COLLAGESITY 2017 LATER (NOVEL 6)
Gaston Terri
The Musician tries to remember where his studio apartment is in this maze of streets, stairs and alleyways.
Eight, nine… He believes his was 5.
Squalor. He thinks for the thousandth time that he must remove himself from this environment. But he’s been inspired (!). The Musician has some new songs. “Terri,” for one, a love ballad.
He found it. Down by the harbour.
How’d he get so lucky?
But he’s got his eyes on this 2 story yellow house 2 doors down. The place remains unlocked, and sometimes he and Terri meet here and jam.
Yesterday he received a telephone call from Wheeler. They caught up. Wheeler said she’s probably heading back to Collagesity in a month or 2, and that some things remain to be tied up in Olde Lapara Towne. He, in turn, tells how he got to Gaston from VHC City. It was pleasant talking to her again. Afterwards he thought of the good times back in their Safe Plaza, where they first met up. The Ear Bar. Yes…
He looks for the landmark. Takes him a while…
Key shop… close enough.
There it is. The Musician almost forgot how to find it.
Ear.
Bar.
His favorite pinball machine inside — still broken.
“Howdy Percolator,” The Musician calls toward the bar counter. Percolator is a sentient clown machine.
The red doors across the way were no longer locked. Underground open to all. No OD needed!
He could still stay here. Crash on the upper floor’s couch just like old times.
But there was Terri to think about now. He imagines him sitting in the chair next to the couch, his twin sister Chroma illuminated in the background.
Chroma wishes to be a matheamatician, but is limited because she only likes group theory. “0 1 4 9 4 1”, she might randomly say. He can’t recall any other of her rows right off. Chroma’s graphs she calls them in total. She’s red for a reason.
color row
One day, after a particularly intense jamming session the night before, The Musician woke not beside Terri but *as* Terri. Although his name was now Earie. Some people called him Chuck. He lived in the Yellow House — been living there for a pretty good while.
Siblings Chroma and Improvio resided in the same row of houses, but remained in cocoon form, chained to a more basal music. He was the first to emerge.
He gives Improvio next door in the Blue House a ring, knowing he wouldn’t be up, hehe.
“Don’t answer it.”
Chroma (Red House) was usually down at the waterfront by now, studying symmetry in objects washed up on the beach. She jots down a lot.
Right this moment she happens to be scrutinizing an old waterlogged book found floating underneath a rickety pier.
name game
Earie woke up in a strange place once more. He felt like he’d been drugged. But he recognized the rusty lighting all around. Still Gaston-Berry, he realized. For there indeed was a Berry too, as legends told.
Now where was home again in all this mess?
Ahh, the ocean. He must be close. There’s Stewart’s ship out there. A landmark for his confused mind.
He sits in the worn wooden chair on the pier and tries to remember what happened the night before.
Audrey was her name? No… Leona. Leona Lei. And her sister Hana Lei. Or at least they always wore leis (traditional Hawaiian garland of flowers). But wait — he’s remembering the horrible details now. It was only his siblings Improvio and Chroma, dolled up like women of the night. What was in that weed Jacob sold them last week?? And those wacky glasses (sunglasses?) they passed back and forth between them, with one lens red and the other blue. Yes, he must track down Jacob, who resides downtown somewhere. He remembers an initial for a last name but not the actual name. Jacob I. Maybe that will be sufficient.
But first, to find home.
Easy enough.
He must pay more attention to his surroundings.
—–
Meanwhile, downtown:
“So little grass, Broken Heart Jackie.”
“And so much paper.”
punks
Earie (The Musician) realized there were still many mysteries to be resolved concerning VHC City — like the relationship of this Sipvicious logo found in the Quincey Educational Building and the famous punk Sid Vicious who stayed in the town’s grand Hotel Chelsea. Chroma and Improvio, being rooted in a basal nature still, desired to visit the infamous Room 100 where Sid killed Nancy. The All Nancy’s ghost found in the Grand Lapara Hotel more recently is mere reflection of this tragic event, they’ve determined. The Grand Lapara Hotel itself, they say, is a reflection of Hotel Chelsea, in that both are modeled after real life New York City hotels. Earie, who has evolved beyond them now, he feels, thinks otherwise. But his main concern right now is not VHC City nor Olde Lapara Town. It’s Gaston-Berry, and finding Jacob I. and attempting to get him to explain what the heck is happening to him currently. Chroma and Improvio made up like hookers? Red and blue lensed glasses? The Lei sisters? It’s a head scratcher, he realizes while scratching his head. So it’s back to the Yellow House to prepare for a downtown visit.
But first, he must dress more appropriately for the location. Some purchases at historical Blackburns Store in Alabama or Georgia aid him.
Did he go too far with the blue eye? Yes, he determined. He did. A bit too alien, and the new landlord specified in her short rental note: NO aliens.
Good enough.
Eat your heart out Improvio, you old skunk.
searching
Red, yellow, blue, he thinks. Is this *us* again somehow?
And across the street: same colors in a row. Right order according to their houses, even. He peers through the window.
Someone shooting up. Grim town.
Nope. Not here either.
There was just a lot of f-cking places Jacob I. could be.
He decides to retreat back to the safety of his Yellow House and try again tomorrow. Too dangerous at night.
Oh no. He’s lost again.
Is that the burning barrel from the night before? He’s unsure.
A scream from the shack down the plank walkway.
Red and blue glasses thrown through a window. He’s close! But so dangerous here. He senses it all around. Maybe he should put on his blue eye again — look tougher. Or crazier may be good too.
Totally lost. “Shoo cat. Ain’t got time for you.”
But the boney feline persisted. “RreeRRW!” it said. That translates to “follow ME!” in cat language.
Then, gazing at Earie’s turned face, it changed and stood up on two legs. “Blue red,” Broken Heart spoke with an eerie, child-like voice. “Blue red blue red blue red.”
name game 02
Broken Heart led Earie through a series of backyard passages where they met several colorful characters. I’ll get to that story more later. But true to her word they were here outside the Joint Joint, with Jacob I. supposedly within. Broken Heart had further explained that the I. stood for nothing. “Think Harry S. Truman,” she said while striding over some old tires on their journey. Seeing Earie not reply, she added, “or U.S. Grant.” “So his full and legal name is Jacob I.,” Earie replied back, dodging a broken coke bottle. “Formerly Jacob the Lawnmower,” he furthered, alluding to earlier conversation. By this time they were passing through Old Lady Bedford’s clothes line in another tight spot, being careful not to get, well, clotheslined (caught in the neck). At 96 she represented the town’s oldest prostitute, but her only remaining customer was Billy Tokesalot, a nonagenarian himself. Sometimes it took them 10 days.
In the present moment, Earie tried the door to the establishment. Locked. “Don’t knock the knockers,” Broken Heart ordered from below. “He’ll come.” Nothing happened for several minutes. Earie glanced over at the policeman standing beside them a couple of times, but his gaze remained fixed on the window. “Nice night,” Earie finally offered. The policeman didn’t answer; focus unchanged. At 4:45am Jacob I. opened the door, and stared at each figure in front of it. “Broken Heart,” he said, nodding down to the cat-person. Jacob then came back to Earie. “I thought I told you to stay away, Chuck.”
continuation
Turns out Jacob I. had mistakened Earie for another punk with a queerly similar mohawk who came in earlier that night. “Chuck,” Jacob said, thinking back to the meeting and shaking his head. “Must have been a clown dressed up as a punk. They do that.”
“Tell him to take off his hat,” purred a tinier Broken Heart, sitting on it. “You know you want to see.”
“See what?” Earie asked.
“The I., of course,” replied Broken Heart.
“Oh he’s not interested in that thing, Jackie.”
“Don’t call me Jackie,” said the bone cat.
“Alright.” Jacob looked to the punk presently sitting with him. “How’s that grass treating you, hehe.”
“Pretty good,” said Earie, taking another toke. He’d finish this joint and be done with it, he decided. Has to walk home still, he knew. But how to navigate that whole backyard journey again? Maybe Broken Heart would escort him. If she did, then perhaps he could partake in at least part of another joint. “Good stuff; starting to see Hawaii, haha,” he finally replied to Jacob’s query. “So… what were we talking about? Oh. I have to ask the bone cat something.”
“Hat,” persisted Broken Heart. She tapped her little paw on Jacob’s straw chapeau for emphasis.
Jacob exhaled a lot of smoke in resignation, raising his eyebrow for Earie while setting his joint down in the ashtray on the table. “She’s not going to give up. But I’m warning you. It’s intense.” Broken Heart jumped to the floor and he removed the hat, laying it carefully on the couch beside him.
Looks like another Big Reveal to me.
Centre
The at least part alien Baker Bloch disguised himself as an apple tree before teleporting into the very center of the Gaston sim.
Just like Earie/The Musician indicated to him. The sim’s so-called Central Park is not a name be taken lightly.
And whoever sleeps in this Wastelands Bed next to it holds great power.
Baker then decides to teleport over to the site of Leona’s rehearsal last night. Or are they called The Blackstars? Anyway, another sky island…
Pretty Man
Basically like clockwork, Earie passes Jiff’s abode a couple minutes beyond total darkness. 7:30 tonight, but winter is coming and the days are getting shorter. Tomorrow he should pass at approximately 7:29, the next day 7:28, and so on until time turns around or he leaves the sim. One day Jiff will follow the punk to see where he goes, but right now he needs to get some sleep. Jiff’s usually in bed by about 8 and rises around 6. Sometimes he even sees Earie pass the other way. Then it’s off to work at the Gaston-Berry Police Station as staff psychiatrist. A new and troubled male inmate has just arrived who goes by the name of Wilson. Pretty face, though. Maybe that’s the screw’s turn, Jiff ponders, knowing other information. Maybe this town demands too much from its citizens.
trailers and chairs
Earie was walking past the red, blue and yellow chairs positioned in front of the art trailer when he heard Pretty Man snoring. At first he couldn’t tell what the sound was, but then a loud, pig-like grunt firmly indicated to him the presence of another human being. He moved toward the trailer’s dark interior and watched the folded body on the dirty mattress and rugs within heave up and down a minute, sometimes with a twitch. This guy was obviously in deep dreamland. Shame to wake him, Earie thinks, and decides to move onward through Central Park to the Joint Joint, where Jacob I. and Broken Heart Jackie were most likely waiting. But with an even louder grunt, Pretty Man then rolls over on his other side and opens his eyes. “Don’t pull a knife on me, friend. I ain’t dangerous.”
“Sit up, then, and let’s take a look at you,” the pink haired punk commanded. He didn’t have a knife on him currently, but two pistols were tucked in the back of his belt. Pretty Man sat up and started looking all around, as if in a haze. “Art is everywhere,” he then said. “In the sky, in my hands.” He looked at his hands. “In your hair.” He gazed at Earie’s mohawk. “*Especially* in your hair. Where you from, fellow dude?”
Earie had concluded this person was obviously stoned on something. He definitely *wasn’t* going to tell him where he lived in town. So he made up a place. “Butcher shop,” he said. “Upstairs.”
“Ah, Wanesa the Slasher. And I didn’t know her shop had an upstairs… thought they cut that off back in the 30’s.” Pretty Man stared at Earie’s head again. “Your mohawk thinks you’re lying,” he said, and then laid back down on the old mattress in the trailer and started to laugh, face upwards and arms spread. Earie wondered if he could tell just by the tone of his voice or if he’s one of those true psychics. Their services are more expensive than the whores. Sometimes you can get a two for one deal at a discount, but he’s only heard about such things; Earie doesn’t engage with Gaston’s Berry imports if he can help it. And, gandering at Pretty Man’s current pose, this led to the another thought: that this *man* in front of him could be a woman in disguise. He’s never heard of a male psychic. Or a male prostitute, at least around these parts.
“What’s your business, here, partner?” Earie inserted amidst the continued chuckles. He voiced some of his suspicions. “Man whore? Man *psychic*?”
Pretty Man’s laughter petered away, and he dismissed Earie’s guesses with a wave of his hand. He sat up again. He stood up out of the trailer, looking in the direction of Earie’s Yellow House. Does he know already? Earie pondered. He briefly goes around the trailer’s corner and comes back with a cup of coffee, steaming hot somehow. He sits down in the red chair. Earie just stares at him, wondering if he should take a seat as well.
