncan gives up. There’ll be tomorrow for more coaxing; maybe the boy will age by then.
(to be continued)
NOVEL 32
cities
On her break, she liked to come to this park in the middle of it all to read her latest red book, this Lorsters Worst lady of the night. No sex in the book, since she needed to get away from all that which surrounded her like stardust glitter. Here: good solid plants. Earth. Grounded, she was. But break’s about over and the man with the big blue RAM truck with the souped up engine she didn’t quite understand the workings of had just killed his current adversary, the one who kidnapped his Damsel in Distress who was the same as his wife. These were no swingers. Really. That phony lifestyle got them in trouble but there was no sex involved in their interactions with the Charlotte club. Why would he allow that? she thinks for the character, the retired policeman who was now a private dick. That would be his, ahem, *unit* thinking for him, which needed to remain private.
—–
I think back to when I met the guy, in a Cassandra City establishment called Big Dick’s Halfway Inn.
He sat in relative darkness in the corner of the lobby, waiting for me it seemed. Probably was. I was an older man at the time, which means the same age as currently down to the month, day, minute. I asked him if he was the name on the establishment. He scooted forward, removed his crossed hands and revealed himself, said he was that in the flesh. I turned away, having seen enough. Biff Carter was his name. I remember that clearly. I also recall the hotel was full that evening, and I ended up sleeping in the chair opposite him in the lobby. He removed himself sometime — I don’t recollect when. Gabby (clerk) returned about midnight from his looong long lunch break, as he called it (another break!), woke me up, and after gabbing quite a bit about unrelated topics said I couldn’t stay here. Then he recognized me from the band — we were playing at Shenanigans at the time — and changed his mind, said it was okay instead. He later wrote me, after I had acquired much greater fame and also fortune, that he regretted that night with all his soul. Should have kicked someone out and given you their room, he said, but still didn’t say who.
Actually, now I’m recalling an earlier incarnation, involving another red door ta boot. Wendell “Biff” Carter yes. Just retired from the police force, check (after the Oakley Annie debacle: see case-file 37-QZ). Returned to the force briefly when former fellow cop Philburt got sick on pill, but the debacle that caused him trouble in the first place resurfaced in an unexpected guise (Orkley Andy: see follow-up case-file 38-AP). It was as if he was circling back on himself in an endless loop. He needed to break out. Buying half of a small hotel in the Queen City of the South seemed a recipe for success. But then came the swingers.
Could have been recently deceased Jer Ronamy from Starfish Lake Gabby wanted to kick out but I’m not entirely sure. Have to check the old hotel registers sometime if possible.
(to be continued)
NOVEL 41
00410201
The day after Thanksgiving. Normalcy returns to the small virtual village of Amiable with plenty of leftover goodies from the festival, a huge success. Corn shucked, weighed and balanced, and then baked into bread and other products; sweet roots based music produced aplenty; sweets and refreshments served all around.
—–
“Offer you a drink, Doctor?”
“Not now Victoria.” He wanted to keep his eyes glued to the front of the club, for Dr. Grayson was waiting on someone, another doctor he assumed. The place: Cass City, queen burg of Satori’s Deep South. The time: 1939 apparently. Just before the great war that never was. Thanks to the book.
Dr. Mouse walks into the Serapis Club. “Check your coat, Doctor?”
“Not now, Victor.” He had a mission to fulfill. Bring what he assumed was another doctor up to speed. And then have him take his place. Hopefully.
(to be continued)
00410202
Mouse leaves the scene, happy with the results. “Taxi!!”
—–
“Someone’s coming,” spoke the top.
“Must be that girl again,” said the girl of the two.
The girl entered the chapel.
crossfire
When they had finished with her hair, it had turned fiery gold again, with a corresponding change in clothes. Marsha “Pink” Krakow was back, baby.
Took a while to properly cool off, though. “Thanks guys!”
Going Back
The name of the city had changed from Cassandra to just Cass. What she knew as the Seraph Club was now the Serapis Club. She had to look that up. Old Graeco-Egyptian god associated with a Jesus-like cult. But in Our Second Lyfe, well, an interesting topic. Cult in that case headed by a doctor — looks like a Mouse. Make that: looks like Mouse (for a name (according to an attached notecard she found)). And this Cass City? Azore Islands alternate or parallel history. Pyramid, hidden from the public eye after a brief exposure. Atlantis at the bottom of everything and sloowly making its way back to the top again. She’d seen the Abyss inside. Abyss, she repeated in her mind. Dr. Mouse and his Serapis might have a point.
Better get some human clothes to go along with a human form asap. This situation needs investigating!
00410205
He was dozing in the office per usual when the phone jarred him from his dream about hot tubs. Wanda? he thinks about the girl there. Who’s Wanda? He cuts off the rings by answering, assuming it was a wrong number. 5:30 in the morning. Who would be calling him now?
A dame named Wanda, that’s who. Or so she said. Probably the psychic police again, he thinks, hounding me until the end.
“Sykes,” she said about a last name when he asked her, poised for retribution.
“Is that with an i… or a y?”
“W-why (nervous laugh)… do you ask?”
“Because I was just dreaming about a dame named Wanda,” private dick Wendell “Biff” Carter admitted but cockily, “and I wanted to know how to spell her last name for the next time we meet up.”
“How odd,” the woman also claiming to be Wanda said on the other side of the line in a tone that Carter identified as sincerely surprised. Maybe not the psychic police after all, he pondered. Maybe one of those what you call *synchronicities*. He tested further. He realized she seemed to be talking to someone with the receiver’s mouthpiece covered. The detective was good at detecting that — had to be to survive, he said to himself as he honed his craft by trying one muffled voice after another with his girl Friday secretary Berta. What kind of cloth or hanky or whatever was used for the muffling? Could be important. In this case he was thinking: cashmere. Slight bit of scratching against the receiver (wool) coupled with a Cape Cod accent. Rich dame, he surmised. He needed money. He’ll overlook the oddities to proceed forward.
“What can I help you with?” He tried to wake up as much as possible to absorb the stream of information he assumed was coming his way.
“I *was* looking… for a mirror.” That was it. Mirror. The dream, he knew. She found it. Click went the receiver. Took a long time to return to sleep after that. Wanda in reality, he thought, glancing over at the phone again. Wanda in the dream. Maybe if I return to the same dream I can get more info from the dame who lives, ahem, *inside*. He leaned back, hands behind his head just like we started with. “Wanda Wanda Wanda,” he muttered as Newton slid back into Jasper. “Wanda Wanda (snore) Wanda…”
(to be continued)
Sunklands 