GTAV for study only!

PHOTO-NOVEL 01

Collagesity Report

I’m heading to the beach tomorrow where I probably won’t be looking at Second Life and thought I’d give a report of the town before I leave.

First off, I’m having great fun revamping the World of Collage in the northwest corner of Collagesity. I’ll talk about that more when I get back.

The top floor of the diner is probably where town meetings will take place. Unless some other structure rises up in the meantime. Will such a meeting be held before the new year? Could be. Cardboard Derek Jones, for instance, is bugging me about returning House Greenup and its namesake collage series to the village. I’m not sure that’s the best idea, but it is an example of a topic we could debate.

I don’t think there’s any debate, however, that Baker’s new home is this one on the western edge of the town. He sits in his small study, taking in an angle of his beloved Rubi Woods. Will he rewrite the “8×5” at this location? But what about Home Orange? Will his father Space Ghost take his spot there? After all, it’s his original homestead according to Collagesity lore, at least when it was in Noru. So that’s something else the townspeople could talk about.

Baker sits on Meditation Knoll in the woods:

The House of Truth hasn’t yet been filled with information, like it was originally, I suppose, in Noru once more. But an older version of Noru — pre-Collagesity. Baker has more decisions to make concerning the interpenetration of Noru and Rubi mythologies, both going back quite a ways by now. Once again, the townspeople can help with decisions, and are probably required to do so.

Baker tests out his old table in Home Orange.

His view there. Hmmm….

To remind myself and also others, this was Baker’s home going back to Pietmond in 2010, I believe. LINK

Baker ponders what to put at the supposed weakspot of Collagesity, pointed out by Spongeberg, to stop up the energy leak. He thought of placing the de-eyed red-violet version of Carrcassonnee there, like it was before. LINK But maybe that’s what Spongeberg wants. Hmmm, again. Baker realizes he’ll probably have to do *something* about it before I go to the beach. He can’t place anything there without my help, can he?

He sits on the rock, thinking about this and enjoying the interesting shadows on the Red Umbrella gallery. He also hasn’t made a decision about what to put in the old Norum gallery beside it (to our right). There’s still lots to mull over concerning Collagesity’s future.

The bottom of the Kidd Tower needs working on.

—–

Hucka D.:

I’m back baker b.

bb:

Hi Hucka! Oh yes, it’s almost Christmas. I was suppose to ring you up on the 25th.

Hucka D.:

You will be indisposed, however. Did you enjoy analyzing the Boos series on your own? You did a great job. I told you you could do it. I stood out of the way because we’re… we are too familiar with each other by now. The reader, while perhaps still amused, had trouble cracking our secret language. [Delete name] was right about that, at least. But mainly he was a control freak. A smart control freak. There were many such people at the time, near the beginning of the Internet. He would freely admit this now too. If he had to do it over, he would accept other people’s opinion without question at times; let it stand. So there’s regrets there too. Like what he said about your Greenup series interpretation, which you also did on your own. I understand you’re taking that to the beach with you. Good choice. It is a good interpretation that needs more work. This is the Lime section of “Floydada”; I’m telling that for the reader.

bb:

Thank you for that. Yeah, I don’t know what to do with all those old [interpretation sections], beginning with “Floydada”.

Hucka D.:

Maybe you could hand it over to Cardboard Derek Jones. Let him work on it.

bb:

Possibility. But what of this weak spot found by Spongeberg?

Hucka D.:

He’s determined a place that the town could be destroyed. In the bigger picture, he doesn’t see the worth in it. He would point to not the *violence*, the misogeny, the *overlay* of Grand Theft Auto but, removing all that, just the *landscape*. Second Life is beyond dated. Yet you can still create galleries here. Once you can create galleries in another spot and build up another mythology you can begin to exit. But only at that point. When you die from Second Life, however, you die, because you can’t take it with you, and that includes Baker Bloch and all the rest of the avatars. Including me.

bb:

If I didn’t have the blog, it wouldn’t be worth it.

Hucka D.:

You must think about the next step. Spongeberg is right about that. Place the 2 hour plus film about the Grand Theft Auto landscape in the theatre at Collagesity Heights. Require the townspeople to view it before the meeting; take notes. Then we can make some initial remarks about the eventuality of moving Collagesity to another platform. You have to have a town, right?

bb:

Right.

Hucka D.:

It has to be tangible in a virtual sense.

bb:

Okay.

Hucka D.:

Then start planning. Not as much the particular *buildings* as what you would want from such a town, perhaps what you can’t have in the Second Life version of that town. Beyond the Rubi Woods. Beyond its attachment to the more ancient Sylver Forest. But write about that as well. Write about all of it before you leave. Because eventually, sometime, you will leave. Okay?

bb:

Alright Hucka D. That’s the biggest question of all right now for Collagesity, I guess. Where is it all heading?