But then Pretty Man pops back up and states, “this isn’t the right chair,” and then looks at his coffee. “And this is not the right drink, pheh.” He spits the beverage he just partook of out on the road beside him. Pretty Man goes around the corner of the trailer again, returning with a beer bottle this time and hops back up in the trailer, leaning against the wall. “The red one is not mine,” he reinforces. “That’s… what’s his name?” Earie gets tingles. He *must* know.
Pretty Man moved to the edge of the trailer again and looked directly into Earie’s face. “Chro-ma,” he pronounced distinctly. “Sit down in your *yellow* chair, and let’s have a talk Earie,” he then said to the stunned punk. “And of course I’ll take my blue one.”
Improvio.
center>centre
“Uh huh.” More buzzing/squeaking from the floor. “I see.”
“What’s she saying?” asked a slumping Broken Heart from the other couch. She was pretty stoned.
“Hold on a minute.” Tina speaks again in her minute, tinny voice, understandable only to Jacob I. in the room. Perhaps it is because he’s closer to her, however, or just actually paying attention. The lawnmower continues to interact with the tiny being. “Alright, I guess we can do that.” Tina replies. “No, we don’t have the equipment or manpower for that, Tina.” After a small pause, Tina squeaks and buzzes for about 30 seconds more. “You take care as well, friend.” She scoots rapidly across the floor and out the door.
“So… what’s she saying?” queries Broken Heart again while remaining in a slumping position. She didn’t even realize Tina had left the scene.
“Jeffrie Phillips, that’s what,” replied a frowning Jacob I. “Centre,” he added.
—–
15 minutes earlier in Gaston’s Central Park, Pretty Man puts on the green ring. Everything changes.
“Over here, punk,” he calls to Earie Chuck after the deed is done. “I made a small detour.”
out
“Well. It’s finally happened, Broken Heart Jackie.”
“Don’t call me that,” Broken Heart the bone cat reprimanded for the umpteenth time about the name Jackie. “And now I really *do* have a broken heart.” She makes a clumsy motion on her chest of two things being ripped apart.
“Last of the grass… weed,” Jacob I. laments. “We’ll have to call up Leaf Erik’s son over in California, Pennsylvania for more — it will take weeks.”
“Months,” Broken Heart extends.
“Years,” Jacob I. finalizes, and then heaves a long sigh. “Darn that Jeffrie Phillips. Darn that stolen Centre.”
“Or we could go over to Leona Lei’s place in Hilltop. That will require changing into mechanoids. The last time it took us weeks to revert.”
“Years,” Jacob I. emphasizes again. “Sheer hell.” He looks down at his feet and wonders if they are really flesh and blood yet. Then, staring over at Broken Heart’s red and blue glasses, he gets an idea. “But the *sister* could work.”
“Hana? Is she still alive even after her death?”
“It was just a shish kabob skewer.”
“I though it was a ladle,” Broken Heart says. “You know, for dishing out soup and stuff.”
“I know what a lapel is. Did I say lapel? haha. That’s not even emphasized the same.”
“Label,” Broken Heart then says. But she accents the wrong syllable for humor.
“Labelle,” Jacob I. utters. “Patti Labelle!”
“The singer, actor, magician?” perks up Broken Heart, but then remembers the truth. “Man, we’re really baked.”
“Baker!” Jacob I. spouts, seeing the white opening once more. “Cook… Baker. That’s what we were trying to figure out.”
“I’m going to bed.” Broken Heart falls asleep while not even moving an inch from his spot on the couch. Jacob I. leans over and folds her bony hands over her little red broken heart.
“Night night, Jackie,” he ends while slipping into dreamland himself.
spurred on
Jacob I. wakes up in an unfamiliar place. All-time great NBA power forward and recently retired Timmy Duncan looms dead ahead, a ball in front, a ball behind.
Jacob I. does not follow professional sports. He doesn’t know who this gentle giant is. He seems to speak. “Jacob, Jacob, down here.” Jacob I. ponders why a man so large has such a small, feminine voice. Tina recognizes this after he doesn’t look down. “Not Timmy, stoopid. *Me*.” Still no proper response from Jacob I. “Down *here*. It’s Tina.”
Jacob I. finally locates the source of the voice.
“Tina,” he calls down softly, knowing her ears are sensitive to what we would consider normal volume speaking. “It’s very good to see you old friend. But where are we?”
“Behind the wall. Jasper,” her tinny voice shouted up. “It’s the same as marijuana. I’m so small I fell through the cracks. Then I was able to bring you here as well.”
“Am I dreaming?” Jacob I. logically asks.
“Yes. We need to get you through the wall, and quickly. Before you wake up. We’ll have to make a run for it. Get up. Quickly. Follow me.” Tina turns and runs. “Get up quickly and follow me!” she calls back, halfway to the blackness already.
Jacob watches her as if just behind, then wakes up.
—–
“I was left behind,” explains Jacob I. the next morning to an analyzing Broken Heart.
Sugar House
“See?” encouraged Baker Blinker. “It’s very nice here. I’d recommend turning up your RenderTreeLODFactor under Show Debug Settings in the Advanced Menu to, say, 10 instead of the default 1. That way the trees will fill out better in the woods.”
“Are you allowed to hunt?” the raccoon queried. “Or shoot atall?”
“No. I’m afraid not Mr. Racco.”
He put his paws on the table. “How about pot? Is it legal here?”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Racco.”
“Rocky, please.”
“Rocky,” Baker Blinker complied. “Do you want to sell it or just smoke it?”
“Both,” he replied rapidly. “That was my plan in Lapara. Before The End.”
“I’m sorry about your bar, Rocky. I’m sorry about Terry more.”
“One and the same,” he said softly, looking down. He paused, then, wiping his eyes, raised his head back up and stared intently at Baker Blinker. “I wish to see the body.”
Baker shook her head. “It’s not a good idea.” She thought back to how Baker Bloch removed Terry from the ceiling with a spatula yesterday. It didn’t happen in one piece.
“Alright,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s talk neighbors… citizens.”
“Well, there’s Baker Bloch of course, then Wheeler Wilson…”
“Who I know from Lapara,” Rocky interrupted. “But explain the clowning. Never understood that. Does this have something to do with Levi Clownski (owner of Olde Lapara Towne along with mate Shoshi)?”
“No, (the clowning) predates the family being involved with that town. It stems from VHC City. Something about The Underground there. Something about the story of Clare Nova.”
“I’m all ears,” Rocky said, leaning forward.
Baker Blinker instead suggested they walk up Old Cannon Road to the apartment and talk along the way. Rocky gleaned the truth.
“You don’t know why she’s clowned. Do you?” Baker admitted she was hazy about all that. Rocky shifted in his chair. “Then I want to see this Gregg Oden, the killer.” His tone had become harsher. “Is *Gregg* a clown?”
“No,” states Baker Blinker plainly, taking it all in.
“And you’re sure?”
“Positive.” Rocky shifted back. “And I don’t think it’s wise to go over to Gaston looking the way you do,” Baker Blinker continued. “All raccoon-y. They forbid aliens there.”
“Aliens smaliens,” he huffed. “Let’s go to Gaston. I have all the time in the world to look over your town. I want to see this *old* Gregg. Gregg with the extra ‘g’, pheh.”
—–
“I thought you said he was green.”
“He *was*,” Baker exclaimed.
Sugar House 02
“Are you all right in there Gregg?”
“I’m Gregg Oden,” the green being replies. “I drink Baileys from a shoe.”
He’s all right, Baker Bloch thinks. I’ll have to have a word with Baker Blinker on what she *thought* she saw here. Red instead of green, eh? Greg Ogden is scheduled to arrive back in town tomorrow. Better clear all this confusion up before he gets here.
small
Mr. Babyface arrives at his apartment entrance after a so so meal of perch at Perch. He had but a small word to his (headless?) garson about the blandness, so small that it passed unnoticed.
Speaking of which…
aim backwards
There he is, Tiny Tina thinks. The miserable sod. Time to get him out of here before it’s too late.
Tina approaches. “Mr. Oden,” she pronounces clearly upwards. “Mr. Gregg Oden.”
Gregg looks down, spots her. “I’m Gregg Oden. I drink…”
“Yes, yes,” Tina interrupts, hands still on hips. “Is that all you have to wear out of here?”
“I have some watercolors. Would you like to see?”
“Can you *wear* watercolors out of here?” Tiny Tina chirps acidly, making Gregg pause. She blows out a minuscule puff of air. “This will have to do, then. Get up. No time to lose.”
“I’m Gregg Oden?” he says while rising off the jail bed.
“That remains to be determined. But we have to get you out of here. If they found out what you *really* were there would be tests after tests. And we don’t want that.”
She sprints across the floor and back to the open door of the cell. Gregg takes steps to follow. “You’ll have to move faster than that, Mr. Oden,” she shouts upwards and forwards while waiting. “Burt’s on a coffee break. He always takes a coffee break at 3:45am sharp. He always returns at 4:00am sharp. So *move*.”
“Too late,” Tina whispers as loud as she could, peering down from over the top of the stairs. “We’ll have to kill him.”
back to
“You know you’ll have to return, Jeffrie Phillips.”
“I know. Blackstars.”
“Garson on the impossible stairs. Leading you nowhere like you were outside.”
“I *was*.”
“Police take turns.”
“Art and crime together,” states a third.
sugar houses
“The sugar house on the corner of William Street and Duane Street in lower Manhattan was used as a prison by occupying British forces during the American Revolutionary War,” states old-time cop Ricky Bendicky, originally from East Bennington. “Out of 2,600 prisoners of war captured during the Battle of Fort Washington in November 1776, 1,900 would die in the following months at makeshift prisons. At least 17,500 are estimated to have perished under substandard conditions of such sugar houses and British prison ships over the course of the war, more than double that of casualties from battle.”
“When did it become the police station?” asks rookie cop George Carver Washington, Gaffer George as his fellow officers had started calling him after he accidentally shot himself in the arse last Thursday.
“Built in 1763 by William Rhinelander,” continues Ricky, “the sugar house was a five-story brick warehouse originally storing molasses and sugar next to his own residence. The old warehouse was replaced by the Rhinelander Building, which retained part of the original wall from 1892 to 1968, and received reports of ghostly prisoner sightings. The site is now occupied by the headquarters of the Gaston-Berry Police Department, near which one of the original barred windows was retained.”
“Fascinating,” coos young George. “And how about Utah?”
“Sugar House Prison, previously the Utah Territorial Penitentiary, was a prison in the Sugar House neighborhood of Salt Lake City founded by territorial governor Brigham Young in 1852. The 180-acre prison housed more than 400 inmates. It was closed in 1951 due to encroaching housing development, and all of its inmates were moved to the new Utah State Prison in Draper. The site is now occupied by the headquarters of the Gaston-Berry Police Department.”
George pauses, then: “And that’s where Hidden Village comes from?”
“Yes,” answers Ricky.
“And Greg Ogden and Gregg Oden?”
“We’ll see.”
sacrifice
Third time’s the charm, as they say. He was up and running considerably quicker this go, right on the heels of Tiny Tina. He would not let her beat him to the dark wall again and send him back to the grass free Joint Joint, awake and cold sober. Jacob I. was going to the other side tonight.
He made it!
But not without losing a valuable friend and ally in the process.
Flies
They were told to stay close to Gaston’s Central Park and act like flies on the wall. Pretty Man disobeyed one morning and wandered down to a side patio beside Sugar’s House, thinking he would be concealed there behind a tall fence. But he was almost immediately spotted by BitterAlmond1995 and propositioned. “Cure for your ails,” she claimed about herself through the intervening walls. Quickly teleporting back to safety, Pretty Man wiped his brow, seeing he wasn’t followed. He was not an alien, true, but what cost for surface beauty? Sugar’s Berries (their slogan: “ripe for pick’n”) stick pretty tight to her house, just like he and his fellow escapees Gregg Oden, Chuck Cheese, and Maury “Jiff” Monroe should keep close to the park, the calm eye center of a storm which contrasts to that eyewall location of greatest sound and fury.
But Sugar herself, being of greater vision and knowing all such storms have such centers, knew why they were there. Her counterpart Jacob I. had escaped in a larger way, with accomplice and experienced jail breaker Tiny Tina trampled under foot. These dudes and dudettes had nowhere to go, like caught in paper.
I will be a fly back at them, she thought the morning of learning about Pretty Man’s intrusion into her territory. They are in my vision and will not leave. I know where they are. There’s a secret parchment, secured by sealing wax, which might allow her control of the *other* “Sugar House” in town, the one now called the Gaston-Berry Police Station. Because there was no Berry to patrol. Berry did not exist except as a concept. This was her secret weapon.
Rolling the dice, she unrolled the parchment.
in the dark
The place was way too dangerous for George, so Duncan had a go at it alone. He teleported into the very center of the sim just like the characters in the blog suggested — this Central Park.
But it seems George might have already been here! Duncan thinks, looking at what he supposed was a child’s fort. It wasn’t.
Duncan unwisely walks into Main Street from his concealed position in the park. Now if I remember correctly, he deliberates, the police station will be up here to the right.
It was a little longer trip than expected in risky territory, but then he was upon it. Potential sugar house! Hard to even tell it was a police station from the ground level.
Qwirty21 smiles at him from behind some walls. Best to get inside as quick as possible, he realizes, and walks through the main door.
But the barred entrance to the inner sanctum of the station was locked. Duncan decided to wait in the reception area until a policeperson or other employee showed up, so’s he could hopefully get some of the story behind the structure.
Brushing aside a couple more propositions from the outside for the next hour, Duncan then watches Sugar Dumpling enter the station in a huff, beating her rolling pin repeatedly against an open palm.
“I’ve been waiting for one of you to show up and stay a while, ” she started. “Where is he? What have you done with my Jacob?!”
supertramp
“Why did I come here Casey?” Duncan asks of his colorful fellow inmate next door. “Why oh why oh why?”
And a quick jail break wouldn’t be happening now that Tiny Tina is dead.
—–
Luckily for Duncan Avocado he was only dreaming, his actual location being just behind the police station in Central Park. And fellow homeless person Casey, before he got too drunk and passed out, had filled him in on all the details about Gaston’s 2 sugar houses past and present. More soon…
back to the ward
The tutu wearing sack of sh-t has returned, Gaston-Berry Police staff psychiatrist Maury “Jiff” Monroe thinks, staring over from his cubicle at Gregg Oden passed out across three chairs against the west wall. He’s going to be sent up the creek a loooong time for this one.
Something’s different about him — it — though.
Of course: the hair.
—–
“(There’s) something about that police station,” speaks Billie Jean Kidd while studying former blog posts from her tower chair.
—–
“Who are you?”
rebels
“What are they doing over there now?” demands Wilson from inside the room. She was a man still, but getting prettier by the day, it seemed. Soon she may have to change over again. Hold on to those eye scars as long as possible!
“Nothing,” answers her most recent invention Sidechick Corea as he keeps gazing across Central Park toward Main Street.
“We could dig deep into the Jeogeot Gulf/Korean Channel with this one,” she said when finding him as a freebie demon on the SL marketplace. “Mr. Babyface has a decision coming up. Axis or Allies? Does he go with his half aunt or his little dog Ttoo? No, that wasn’t the name of Mr. Babyface’s dog. Poo, she thinks incorrectly again. Li’l Poo Poo. But then she remembers the actual name and lets it drop.
He turns from the window and stares at Wilson instead. “Still hanging around with men, Sidechick? I know you are because I made you that way. You’re hanging around with *me* aren’t you? I am a man still, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answers. “I mean, yes man.”
She manifests the two rolling pins on the table from her inventory. “Well, anyway, it’s time for me to figure out these objects Sugar Dumpling brought with her to the police station over there. Best guess: they’re not rolling pins but scroll rollers. Jump out of that cheap costume and get back on my shoulder, Sidechick. I need some doubled up third eye thinking for this mystery!”
—–
20 minutes later…
“Jasper and Newton, hmm? I agree. Good work!”
Alex and Albert
“Still no pot here,” complains a peering Chuck Cheese, out on bail for an hour from the Gaston-Berry Police Station. “Where *is* Alex?” She pauses. “Or was it Albert?”
Quickly checking the world map, she sees a green spot moving toward her own green spot. “Someone is coming. Could have been tracked. Bail time’s up anyway. Got to head back.”
—–
“Good. You’re back on time this time I see. But what happened to your hair?” asks Maury “Jiff” Monroe, the police staff psychiatrist.
“I sometimes take it off at night. Bed time, right?”
“Wrong. Interrogation time.”
Chuck blows out air in exasperation, rolls her eyes, and flings herself down on the cell cot. “15 more minutes down-time? Pleeeasse?”
An acquiescing Jiff goes back to his cubicle waiting for 10:15, when the grilling will resume. First off, he needs to find out about this Alex or Albert. Each bail period, Chuck spills a little more of the beans. It’s almost as if she’s doing it on purpose. Is she? he asks himself.
—–
“Why did he steal her color?” asks a studying Billy Jean Kidd over in Middletown.
COLLAGESTIY 2017-2018 WINTER (NOVEL 7)
no break
“I did what you told me Casey One Hole. I befriended the bee person and got the scoop on Hunt. It has started.”
“You are my eyes, ears, throat in Collagesity now, Tammy Whatammy. Furry Karl was a much loved figure. Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t!”
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he continues in his robotic, emotionless manner, “I must return to my dream of playing golf on the back nine of my course. I’m about to tee up on the 17th. I think an 8 iron will do it this round for yet another hole in one. I’m feeling more energetic all the time.”
“Cool.”
He turns to his left. “Who is that starred man on the striped couch outside, Tammy? Did he come with you?”
“W-what man?”
silver hammer
Maurey “Jiff” Monroe, the Gaston-Berry Police Station staff psychiatrist, wanted it plain and simple today. “Well, Tom Casey. Or, if you prefer it, Casey One Hole.”
“I do.” Casey was ever the method actor.
“Let’s talk about motives. Why would you kill a beloved Collagesity bartender with one deadly swipe of your metallic Wilson driver?”
“He had information he wasn’t providing for me. I hate… dislike people who don’t give me the information I want to complete my mission of…” He paused.
“Yes,” Jiff proclaimed, seeing an immediate weakness. “Tell me about this mission. Hopefully it at least serves free gravy to the poor.” He attempts a weak smile which, of course, wasn’t returned.
“I’m looking for someone.”
By now, George was back in his secret hiding place, listening in. His abbey as he called it. I had been stupid to walk the road today, he vilified himself.
Collagewold
The sim changes the man in this case. Or makes a boy into a man, as it were.
And not being 13 certainly had its advantages.
—–
“I wonder what’s behind the starred man on the striped couch?” asks Hucka Doobie about the most recently hung Bodega Gallery collage, killing some time while waiting for The Table meeting to start over at the Blue Feather.
From behind, thought-to-be friend Tammy Whatammy then pushes the bee person *into this collage*…
Wastelands
Marion Harding sees those red and greenish lights above him again, but in a different location.
And he’s wasted as hell from the pot recently purchased from drug lord Santa God at The Octopus Ink.
“Who *are* you guys??”
“So we need to talk, Harry,” spoke Tonya Two Egg to the bleached face man sitting across from her. “About Annie. About a lot of stuff.”
“It’s not safe here,” he replied, then glances over at the giant bong to his right.
But no one was there.
beamers
When it got dark enough, Tonya Two Egg’s two egg shaped eyes “turned on”. She’d had this ability since infancy, according to family members. It also gave her special vision to see things that weren’t *quite* there in reality but actually really were still.
Like Marion here, crashed out on top of the couch formerly occupied by Harry. Uncle Harry he insisted she call him at the end of their conversation, which was refused by the wise child. Just because he was one of a *number* of suitors strung along by her 18 year old sister Anorexia — Annie — doesn’t give him that privilege. She had only one uncle she knew of: Dick. And he had moved away when she was 8 to distant Mimosa (so they said), several years after Arale had been constructed. And not too long after the mysterious disappearance of her parents. Couldn’t be coincidence, she had concluded while pondering the odd conjunction down through the years now. Dick must have known the whereabouts of Ruth and Benjamin. And then there was also James and Fuschia, Billy and Donovan, Jackie and Ona. And the strangely cool yet confusing Sis brothers. All flesh and blood family members. All gobbled up by an unknown force between the times of June 2010 and October 2013, she’d decided. She even had a name for it now: JERRY. All caps. Tonya Two Egg was bound and determined to uncover the nature of this, in her eyes, malefic entity.
13 Annie was at the time. *Just* old enough to act as their legal guardian under Horizons laws of the day. Upheld during a 2015 hearing involving 23 such guardians under the age of 18 — grandfathering in the old law the judge had called it. And now she herself would be 13 in 2 weeks, old enough to be on her own according to the same exemption. And Arale too — they could move. She was already secretly scouting out locations away from the prying eyes of her older sister. The ice fishing shack near their house acted as a dream portal.
Arale was so excited for her sister… was planning a big birthday ta-do, which Tonya Two Egg had discouraged but also had become resigned to participate in. Cousin Rufus was flying in from Mobile, Alabama. Ted and Jemima from Jacksonville City. Bob and Wanda — little Utah village of Indiana County in Pennsylvania. Never mind that these were more robots created by her own robot, and that, outside of Annie, no one knew the whereabouts of any of her real family. Mechanoids were her true kindred spirits now. Tonya Two Egg has even pondered that she herself may be a very well made robot sent back to our present from the future.
And this turns out to be spot-on truth.
skippers
“A sim skipper you say?” George states, looking out at the boat moored in the small harbor beyond the broken windows.
“Yeah. That Joint Joint appears to be part of a regional chain from the looks of it. We must be close. That’s where you’re from. But my current theory is that you’ll be grown up there. You won’t be the same as here.”
George stands up, makes a proclamation. “Then let’s not ever go. It’s nice here. There’s the Joint Joint, like you said.”
“It’s better than I originally thought,” admits Billy Jean Kidd, speaking about the town they’re in. “But this is not really Hana Lei. This is not where Marion’s high priced pot is. High Money Pot. The bee fell into the collage for a reason. We must find the bee and bring him home. It may take, um, several novels.”
“Novels?” queries the boy.”
—–
“Wish I knew how the heck to start this old, beat up sim skipper,” spoke Duncan Avacado across the sea with a sense of urgency. “I’ve got to get to those kids before they get to me!”
work for me
“I see you out there Georgie Porgie!” screeched Sugar Dumpling from the rickety pier. “You can’t run away from me! None of them will work. I made *sure* of that!”
George Duncan gives up finding a functioning sim skipper for the day. Maybe forever. He might as well go back into town and enjoy the advantages of being grown up, pheh. What he understood of it. Only in his Abbey was it safe to be himself. A boy of 10 to 13 and back to 10 in an endless loop. Sometimes he glimpsed 18 on sunnier days.
But there was another way out, he knew, impossible as it sounded. Find Jacob I. and bring him home to Gaston. Back to his Sugar Dumpling. Then he would be set free… and only then. It seems I simply have to give it a try, he thought to himself while clambering out of the boat and exhaling loudly. I can’t go on with this. And I feel I don’t have a lot of time left before The End; the Abbey will ultimately be found out and then cease to exist. Like a bug extinguished with a magnifying glass.
“Get back to your apartment and do some real work for a change!”
stripes
He was staying with Thimble these days, another dancer. Not that their relationship was all that serious of a thing to him — when was it? — but her second floor apartment’s view toward the Gaston-Berry Police Station put her top shelf over the other Berries.
And, yeah, The Berries really dug Duncan. He was different, unique. No, I’m not really talking about his singular status as a male African-American in Sugar’s employment. It’s just that they could see the inner boy within, the core innocence, unruined — unlike the case with about all of them. It attracted these kind of women like flies unto maple syrup.
But tonight we flip sides of the record. He had to dance for a dude. Alright, cool, cool, he said to himself when learning about the assignment. It’s all for the art form — good to keep practicing and staying limber. And he gets to keep all his clothes on; no funny stuff there. Sugar said the guy also requested that he doesn’t look at him. “Just focus on the dancing,” she ordered. “Don’t make eye contact. Just interact with him in as minimal a manner as you can get away with. He’s probably self conscious because of the damage to his face. I don’t know what happened to him — don’t really care. He paid good money and that all I need to know. And you too.”
—–
Midway through his first sequence, the bleached face man spoke. “You don’t even know who I am, do you?” But Duncan kept to his routine per Sugar’s instructions and didn’t answer.
black men
Duncan Avocado had prepared and was about to teleport into the center of the Gaston sim when he looked at the map. Someone was already there in that Central Park at 128/128. Never seen that before. He teleports in at a safe distance and remote checks… another black man!
Who was he waiting on, if anyone? Was this a potential ally or foe? Could it possibly be someone investigating prison corruption in the sim like himself? Another dancer Sugar sent in, perhaps to taunt him? Speculation goes many directions. But his presence is real. He better lay off Gaston involvement and send another avatar from the core over here. Or, better, just use another core…
What a mess.
The time to act is now, he then thinks. “I must do what I planned to do. Tonight.”
COLLAGESITY 2018 EARLY (Novel 8)
“When in Rome”
in-the-way
Sire, these 3 smaller houses appeared shortly after we transitioned over here from the center of Nascera, blocking our direct access to the beach park.”
“Beach access is important,” states Ellen. “And the time to spend on them.”
“I should clarify to be totally open: a renter *can* walk the sand in front of the houses to get to the park still. But it becomes more… inconvenient. A sign, I would ask you?”
“Seems to be,” agrees Ellen, licking his ice cream all the time. “I don’t want to stay too long but let’s take a look at the parallel houses in Gaston.”
“Thank you for agreeing to accompany me back over there. I know you have a rendezvous tonight with Wheeler.”
“Let’s not call her Wheeler in the blog. We’re being recorded, Sidechick.”
“Oh, right.” He looks down at his white tuxedo shoes, then up again. “I don’t want to invade privacy too much, sire, but notice if you will that the yellow house has already been rented, remembering that Earie rented the yellow house in Gaston. And someone has positioned 3 chairs — red, yellow, blue again — right in the center of that house.
“I see them.” Neither mentions the picture of the red clad woman hanging on the wall. “But we needn’t linger here any longer. Opp should confine himself to the Mockingbird House over there still if he desires to come to Braynard’s Place and use the, er, facilities.” Ellen indicates the larger house just down the beach to their south.
“Shame about the access,” Ellen reinforces.
“Shame,” Sidechick Corea echoes.
—–
“Ooo, so sluggish here,” Ellen complains. “Let’s not stay long.”
“But notice that the houses are on the sea again. West edge of the island sim instead of the east.”
“I get the gist. Let’s go back.”
—–
Back on the beach, a transfigured Campbell O’Pine (Opp) manifests in the Bluebird Cuddle Van there, eliminating the need for Karl to do so. Now Annie can paint properly, or at least that’s the hope.
Eventually he heads southward through the arch again.
couched
In a pot haze, Marion Harding waits patiently for the show to begin. He loves Elvis impersonators. Hucka Doobie tries to join him but finds she can’t.
—–
“Time to pull her out of that sluggish place,” Baker Bloch speaks about Gaston to Baker Blinker from their usual perch at the Perch restaurant. “Function’s basically used up anyway.”
“There’s the couch, still,” counters the female Baker. “Jeffrie Phillips — white star.”
“I can’t even find it tonight it’s so laggy. And I dare not log in Wheeler to help. My computer will crash, I’m sure of it.”
“Sugar house,” Baker Blinker then says. “Sugar’s House.”
“Alright I’ll give it another shot.”
“Give one to Marion as well.”
—–
“She does strike a good pose there,” Baker Bloch says, looking on remotely. “She seems… confident.”
“Put her with Marion. See what happens. Minimize windows as needed.”
—–
“It’s no use, Baker Blinker. Hucka Doobie just appears gray, like she’s in David Bowie’s shiny spacesuit from ‘The Man Who Fell To Earth.'”
“Precisely.”
—–
“Oops. There she is.”
“Have him walk. Have them talk. Plop Marion down in the plastic seat in front of Hucka Doobie. See what goes down.
—–
She’s wondering how much money is in that attache case, Baker Bloch. $50,000 lindens? Enough to get her out of this hazy, laggy place? Could be.”
“But how to strike up a conversation?
—–
Too late: looks like the show’s starting.”
“And that’s *not* Elvis.”
—–
here not here
COLLAGESITY 2018 EVEN LATER (NOVEL 11)
one and two
“So tell me about this 40,000 lindens you were carrying around with you?” questions police psychiatrist Maury “Jiff” Monroe at Gaston’s lone sugar house now. *Former* sugar house. He’s unseen in the photo below because of his stature. But his mind, like Hank Graphite’s he’s grilling, is big and bright. This showdown could go on for a while.
“40,001”, answers Hank. “Because I had to bring *you* into being as well.”
Jiff pondered on this, then realized what it meant. “Describe me, then,” he decided to say.
Hank crossed his arms and settled back. “I don’t know. Small… *tiny*. Green — blueish green. Silly, blank expression on your face. I understand you have five. Show me another one.
So Jiff complies with smiley face, replacing the neutral one he had.
“There, that’s better,” Hank cooed. “Now we can maybe get somewhere.” He leans forward again. “Listen, bud… I’m not suppose to be here. It wasn’t suppose to be this way.”
Jiff giggled. “What *do* you mean?” he chirped happily, then decided to change expressions again. “What do you *mean*?” a suddenly surprised, almost shocked Jiff re-asked with different emphasis.
“I mean it was suppose to be *Villanow* I returned to. Not this sim.”
“Gaston? Just so you’ll know, there’s no Berry attached to the name now. Nor the police station.”
Hank waved this bit of information off. Jiff found himself becoming irritated…
… because the loss of Berry was big, big news around these here parts. But the disinterest seems to detach Hank Graphite from that fiasco at least. Loss of the actual Sugar House at the end of Main. Sugar Dumpling gone, taking all the Berries with her, taking Jacob I. with her, and then of course Broken Heart Jackie, who always tags along with his master. And that leaves, let’s see, *him*? Anyone else? He can’t think of one single being. Maybe the punk styled Musician in the Yellow House on the west side of town. We’ll see.
Will he even get paid for his job at the end of the month? The Berries poured in a lot of money, and that flow’s now dried up. He decides he’s now angry. Yes: *angry*. He’s going to demonstrate to this *Halfwit* exactly how important the other half *was*.
“I want to show you something, Hank Graphite,” he measured. “But you have to turn around and shut your eyes. Give me five seconds, and then open your eyes without turning back. Can you do that for me… *bud*?…” But Hank had already whirled around, shut his eyes, and started counting, “Five, Mississippi, four…”
Jiff acted fast. Change of shape, then a quick teleport.
“… one Mississippi…” Hank opened his eyes, then quickly stood up, nerves in tatters. Giant Angry Jiff stared down at him from outside.
Point made. Hank shakily handed him another linden when he returned inside.
berry sad
Poor, poor Berries, Duncan thought while scouting out the basically deserted Sugar House formerly owned and managed by Sugar Dumpling, sometimes wife of Jacob I. They decided to go somewhere else all together. But maybe one or two remain, perhaps limber, persistent Thimble. She was most likely his favorite of the bunch, or perhaps that was just because she rented the ultra-handy room across from the Police Station he was so interested in spying on in the days. The glory days of Gaston before the great exit.
A few bouncers remain behind but they just seem to be aiding with the cleanup of the bodies.
break’s over
“So Duncan,” requests Sid (Angus) at the Blue Feather Table after taking a sip of milk. “Continue with the report on what you’ve found.”
Duncan stared at his right red hand. “Berry… disengaged from Gaston. Berries gone. Jacob I. and Sugar Dumpling with them, but still alive in their case. Thimble *might* remain.”
“Is that your hope? Or something based on solid conjecture?”
“Former, admittedly.” He thought of the great view again. ‘Nother Sugar House. “Oh, and The Musician too,” he remembered to tack on. “At least according to Jiff the police psychiatrist.”
“Good, good. So… Duncan,” summarizes Sid. “You say these only two ‘Vila’ sims are directly linked one with the other. Core-Alena in her green car was able to successfully enter Vilania from The Straight…”
“I would like to correct you on terminology, Sid. If you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead, Duncan.”
“The Straight is shared between Reality and Virtual, so my conjecture is on the Virtual side it is the same as the 4 sims bordering Foothill Drive. This makes Utah’s Foothill Drive the east side of The Straight, and not The Straight itself.”
Sid turns to Curled Paper, who was taking notes (in his head). “Make sure in the minutes that The Straight is noted as being the same as these 4 sims, Mr. Paper.”
Curled didn’t nod, but Sid knew he would take note, as requested. One of the two librarians at The Table then spoke up, surprising everyone (even himself): “Gorilla. Mind Gorilla.”
All stared for a beat. Then Sid continued. “So…. next we have Hank driving the red car… and that’s good, Librarian 01,” he then realized. “You remembered the mate.”
[delete 1 exchange]
“Anyway,” started Sid again. “Hank, being less pure of heart, didn’t make it back to Vilania after the Fairy Forest heist but switched over to Vila… erm, *Gaston*.”
—–
Duncan suddenly recalled one other person that could remain. Heidi.
But where? Where could Heidi be hiding? At the Hideout? The intermediary Big Between?
Likely explanation. The Big Nope is the failed or closed portal, the lone “willow” at 2013.
Takes two to know, once more (1719). Safe Zone; Safe Passage.
1890’s Big Between is the observatory, neither here nor there. Core-Alena can see her-himself but not at the same time.
Vila 01
Her head hurt terribly from the transition. What year was it? 1920? 2120?”
She managed to recover and get up. Time to see if Jacob I. was truly out of here, taking his talking bone cat with him. She knocked the knocker.
“Jacob’s really gone, isn’t he G.G.?”
“Yeah.”
“Then who the hell is that??”
“And give me back my hat and hair,” Hank whispered louder while the knocks continued.
back to Snowlands
“We brought her back. She-he’ll just have to live with the changes (in Purden).”
—–
“It’s good to see the kids having so much fun at Christmas Season.”
“And the animals too!” tittered Tiny Tomita Thumb below him.
“Yes indeed Tomita.” Uncle Jack turned. “But we have a new guest tonight.”
“What to do with him, what to do with him?” Tomita trilled while Uncle Jack eyed the axe in the far corner of the kitchen. A small buzzing noise then occurred.
“Oops. See? Look at that. Happened again.”
“Terrr-if-ic!”
Gaston
“This use to be Chroma’s house, you know.”
“Don’t say.”
“Greg, that is. Ogden. Not the odious Oden fellow.”
“Green, yeah.” She pretend spits on the floor beside the couch. “Disgusting. Red, yellow and blue’s where it’s at.”
“‘Hidden Vilage.'”
Out of Gaston
“Original form, eh?”
“*Ghost form, yeah,” spoke Bracket. “I died quite a long time ago now.”
Treelor contemplated this. “I can barely remember my original form. Lost — but I remember where I was born. A place called Outlander.” She paused. “Outlander? Something Outside. Outlands? Anyway, it was very green and quite pretty. A valley in the middle of it all. That’s where I came from.”
“Corsica for me. Bracket Islands. Named after me. I was king.”
Treelor continued rocking. “Did you have a queen?”
Bracket Ghost recalled something about a hill. Fivepenny. “I believe so,” he answered after the memory. “But she was underwater.” He remembered something else. “Green. Half woman half fish. Merwoman I suppose. That’s who I was married to. And she… could play a mean game of crocket.”
“Cricket?” Treelor attempted to clarify. “Do you mean the game of cricket?”
“Croquet,” Bracket then corrected himself.” More memories. “Had a mansion.”
“Hmph.”
They rocked for about a half minute in silence, which Treelor then broke. “I suppose we should get somewhere tonight. Gaston is a logical choice. VW and all. Abbey Road and such.”
“Suppose. Awfully laggy there. We may not make it out, hehe.”
“We’ll have to take that chance.”
Bracket checked his landmarks. “Blue house okay?”
“Sure.”
—–
“Maybe we should start here by washing some dishes.”
“Right. Clean up. You better change over. No aliens. Remember?”
—–
“Where’d she go?”
“Crappy damn place.”
Vila 01 02
“Looks like we’ve found something, Mystic Girl. Seems we’re not done with Gaston after all. Better send Duncan back in.”
Police department, yep, thought synchronized Mystic Girl while turning. Knew it all along.
But she also knew that Duncan wouldn’t like what’s coming up.
—–
Oh no. I’m being used again.
—–
“You can’t go through that gate. But you *can*. Right Mystic Girl?”
“Mystic Girl?”
Fame
“Yeah, yesterday that woman came into the Rhino all wrapped up and shite. I thought she was a stripper or… exotic dancer, you know. But she just sat in the corner, kept to herself while the show continued. John Denver last night. We’re getting the big stars now.”
“Gr-reat. Thanks.”
All became quiet as Osborne Well walked out of the establishment.
“I see what you mean, Domino,” opined an impressed Duncan, watching him cross the road.
Then John Denver and his manager G.G. showed back up from the other direction. Zowie!
Not as big…
… but probably more important.
Chili
“So, like tell me about the building behind me, then,” requested Hitgal, eager for more Gaston-Berry history.
“Owned by the eye guy. *Formerly* owned. Split with the Berries, he and his cat. All bones.”
Hitgal shivers. Let’s go back inside and talk more. Getting colds out here.
—–
“Yeah, I’m gonna rent this poolside apartment starting next week, mind you. Just waiting for the check to come in. John Bob Denver and all. Did a real good job for him.” But that was a job both Domino Wendell Cashmere and Hitgal Dryden Douglas knew they shouldn’t talk about. Fusion.
“That would be chill’n,” responds Hitgal, looking around. “Your 78 inch plasma would fits nicely against that wall over there. We could watch the Atlanta Hawks’ games. Just like old times.”
“Well, unfortunately this is a Brazilian themed sim, see, so probably more soccer on than anything. Notice that soccer ball perpetually bobbing around the pool? That sort of thing.”
“I didn’t see it,” admitted usually observant Hitgal. “In the waters itself?”
“Sure,” replied Domino, then let it drop. He looked down at the table and the open magazine there.
“You thinking about getting a new face, Hitgal? Because: don’t do it. I like you the way you are.” He leans over for a kiss, but Hitgal waves him off, moves toward the wall that might soon provide much soccer entertainment, looks out the window.
*There’s* the soccer ball, she observed. Just like he said, hmm. She wondered if someone was editing her worldview again. Like before, in the Dark Days. She’ll have to look at her old journals to review. Things *hidden* from view. Like the Brazilian flags. Brazilian sports — flags. What else?
—–
Later, Hitgal revealed part of her planned new look. “I’m still working on the color scheme. But… what’s you think?”
Domino doesn’t answer immediately, prompting defensive Hitgal to say: “Mind *you,* Domino, this is *just* the start, hrmph.”
houseband
“Mind you, I’ve seen enough giant rats in this town to do me a lifetime, boy.”
“Come on, Uncle Zach. We like the same shades, same drugs, same women. Why should this be different? You *gotta* dig Firesign Theatre, man. It’s just the chillest.”
They listened some more. “Okay, who’s this Hemlock Stones they keep talking about?” demands Domino’s uncle at a tipping point. “Why is he listening to that crazy, transvestite woman and her problems; why do they keep looking for pirates down at that wharf?”
“It’s Sherlock Holmes, stoopid. Man.” Domino shakes his head. “A *spoof*, dad-i-o.”
“I’m not some beatnik fool. Stop calling me… *dad-i-o.*”
“Alright,” Domino relents. “But just *listen*.”
They listen again. “Me and the doc on the dock with the dog — the deadly dog,” the record rapped after a spell. Then said dog exploded.
“Honestly, son, I think I’ve had enough,” and Uncle Zach moved toward the table loaded with their drugs to retrieve a heroin syringe. “I’m going to a place I *understand*.”
A downcast Domino lifts up the needle while Uncle Zach inserts his own.
Providence
“The vila of Twin Peaks they called it from 1880 to 1920. One peak protected by God, the other ruled by Satan and his minions. Black and white of course. Er, white, black. No coincidence the *black* peak towers over this subsection centered by the pool; no coincidence eyeman Jacob built his Joint Joint here instead of elsewhere. This is the true Gaston history you’re looking for. Sugar houses and all. I like your new look, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Hitgal replied to Sangria.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Hittie. You seem anxious about something.”
“Oh I’m just staring at that flag… over there on the abandoned laudromat. Do you think it was there, say, yesterday?”
Sangria looked out the window as well. “Don’t know. Why don’t you have some wine instead of that soda pop; smooth your ruffles out.”
“I’m just thinking about… the Dark Days.”
“Oh don’t go back there. God’s here now sweetie. Watching over us all.”
“I’m telling you Officer Brenin. That door has an eye in it.”
“Where? Where?”
Domino glances over. “You’re looking too low, man. Get off your knees. Bend down.”
—–
“Oh yeah. I see it now. But what does it mean?”
“God. Eye of God, man. Looking out and in at once.”
“But the other side: backwards. Dark Days.”
“We’re here to stop all that nonsense,” declares the now upright Officer Brenin, knowing full well what he said was a lie.
COLLAGESITY 2019 EVEN LATER (NOVEL 16)
Gast(i)on
It was almost a perfect sim, what with its trash and gutter filth. Very realistic; a perfect place to meet… someone. And the Oracle predicted its importance: Hidden Vilage (etc.). But she must return and merge with the other Hucka Doobie, the one that didn’t get this far. She knew that.
But she still had some time before the exit.
—–
The Rhino represents a direct link between here and NWES, our new focus. Rhino in each. And the *same* one (same object from same owner).
George’s Abbey Road VW remains just down the street. An indication of what’s going on (Portal; multiple).
—–
If only Jacob I was still around, she thought while laying outside the *original* Joint Joint in the “Black Side” of the village, another thing shared with NWES (and right beside the duplicate Rhino over there — more emphasis).
—–
Ah ha. Tin Machine.
—–
Uncle Zach still shooting up and not listening to local phenom Firesign Theatre. But we’ve seen him more recently: Pipersville; (owner of a) *Gas* Station (Gastion). Should’ve known.
And that was Firesign Theatre on the turn table up there. Not Tin Machine. My mistake. Platinum (not tin). That place must be Domino’s still. Hitgal is probably around, then. Best friend Sangria too.
This side of town retains power.
Diving in again…
changes
“Is this life ever gonna get old to us, Philip? This Gastion — notice the name change?”
“Doubtful, Marion.
Doubtful.”
Early the next day, Marion and Philip realized that Gastion was just a (high) pot name and the real name of the sim had not changed. It remained Gaston. But, in fun, the two partnered criminals called it Gastion (or sometimes Gas Station or just Station) from here on out.
Then one day, without Philip, Marion visited the creepy alley behind the “Station” with the aid of Golden Joe.
“Uugh. Where *am* I?” he asked groggily while swatting away leaves from his face.
—–
“And *who* am I?”
hiding
“So where would you like to go Ms. Tanner?”
Nipsie Tanner looked around the room. “Oh (*sigh*), I don’t know. Just away from — here.” She points. “How about that middle one over there.”
“Middle one it is.” George V. Norris gives her a ticket to ride.
—–
“Welcome, dad-i-o.”
—–
Aah. This is the *life*, she thinks later by the “Black Side” pool. Tomorrow I will go check out the local police station; see how it measures up.
She couldn’t help mixing business with pleasure.
i.c. planets
The Wild Wild West they called it in the Far East, but most of the wilds was hidden. You’d need a powerful telescope and also know exactly the right location to spot. And the Red Umbrella predicted it all. Again.
Far East was different, they proudly declared. No wilds, no crime much atall in comparison. But the murder of Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer, child of grieving Rabbit 01 and Rabbit 02 over in Braynard’s Place, changed all that. Red, red rats were found to infest their incomplete sewers and subways (etc.) as well. Red from feasting on blood this time, red from the tainted water left behind.
Golden Jim from Gaston was here to investigate and, hopefully, put a stop sign to all that new redness over in the east. He knew exactly which one to choose.
—–
“Where’s your chief?” asked Ms. Tanner to the staff psychiatrist the next day at the police station.
“Oh, he *claims* he’s on vacation over at NWES on the mainland, but my guess is he’s snooping around for a new case.
“NWES?” Nipsie Tanner declared in surprise. “That’s where *I’m* from.”
“Well I’ll be,” offered back Jack “Jiff” Danielsonlanderscroft, knowing more than he’s letting on.
Gastonites
“Well here we are lady,” spoke Uncle Zach, currently (and miraculously!) posing as a taxi driver. “The Joint Joint. It’s haunted you know. That back room. Back in the back. There’s people back there that shouldn’t be there.”
“I don’t care,” Heidi replied innocently with naive voice.
“Two eggs, they say,” he started again, hands extended and wavering to accent the spookiness. “Floating in mid air without any wires.”
“I’m not scared of eggs.” So child-like. Very surprising (again).
“You haven’t seen *these* eggs. Different colors they are. One glowing red, the other: green. Two colors that don’t go together well — at all. And: are you going to get out or not?” His haunted story had run its course. For now.
“Goodbye Mr. Taxi Man. ”
A boy appeared in the chair beside the door. Heidi changed as well.
“Shall we enter, Georgie Porgie?”
“After you, um, Heidi Widie.”
He always had trouble keeping up.
back room
“You shouldn’t be smoking that in here Heidi. We’re just kids here, you know. What if we get *caught*?”
“Speak for yourself, George,” she replied about the kid part.
The boy looks around. “So — we’ve turned down the lights. You’ve smoked half your joint; I’ve drank half my coke. Where is she?”
“Just give her some time.” Heidi Hunt Ives takes another toke. Again: she’s not really a kid.
“12:36 now,” he says after checking his Mick Mouse watch. “Maybe we should go. I need to get back to the park.”
“Well there you go,” she offered about the time. “Give it another minute.”
—–
12:37:
“Oh my God,” she whispers over. “There she is.”
“Where? Where?”
—–
Gaston = NYC (among other things)
The Lord balancing Sugar Houses.
We know this is “Abbey Road”.
And that something is definitely going on at the Rhino along it (portal).
We know a lot about this place by now. This Gaston. But we haven’t quite grasped the story within the story. Is there one? That’s what I’m aiming to find out.
Zach’s still waiting for Georgie Porgie and Heidi Widey to emerge from the Joint Joint. He fears the worse. He’s been there for 2 days now. But he’ll wait till The End.
What really is at the end of Abbey Road?
Where have all the Berries gone? Where’s Sugar Dumpling? Where’s… Jacob I.?
We know it is a place to hide (Hidden Vilage). Hitgal represents someone.
Why the doubling with the Vilania safe hub? Why can’t Hank Graphite get back there instead of here?
“It wasn’t suppose to be this way.”
Why flies in Central Park of all places?
Big Shift
Soon he had reached the end of his Abbey Road on the west edge of Vail.
One step further…
… and he was in a different place altogether now. Vila. Uncle Zach was (again: miraculously!) waiting for him in his Calypso Tuk Tuk Taxi.
“Where to, Butt?” He meant bud. Or did he?
Necksity
“It was like it was staring at him, right in front of his face. (Blue) Improvio and (red) Chroma: the same, or two things spinning around the same, pretty axis. And who was he? Formerly Core-Alena the walking talking centre tree, yes. But now: Sidechick Corea. Footsteps outside — uh oh. Pretty Man approacheth. But is she still a man? So close to the transition now. The door opens. He stands.
(Face) scars are still in place but that’s about it for the man bits.
“Jump on my shoulders for the last time, Sidechick. I want to know the final truth. I’m ready to switch over to Jasper.”
Steamboat
Mr. Babyface looked down at the large palm tree The Man About Time was currently referring to. “The Hole is gone,” he had just said about the mysterious object formerly underneath it. “When Mick jumped in, the effect was gone. The great 2-n-1 was over.”
“Takes 2 to know, yeah,” Mr. Babyface says in response now, thinking he needs to phone up Greg Ogden as soon as possible. Or, on the other hand, Gregg Oden, if he’s in that form presently. He’d been romancing a living, breathing Mandela Effect for months and didn’t know it, didn’t know the term for it. The Man About Time is attempting to clear this up.
“Gaston has a lot to do with this,” then offered MAT in his mild voice while scratching the back of his neck on the couch. “Changes people, and sometimes not for the good.” He scratches more. “Sometimes… for the bad.”
“And that’s where Greg said he was going in that letter he wrote me,” completes Mr. Babyface while turning, more eager than ever to pick up the phone.
But which way to go, he thinks, receiver in hand just later. Does he go to Gaston or does Greg come here?
“I’ll come to you,” responds Greg Ogden at his red Gaston house. “They frown on mutanty looking people around here,” he said, referring to Mr. Babyface’s baby faced head.
“Well I *never*.” But he was coming back and that was the most important thing. He was pulling him out of *there*.
skipperless skipper
He stares out at Stewart’s boat in the bay while calling.
“Hello, Stewart?” Indistinguishable answer. “Oh, cool. Stewart’s big brother. I remember you.” Answer. “Oh… sorry to hear that.” Answer. “Oh that’s too bad, oh man. When’s the…” Tangential answer, still indistinguishable. “Well, my deepmost condolences, Newton.” Final reply. “Goodbye. Let me know if I can help in any way.” He hangs up with this. “Guess I won’t be using *Newton’s* sim skipper out there tomorrow after all. Maybe never. Mr. Babyface is going to be *so* disappointed. I’ll have to find another way off this isle of isolation. Poor Stewart! Disappeared inside a watery sinkhole.
Belt
He was having a dream again of that planet. Totally red, totally rusty. He was looking for Stewart this time, but Stewart had passed on to another realm. The Land of the Living. Because, in the dream, *he* was instead dead, trying to make his way back from, shall we call this Hell? No, Greg Nash Ogden corrected himself while staring around. Too luminescent, he decided, to be that place of anguish and gnashing of teeth. But certainly red like that place. No fire, though. Better wander around while I have my wits.
He eventually stumbles upon the underground base, vast in size.
A robotic weapons factory, at least in part.
But no food. He realizes he might starve down here. To life?
He receives a name on a back wall. Mars.
Greg Ogden wakes up, his mouth dry as desert.
DEAD End Street
He wasn’t budging, this Big Black Smoke. “I have as much right to be here as you, red boy,” he declared from his cheap, green box seat. “You ain’t paying no rent.” He settles back, crosses his arms behind his head. “Neither am I.”
Greg Ogden argued that he is about to pay the rent but is still trying the apartment out at times.
“Times what?” replies the larger, black man. “42?”
Greg didn’t know the answer to that. He didn’t know everything. He remained silent, contemplating whether to leave. But *he* had as much right to be here as Big Black Smoke. This remained a stare down for now. He told him that.
“Hey,” then declared BBS. “You ain’t that red dude who’s going to marry that red haired gal in the church next door this coming Sunday? She’s been talking about you. About how you become cross sometimes.”
Greg said he wasn’t this person, although he likes to dress in red. Greg Ogden explains that he use to be a red mechanoid playing in a punk band with 2 other, differently colored mechanoids. “We got kicked out of Olde Lapara Towne due to a noise ordinance,” he furthered. “We came here to escape, to *hide* and regroup. But this place…”
“I know I know,” responded Big Black Smoke, looking around at all the red walls surrounding them. Like a cell. “This place changes you.” He was starting to feel sorry for the boy. “You know Golden Jim, the police chief? Don’t confuse him with Golden Joe. That’s a chef. You see what I mean about this town, boy? This New (Lapara) Towne? Same as the old town, hmph.”
Greg says he’s trying to leave but can’t. “Stewart’s dead,” he offered, nodding toward the window with the bay view. “Newton owns that ship out there now. That’s his brother.”
“I *know* who Newton is.” Big Black Smoke resisted the urge to call him ‘fool’, but he’s certainly trying to step off a ledge now. “You can’t leave once you stay here long enough.” Big Black Smoke had figured out who Greg Ogden was, and that this was his old apartment. Golden Jim had told him about the 2 Greg(g)s, one with the extra ‘g’, or, better (explained Golden Jim), the ‘g’ *stolen* from his last name. This theft bought him some jail time. Golden Jim wasn’t here then, but, again, this was legend. Like the day Pierre Schaeffer rode into town and stole all the Berries and took them off to La La Land. Even nimble Thimble couldn’t escape. Ahh, Thimble, thought Big Black Smoke, traveling back further in time to a thinner physique. Those were the days. The Dark Ages. I wish those old times could return. But Pierre changed all that. Him and the eye guy.
“This is *Jasper*, fool.” Big Black Smoke couldn’t help himself. “You’re stuck as much as those *flies* over in Central Park!”
JuliaN
“Two Joint Joints, side by side. One in Gaston — here. The other: NWES. How could this be?” Then Greg Ogden remembers who he is, deep down. He loses the hair, the campy hobo shirt. The Red Cross returns.
He recalls bastard pirate Randolph two (motel) doors down, not one to cross by any means.
4×4: it was all coming back to him.
He has to reach Climax.
COLLAGESITY (NOVEL 21)
locations
Jeffrie Phillips decides to try something different out with Charlene the punk tonight. “Are you there?” he im’s her.
“Yeah, I think so,” she replies back after a lag in her parallel spot. “There’s a rhino, so…”
“Yep, that’s it. So… go ahead and see if you can get through the door. Then I’ll try with the gate.”
—–
“What happened to your last girl?” asked new gal pal Hina 3 days later at Teepot’s sake bar (and art gallery).
“Ah, she was just in a different place than me,” he spoke truthfully. “I wish her well.”
“Your place or mine?” Hina then asked boldly, not wanting to waste the moment.
“Mine.” But Jeffrie returned to his downtown apartment alone and without another tag along girl. He seemed to be flipping through them more rapidly these days. Must be the heat, he wrote to end.
pirate
138 dead. Chain reaction. The words reverberated in his head like a broken record or something. A repetitive sea shanty — that’s better. He remembers to paint again. Dreamy dreams can wait. He tries to set them aside but more return en masse. Chain reaction. 138 dead, 138 dead, 138 dead. Perhaps it is time to write; maybe the *other* voices will drown out *these* voices. He moves from the canvas to the typewriter to begin a long overdue project. He inserts a blank sheet. Like life itself, waiting to be written upon, he thinks. Fresh start. He presses caps lock and centers the page 2/3rd up with 3 backspaces. He types a G, then an A, then an S. He stares at what he’s typed so far. T, then, O. He pauses again. N to finish. It has begun.
That should keep the bastard busy for a while.
sweet sixteen
“I remember that day like it was yesterday,” spoke Jiff the former staff psychologist at Gaston Police Station. “Gastion, they sometimes called it when they were all drunk and slury down in the basement beside the torturing devices. Best to be intoxicated down there. Too many ghosts and memories. But it was the only place they could get away from chief Golden Josephine Jim and expect to get away with it. Chef Golden Jim Josephine often joined them. Cook at the upgraded Joint Joint, now a hip place for those who think with their hips instead of their head. Which was seemingly everyone around here. The Dark Peak dominated once more — Dark Days again.”
Jim the Bastard Pirate, formerly Randolph the Bastard Pirate, was typing away as Jiff’s cartoon-ish, Ickle voice yammered on. The words almost came too swift. He needed something better than a manual instrument for his craft, his trade. Because, he determined early on, this one will *sell*. I’ll hide all the things I’ve plundered from others, like that graphite gray map on the, let’s see, wall behind me. There. He turns.
Half of it remains screened for now.
Gastonite
Now eyepatched Jim the Bastard Pirate, still working from his magic typewriter, looks around the 2nd floor of his new Bogota Gallery in NWES City and sees it is good.
Soon he would reach the 3rd and enter a new level of understanding about what happened to Hucka Doobie when she was pushed into that collage to the left by thought-to-be friend Tammy Whatammy back in photo-novel 7. Instead: fusion.
“When in Rome” (2018)
Apple’s Orchard
She glanced past Harrison Jett through the window. “You know, I thought that was Bigfoot out there for the longest time. But it’s not. It’s a man — carrying a woman. The woman looks like 2 arms.”
Harrison Jett also looked out, not impressed. After all, he was a man fused with a woman as well. He was the real deal, the Real McCoy. He told this to Charlene the punk, then asked her how the heck she got *here*. Last he’d heard, she was in Gaston.
“Well, Barry X. Vampire — *sorry* — *Jeffrie Phillips* got tired of me and separated his place from my place. Yeah, I was in Gaston for a while. Yeah I saw Firesign Theatre perform there, a house band at the Rhino. But then I started hanging around Randolph the Pirate; hanging around that Dark Peak of the two, the one without the topping Christ.
“I believe he’s called Jim in some realms,” offered Harrison about the bastard buccaneer while sipping on his mysterious Xplicit drink. She had a parallel drink, held in the opposite hand. Male and female, once more. They should clink and get it over with.
She had to ask. “Those — apples. Are they real?”
Harrison Jett looked down. Were they?
(to be continued)
rhode crossing
The house seemed empty. But it had a portal room.
In the thin woods eyes were watching.
Or not.
Maybe 1/2 and 1/2.
We should walk back to GASTON.
.daor eht ssorc mih gnihctaw ,nacnuD desserpmi na denipo ”,onimoD ,naem uoy tahw ees I“
COLLAGESITY (NOVEL 22)
Fun Fun Town
“Been a while since you’ve been here Hidi. Who you hiding away from now?”
“Oh, the same.”
“Where’d you like to go today? I believe the trailer park is new since you last stayed with us.” Zack Black himself lived in the trailer park now, the residents of which complain all the time about his loud playing of Firesign Theater and The Residents. Eyeballed beings both.
“That sounds good. To begin.” Off they went.
—–
—–
“Helloooo boys. Seen any dead hookers lately?”
“Hidi Widi, as I breathe and stink.”
“Delbert,” she addressed the stockier bruiser who just talked. “Filburt”, she said to the other. “Smells like a hot piece of coal in here.”
“Yeah, mom’s cooking up some rust for din din,” spat out Delbert.
“*Your* mum,” corrected Filburt. “*My* great great grandmum.” He turned to Hidi. “We both look the same age, yeah? We ain’t.” Filburt was very vain about his youthful looks and trimmer waist.
“How old are you?” Hidi was truly curious. She guessed 60 but it could be 20 the way he talked.
“40.” Split the difference, yeah. She should have bet him on it.
“Forty-*two*,” also answered the other: Delbert. The stockier one with a beard that would make alternate Spock envious. But people round here wouldn’t understand that reference, since Star Trek wasn’t invented until sometime in the 1800’s. In contrast, Star Wars was all the rage, with 16 talkie movies so far to follow the 7 silent ones. The ones no one talks about any more. Charlie Chaplin as Yoyo (or Dada) and Buster Keaton as spittoon carrying Chewbacco. Mary Pickford as Princess Leida, the role that made her famous for a while. Until she opened her mouth for the camera and tin came out instead of gold. She was great to look at but that voice. Gene Emmett Kelly the dancing clown dumped her for another with a golden voice to match at least a silver look. Not quite Pickford but close enough. And no tin or lead spewing from her lips.
(to be continued?)
you got it: maps again
“A message to all my fans out there. Some like their Pink hot.”
—–
“This will never work, Elberta,” Toothpick states at another low point. “You’re so beautiful and I’m so… ugly. Never mind the whole brother-sister…”
“I’m going to stop you there, potential husband of mind. No, better, I’m going to *absorb* you. I want to see what happens.”
Toothpick/Filbert was at a low point, as stated. He had nothing to lose. “Take me.”
—-
“He must never find you, Ross C. He’ll destroy our little square world if he does and make everyone in it miserable.”
“Happy (*zip*) unhappy,” she sputtered.
There’s only one way out. *Become* the world, see. See me in him and him in me.”
Robot from the future Ross C. saw the truth in it.
—–
Hotgirl was freed from Misery Cabin but was unable to speak about her experience there for a while.
Old reality was flickering on and off.
She eventually made her way back to GASTON.
—–
“What we *need* to do,” old companion Domino told Hotgirl Hitgirl Hitgerl Hitgurl Hitgal while they watched piled up house band Firesign Theatre play for the 4th time tonight at the Rhino, “is to similarly change *Misery*… to *Mystery*. That’s what [delete name] indicates.”
“Shuts your trap.” But the seed had been planted.
COLLAGESITY (NOVEL 24)
goodbye hello
“We reached a dead end in NWES City, my love, future present past.”
“We did,” agreed Charlene Brown the punk beside him in the car at the center of the new city, whatever he or she or they decide to call it. Maybe just New Town.
“Oh… look over there, dearest. Another Happy Travels office, just like in…”
“Don’t say it, sweets. Let’s put that name behind us, move on to the new. New Town?” she then guessed, mirroring my thoughts.
“Anyway, there it is… again. Probably the portal to Gaston once more as well.”
“Don’t use it,” wisely advised Charlene. “Seal that up too. Let Barry X. Vampire the writer and, heck, Barry Deboy the artist deal with it if they wish.”
“Are the Barrys still around?” I ask through Jeffrie Phillips, borrowing his voice for the moment.
Charlene shook her head, but not as a denial. Instead: “Not our problem.”
“And a MacDonald’s,” Jeffrie joked when looking more behind them. Funny.
Official Guy Linden Temple in “New Town”.
a way out?
Charlene Brown the Punk and Jeffrie Phillips sit in the car again in the center of Harbourtown, the twin city of NWES. “Rose Heaven seems to have closed up for us, dearest,” she spoke to him. “Gaston too.”
“Don’t go there?” asked Jeffrie Phillips again, to which she responded in the negative. “Too many ghosts,” she added, looking over at the Happy Travels Travel Agency, Harbourtown Branch, with its 3 featured portals.
“Karma,” he elaborated, or perhaps just added onto what Charlene said.
“We still have Guy. In the temple over there. Shall we go worship?”
“Sure.”
—–
Where a door closes a hole opens. Guy had protected one he knew was important, thus preserving the past as well. The past to the future. UNEXPLAINED ANOMALY.
SUNKLANDS (NOVEL 35)
continent obsession continues…
But he didn’t go home (Real Life/back to bed). Not yet. Instead we find him traveling through centers of sims (128/128), like here in Gaston, staring at the Dark Peak of two twins, the other topped by (a) white as hell Jesus (statue). Slavery inside the first. Black. And I found a black man in this very spot back in photo-novel 7. Perhaps staring at this very thing and understanding the truth. It wasn’t Duncan, but Duncan found out later that he was also there in hypertime. And he had red on his hands, which meant Indian and blood at the same time. What happened here?
The sim before this (Rhodenwald): also a Black man found at the center, 11 this time. But not an African-American. A man with the last name of Black, the same as his wife/partner who likewise owned part of this sim. Duncan also found this guy — normal time now — and thought he was AFK, but then he turned toward Duncan, proving his mobility and his significance (to the cause). We have mysteries, yes?
Interesting.
And, to add to all this, Gaston is just kind of an extension of Omega/Meat City/Rhodenwald. Of sorts. Both are Hidden Vilages, “l” purposely removed.
00350504
Speck looks back in time to check through his activated chronosvismach.
“Fascinating.
“The car parked outside the Rhino in Gaston is the same as the one parked outside the 1000 Bar in Gemini here, sir.” He pulls back from the image to face his leader with the news. “The license plates match. It must be George…”
“…driven just that far to find his love of his life. Shelley,” pronounces the Cpt., perhaps Munch perhaps not. Leader of a bunch of children, whatever, in his eyes. Needing his protection, his guidance. Grownups can be children too, he realized long ago, near the start of his academy years when he pulled out a stuck pacifier from the mouth of Major Henley, the big googoo gaga. Speck was just the most advanced of these, beyond him in brains if not decision making abilities and intuitive hunches guided by emotions. That’s what Speck was about to find out (through the cloud). Maybe then he can be the grown-up to fill his huge shoes after his retirement to the planet Splunk. There’s even a name similarity between the two through intermediaries Spuck and Spunk. We’ll get to their stories later, perhaps.
“Send a team down to check on the bar,” continues the Cpt. “See what this George — Musician — is up to; what *lengths* — he’d go to — make it so.”
“Sir,” Speck then said. “If it pleases you I’d like to be part of the party. I want to learn more about these… emotions that so control men of your Earth.”
“And women,” the Cpt. duly noted. “Don’t forget the women.”
“Hysterical, yes. So I’ve heard.” Was this a joke between the two men, Earthling and non-Earthling? Perhaps so. We’ll research later. Whatever, Lt. Ohuru behind them grimaces, which we happen to know is Shelley’s daughter Liz in disguise, bound and determined to find out about George as well. She’ll finagle her way onto the team too, despite being the wrong sex for the mission. Probably have to sleep with the Cpt. again, pheh.
U.S.S. Ararat over 1000 City
SUNKLANDS (NOVEL 40)
00400410 (the tall and short of it)
“Alright, alright. I’ll go over and talk to him. Just stop the screaming.”
Ozzie Osbourne walked out of Gaston’s Rhino Club with more information than when he came in. He had to go back to Meat City to perform. Wise if reluctant spiritual advisor Hucka Doobie told him why. Blocked!
Changing its color from gold to silver after going through the Mimosa portal, the VW bug pulled up on the sidewalk just outside. They spotted Osbourne and Osbourne spotted them but just kept on walking. He had no need to talk to ones luckier than him. “A gig!” Ketchup Tom messaged Marsha “Pink” Krakow back in Big Sandy, who drove her car to get there since the punk was car-less, not even a dune buggy to his name. The small vehicle was jammed full of guitars, speakers, drums, microphones, so on, with barely enough room left over for driver and passenger. They were talking all the time of stardom and success and making it big. The sight of Ozzie Osbourne exiting the bar doubled this down.
—–
The noise of the resulting gig was too much for Hucka Doobie, who moved outside to stare at the bug they came in, wondering if it was the same she’d seen in (Meat City?) behind the strip mall. The mayor’s daughter, she recalled, busted for drugs and imprisoned in Rockaway Beach Prison for, what was it, 40 days? Or maybe 40 years? Anyway, they turned her into a doll and that was that so this couldn’t be the same gal. Could it? Hucka Doobie ponders possibilities and impossibilities while listening to the end of “Fire Ants,” transitioned expertly into the follow up but lesser hit “Water Uncles.” Then Marsha’s part of the gig kicked in, starting with a cover of “I will Survive” by 70s pop star artist Gloria Gaynor. Relieved the noise had died down, Hucka Doobie breaks her stare from the car and heads inside again. She needed to find out the truth (“Rockaway Beach” now). She’d made way for these up and comers by telling one of the biggest stars on the planet that his stint was cancelled here in Gaston — just walked out, huffing and puffing, blown away that some small fry, backwater place could do this to him (“Crazy Train”). And he was only here as a favor to an old friend, another “Oz” mate. A Daredevil some called him. Death of a cook. The gig was suppose to be for her. And, turned out, it was (transfigured “Jackie Blue”).
00400411
“Definitely silver,” he rechecked through the past observing tool locally known as the chronovishmach. “So definitely George.”
—–
In the past, Hucka Doobie was eating alone. But in this alternate version she had the guts to walk up to Marion Star Harding and ask him on a date. Just after this she continued her guttiness and told Ozzie Osbourne, another star, that his gig was up in Gaston and that he’d have to return to Meat City for future concerts like these. Still on an adrenaline rush she goes back to Marion at the bar and gives him a kiss full on the lips, saying that’s to tide him over until tonight. Just arrived Ketchup Tom, aka The Musician (aka *George*) walks into the club, wanting to check everything out while Marsha was unloading the car, especially the structure of the place, trying to determine if his music would collapse it like before with that huge piece of coal for a bar in West Virginie. Hucka Doobie assured him that all had been prepared and that a non-collapsing spell had been cast by a local wizard. Club Rhino: definitely at a crossroads between various dimensions. Why Hucka Doobie was here in the first place, she finally determined after much lamenting and gnashing of teeth about her “entrapment” in Gaston. “Damn you Tammy Whatammy!” she cursed aloud a lot at first. “Damn you evil, conniving Casey One Hole!”, the root person to blame since Tammy was just following orders when she pushed her through that imprisoning collage back in photo-novel 7. Such a long time ago. She knew alternate versions of herself existed elsewhere. But she only existed within the body, the *vessel* of this here one. And she’s tired of complaining about the darkness. “When in Rome,” and so on.
“When in Rome” (2018)
And so in this version she dines and drinks with Marion Harding instead of doing so alone. And other things have changed: no “Welcome to Mimosa” on the sign, you’ll notice in comparing the 1st and last photo of this here blog post, anything that was once golden having been lost in the transition. Silver now. Night. Dark. Welcome to Gaston.
“We better get to the gig,” Marion requested after 2 wines, hoping to move to his more standard pot soon. Levon would have some, he knew. And Levon liked his music over his money, women, anything else. He’d be at the gig for sure.
“Oh,” said disappointed Hucka to this, wishing they’d just skip to whole gig thing and move on to that other stuff she had in mind. Bases, although obviously safe at home still — home base is definitely off limits tonight. But 1st, maybe 2nd? In play, she envisioned in her mind. Was she still desirable? she couldn’t help wondering as Marion got up and she followed suit and then looked at the back of his suit as it made pleasing motions while he walked toward the Rhino.
00400412
AND she’s started smoking pot. That’ll teach the Powers that Be, she thought while finally exhaling the wicked weed and then feeling the Devil pull her heart out through her belly button. All Orange, she thinks. “All Orange!” she cries, looking at the thing wriggling and writhing in front of her like a Red Incubus Baby. RIB she decided to call it on the spot as it was dropped to the ground and walked away on its own energy. Into the night — it would always be there from now on, she knew. Waiting…
There it is again and 10 times larger!
—–
He liked this particular apt. because he could keep an eye on Newton’s boat out in the harbour, a sim-skipper. He knew that if the unique ship was gone for any length of time, then it could come back with an outsider, which could be bad, really bad. He had too much invested here in this Gaston, formerly Mimosa. Pot was basically free, Philip’s pills were plentiful. It was perfect for the criminal duo. Shady dealings all around. Laggy but — small price to pay. And now he had Hucka. But did he really? She didn’t have the best reaction to that pot he provided her night before last, he continued to ponder. And she didn’t call last night like she promised.
She could figure a way to get out which would also be bad, leave a potential trail for others to follow, both out *and* in. He’ll have to review with her the collage and the pushing and the arrival at the jail. Casey One Hole, PHEH. He’s still around too, he knew.
“Marion, I’m *bored*. Let’s so do some drugs or something. Sex, drugs, rock–”
“Don’t say it,” Marion cut him off. Strum and Drum was playing one last time at the Rhino tonight and Hucka D. hadn’t called about a potential date. And it was protocol in this Sadie Hawkins kind of town for her to do so, females rolling the dice instead of the men in affairs of the heart. But… she said her heart was stolen over at the pool after she finished off his joint. Maybe he should have warned her about the potency, and that he’d been smoking so long that it took a powerful strain to do anything for him any more. Maybe — he looked over — maybe he was stuck with Philip after all.
“Okay,” he said. “But I still would like to drop by the concert sometime.”
“Will Levon be there?” the professional pill popper on the couch asked.
“You bet he will.” And he asked him to keep an eye out for Hucka too and to call if he sees or hears anything, he thought privately. She *did* leave the first part of the gig for a while the other night, the Ketchup Tom composed part which involved a lot of noise, she said afterwards. But she seemed to enjoy the transfigured “Jackie Blue” enough to end; asked a lot of questions about its origin and the Ozark Mountain Daredevils and then the mountain they were named after. “Big Sandy,” she said at one time about the current band. “They said they were from Big Sandy.”
“Yeah?” I said back. “It’s a place. People have to come from places and go to other places,” I said matter of factly, adding a smile.
“There’s a boat out in the harbour there,” she then said, which immediately made me think of Newton’s boat but which turned out to be much larger. And more complicated.
“3 sims!” I cried when she told me the dimensions of the thing. An internal sim-skipper, he dwelled about afterwards, complete unto itself. *Danger-ous*. But also completely fascinating.
“Philip?” he said in the present, hatching a new idea. “How would you like it if I bought us 2 golden tickets to visit the mainland?” *Or*, he then thought… hmm, how *exactly* did *Strum and Drum* get here, hmph? He knew about the Volkswagen Bug of course; it was still parked half on the sidewalk outside the club. But… it couldn’t just *come over* by itself from the mainland. Not without some kind of magical aid.
Daffy Duck had just blown up Uncle Scrooge with a rigged 100 dollar bill. “Say what?” Philip said, not breaking his stare from the TV and the blackened duck, suddenly realizing he was hungry.
a punk is born (zooming in on yellow (1st thing in the morning))
Many famous musicians have walked the roads of Gaston, and many famous musicians have left from such roads. Not George, though: he remained glued to the town through his car as it were, white in the daylight here but silver at night, as silver as Maxwell’s Hammer.
And now his soul has returned as the strumming punk known as Ketchup Tom because of his red mohawk if not visa versa, Marsha “Pink” Krakow his new drummer in tow, owner of her own VW Bug and one she perhaps is glued to as well, and even perhaps the *same* bug. Paired silver and gold as we’ve mentioned before — or white and yellow in the daytime. The Portal. Mimosa. Probably dusk and dawn as I’m writing and thinking this out.
George also existed here as Duncan Avocado, a character very important to the blog and attached photo-novels up until and including 31. 3-1 (March 1). His birthday which was also kind of his death day, at least in my eyes. He lay in a blue-yellow tent on the floor of the Collagesity library after that, a virtual structure last seen in Constantynople which has recently been destroyed/derezzed, with a final friend in the library *still* a friend — but simply too busy with a young kid to have much time for anything else, including our promised hikes. Important thing: I don’t hold it against him. And I should probably get over my disappointment with Duncan too. Put it in the rear view window. Thing is, we’re *doppelgangers*.
Red blue yellow houses in a row to begin. Again.
“Ugh, my head. W-where am I? And *who* am I?”
time doesn’t exist
His attached mohawk was more pink than red before but obviously the same otherwise. Ketchup Tom = The Musician fer sure.
“I *lived* here.” Yes, Musician. You were Duncan Avocado as well, breaking the cycle of 10 to 13 to 10 to 13 over and over and over. You glimpsed sunnier 18 and you ran with it. All the way down the street to the car and outta here. But now you’re back. “But now I’m back,” the character said in the present to reinforce this idea.
Mokum, he also thinks in the present, reading the writing on the wall. He remembers that too. Red again.
“My mohawk!” he cries, also realizing the small but significant color shift.
00400415
Ketchup Tom knew this day would come. End of gig; time to go. But what is time here? It was as if he’d just arrived.
He stared at what he remembered was a sim-skipper outside the window in the harbour. “Should’ve come in on that instead of Marsha’s VW,” he muttered to himself. Marsha was in the shower. *No*: Marsha insisted on renting the place next door instead of staying in the same apartment with Ketchup. She certainly hadn’t given up on Eddie, her Edward, back in Big Sandy — which we’ll be returning to soon.
Ketchup Tom knew he was The Musician. He knew he could come in but, once here, couldn’t leave, unlike so many before him. Because he was different. He and the town were like two cut out pieces of paper stuck together. Like fused leaves of an old waterlogged book found floating in the harbour. “*No*,” he insisted just as vehemently back to Marsha in the rental place next door when he came to tell her. “You have your place and I have mine. Here.”
Yellow House, he knew. He wasn’t going anywhere. Marsha would have leave Gaston by herself.
NOVEL 42
00420616
“It’s simply beautiful here, Barry. But –”
“Why did I wait so long to show you this?”
“Well… *yes*.” It could have help swayed my judgement, she thinks. She could still change her mind, but… a contract was signed. Wendy’s Hot Dog Restaurant is a go! Except switch hot dogs with hamburgers and meat byproducts to just pure beef. Okama talked her into it, just as he talked himself into giving up the dream of taking over the Dream Emulator band and kicking everyone else out except maybe classically trained guitarist No Lag V, which they usually just shorten to No Lag. He’d assume the mayor’s position of Kangarootown instead, recently vacated by disgraced Golden Jim, fired because he’d called the wrong person the wrong name, it seems. Anyway, Okama = Mayor, Okama invites Wendy to open her restaurant in his former K-Town store (basically just a store for mouse traps, he said, waiving off the inconvenience), and then giving her a 25 year month lease on the place for 500 lindens a month. That’s the contract signed; too good of a deal to pass on; had to act fast, she felt, lest he or she changed his or her mind. And her affections returned to Bastard — wherever he is up there on the Red Dead planet. St. Dennis, she’d heard for a possible location. She hadn’t given up hope that he not only lives but thrives, and is just waiting for the right time to invite her up too. Hmm, but she’s locked into a lease now. She better think about a second in command just in case.
“I was waiting for the right time,” Barry finally answered, allowing Wendy’s internal monologue to unfurl in a proper manner. “I thought–”
“We could go steady?”
“Well…”
“Barry. I still have Bastard — you know, Jim Randolph the Bastard Pirate.”
“But… he’s dead,” answers Barry to this.
“No, I refuse to believe that.”
“But… they found his *skeleton*, the Red Dead crew did. They *buried* him… out to sea.”
“No. Not true. I *sense* he exists still. I’m just not sure how.”
“All those rumors about him surviving and living in St. Dennis are just that. Fiction — fable. The skeleton in the boat was *his*. There was even his trusty sword to go along with it. Wendy — face it.” He makes her face him. “He’s gone.”
She was tempted to slap him for the stubbornness. But after all, as Okama Majo also pointed out, *he* has Hucka Doobie now. She substituted the slap with that harsh declaration.
Barry quickly looked away, almost as if he’d been slapped anyway. “She’s with someone else, I’ve heard. A Marion Star Harding. Never met the guy. But he predates me, even. Last I heard he’s in Gaston. Do you know of Gaston? I had to learn about it. I learned it from–” He stops. He realizes the irony, the *synchronicity* of the matter.
He recalls piecing together a document about the place. From wadded up papers strewn about his shed near the Pink Motel. Home.
NOVEL 45
00450703 (the monster within)
Greg was also into painting trees that came from seeds, including that persimmon in the dead center of Juho we mentioned before. Here: a willow pretty nearby it at the end of the short lane known as Makers Way, Greg’s artistic and otherwise home in the still-being-developed burg. He feels he can speak to this particular tree even, hear its words, understand the language of the long, willowy limbs often swaying and sometimes rustling in the winds. “Greg Ogden,” they seemed to whisper call to him more than once. “More green, more green!” And sometimes he would change with this and sometimes he didn’t. Depends on if he’s heavy into the oils or remains more on the surface with quicker drying acrylics and watercolors. Here he dabbles in acrylic; we appear to be safe for now. 🙂
Soon he tires of outdoor stuff and returns to his newly revamped studio now chocked full of pictures of the female anatomy instead of male, the studio apartment where he lives and bathes and such just above, a one to one match in space and clutter one floor up. He always leaves the front door slightly ajar just in case he forgets his keys. Could return in one of those artistic dazes, he figures, especially if he shifts over to oil. He remembers his uncle locking himself out of his music shop for weeks because of a similar jazz trance induced by something as simple as a passing car radio. Sensitive shopkeepers responsible for the opening and closing of doors must be cognizant of their own weaknesses and adjust accordingly.
How about STAB for a name? he thinks while walking through the shop’s red facade. Short and sweet and evoking lots of the same color. Also short as in the lane he lives on. Eye-catching. And as a bonus he won’t have to repaint. STAB it is. Goes along with the blood theme of his new help wanted ad too; he’ll simply build upon it to create the perfect logo, he thinks in the moment. Good luck Peter Melanchton! Thanks for your service, but I don’t need you any longer, I don’t even need your sister any longer.
I have Redd.
00450704
Oops, he thinks while checking the photo-novel 45 clock behind Redd, its time quickly running out. See ya, my new muse. Gotta go meet Tobor down at the beach to end this thing, but not before leaving my door slightly ajar of course. This could be a deep one.
As it turns out, Greg’s Makers Way is not the only Maker in the area. There’s what appears to be this fashion magazine located in a small, out of the way radio station in nearby Seogwipo about 200 meters away, which DJ Carolin “Wind” Willows is just entering to begin her long long workday isolated from the rest of the world. Tough since she’s a sociopath, I mean, a social person. She rethinks her career choice every time she walks through that door. She also leaves it ajar? Could be.
Ahh, a little Blue Moon Kentucky from her independent label Sun Records will help first thing in the morning, she thinks. Little track called “Elvis Esley” penned by Scottyd Bill that helped put her back on the musical map after the breakup of the Cracks. Here goes!
Listening to the lyrics, Carolin can’t help but wonder again how such a depressing song ever made it to the top of the pop charts. Suicide! And more.
NOVEL 47
00470114 (bulletproof)
“‘How can you not hear it?’ he might say to me in frustration. ‘Are you *deaf*?'”
“I say, ‘your work is an impenetrable sphere, reflections all around but not from itself.’ Here:”
“That’s a great story, baker b.,” Hucka said, looking at the mirror ball he pulled up on his monitor. “It really is. But I must buzz off elsewhere to use the old nomenclature.”
“Okay, alright. *Bye* I guess,” I say as I watch her — or him — fly away into the blue blue skies. Hucka D. the Bee showed up again after so long only to leave so quickly!
—–
“He thinks I’ve reverted to bee form, Marion. I, of course, haven’t.”
“No you *haven’t*,” expresses Marion Star Harding, taking all her womanhood in from top to bottom from his seat opposite her at the Welcome to Mimosa tavern, sign lost in the Great Wind Storm of ’02 (“The Great Blow”). No antennae even, now. “Why?” he had to ask.
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s trying so hard to understand the various creators lining up around him now, sees the parallels to them in himself; alternate paths.” I want to keep him productive, was the underlying meaning.
“You’re a fine woman,” Marion said to this. “Very fine. Now let’s walk over to the Rhino and see that comedy group again we so love.”
“You first,” she said with a sly smile.
“No, *you* this time, he he.”
“Alright.” And she got up, wondering if she had the hang of swinging her hips properly. Would this be the last vestige of her bee self and the awkward duck walk showing up? Turns out it wasn’t — she did fine. Very fine. Marion looked on in pleasure and happiness the whole 3 blocks over.
00470115
“Oh shoot, Hucka,” Marion says at the door, peering in. “No seats together left up front. We’ll have to sit on the couch further away from the stage.”
“Fine with me!” she responded, knowing the hips did their job on the way over. They’d pay more attention to cuddling than comedy this night fer sure. Besides, they watch this act every Wednesday rain or shine, know every line that’s going to be uttered. Firesign Theatre: the house group at Gaston’s downtown Rhino. Unless it’s uptown. We’ll see.
00470412 (the great 100,000 book library in de skies)
“Lou, dearest,” he whispered over. “Buy your old man a can of soda while he’s busy studying will ya?”
“Sure thing Daddy. What’ll it be? Kolya? Pepi? Maybe even a bottle instead of a can?”
“Shhh, babydoll,” he said to her louder voice, finger over lips to reinforce his point. “Keep it down. Other people are studying here besides me.”
“And me — just sitting here twiddling my thumbs,” she responded in turn, tone not much softer than before. “Wishing there was an actual town again to visit while you read these old dusty things.” She became curious. “What’d you finding anyway? You mentioned a MOA or something or another.”
“Most Ancient One, yes,” he hissed, finger pressed against lips again. “Right underneath the library here, I’m speculating. That *whole town* you’re after. Files within!” Oh GOD. He shouted he was so excited. And now the whole rest of the library is staring. He waves at all of them, trying to indicate he’s sorry and that the outburst was just a slip-up.
Right through that Big Red Machine there it is, though. The secret passage. ‘Nother one.
He could walk through…
… and be in a different world altogether. And so it was.
“Ahh yes, thanks Lou,” he said after carefully popping the top and taking a sip. “Hits the spot.”
Sunklands 