Hucka D.:

Right. Goodnight to you. And Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! I’ll see you more in the coming year.

bb:

Thanks again. Talk to you soon.

“This will have to do for now.”

3:35 AM: Insurance.

Walking across the Grand Theft Auto V continent

How Big is GTA 5? – Real Time – Walking Across the GTA V Map (no audio)

REQUIRED VIEWING BEFORE TOWN MEETING SCHEDULED JANUARY 1ST?

Sic(k)

On Friday night, December 31st, Spongeberg Resident was standing before the townspeople of Collagesity, imploring them to give reasons for him to *not* destroy it and them with it. It was slightly in the future, but I saw it through the vortex that had been opened in the meantime.

“The tower of Shiny Hare is a reason for the town to keep existing,” he continued. “Baker Bloch’s ‘Uncle Meatwad’ is a reason. The budding love of youngsters Cardboard Derek Jones and Lisa The Vegetarian Simpson is as good a reason as any. I’m all for true love. But in my heart of hearts, I still think the cons outweigh the pros. The town is too expensive to run. Even with the oh so handy prim to convex hull conversion to decrease land impact.”

“Who are you?” raised a voice in the back of the crowd. It was Furry Karl, who had arrived late for the meeting due to his longer walk from the Hole in the Wall bar.

“I am called Spongeberg Resident, and I am a destroyer by nature. There are hundreds upon hundreds of residents in this Second Life, but I am *The* Resident. Carrcassonnee is unique as well. I stand in for her at this meeting, as I explained earlier Fuzzy Jim (Spongeberg attaches a wrong name to Furry Karl here). She is meeting with forest representatives at Nautilus City, and I’ll go ahead and tell you that she’s making plans to move *some* of you — along with *some* of the town — back over there if I make the choice I think I’ll make. So it’s up to you, the citizens of Collagesity, to make a difference. Send me your essays (earlier, Spongeberg had asked each person at the meeting to send him at least a two page report on why Collagesity should be saved). Send in the reasons. I’ll debate. The chance of destruction is 70-30 right now. Carrcassonnee has allowed me to do what I wish here. She actually can’t keep me from my job even if she thought otherwise. Yet I am not a mean deity. I am a kind destroyer. I usually nibble around the edges — a church here, a gazebo there. But I feel in this case it is best for all of you to enter another life together. A life that doesn’t involve Second Life.”

“I haven’t seen the required film,” chipped in flatty Fox Mulder, who, as usual, was standing side by side with partner Dana Skully. “Can we still see it? That might make us, as a town, feel better about where we’re going, where it’s all heading.”

“You had your chance,” replied Spongeberg levelly. “Baker Bloch was at the beach all last week and you all just sat around doing nothing. You are so lazy. I’m asking you to work now for your town. Okay, okay, I’ll allow you to see the film if you wish. “Uncle Meatwad” is currently loaded up at the Collagesity Theatre but I’ll ask Baker Bloch to reload the Grand Theft Auto video from Tube World [sic].” He tapped his face, as if deciding on something. “You sicken me,” he then tacked on to end his speech. He stepped down from the podium on the second floor of the town diner and made his way through the grumbling crowd toward the teleporter. But when reaching it, he just disappeared in that cloud of black particles again.

I pulled back from the vortex. Carrcassonnee was by my side. “You have only 1 day to change things,” she said. “I have to leave for Nautilus City. Things are pretty much set in stone, but stone can be molded in time as well. A bit. It’s all pretty plastic given enough time. Which you have little of. Goodbye and good luck!”

Carrcassonnee teleported to Nautilus City, leaving me with Spider and Lisa. I knew Lisa wouldn’t be making that date in the diner tomorrow, since Carr. animates her. Poor Cardboard Derek Jones. He won’t understand any of this.

PHOTO-NOVEL 05

TITLE

“Where’s your wife, David Bowie? I mean, Little Tonshi.”

Little Tonshi then pitched the proposition. “Give me Wheeler (for that). And I’ll give you a whole ‘nother Second Life, Buster. A better one. Like Grand Theft Auto, except 1700 times more choice.”

“Umm… I don’t understand.”

Little Tonshi turned into just Tonshi. Bettie. “The airport on top of the hill. It’s not an airport, of course. It’s a recording studio. There I made ‘Heathen,’ my best later work. Many subterranean passages exist within. In one I’m myself and a shadow of myself.”

“Still not getting it…”

“You deserved better than this Buster. I have many friends that are aiding me. Levi Clownski said he would personally pay for your ticket outta here. He doesn’t want you around.”

“I said I’m sorry (about the killing). Many many years ago. Many times in many years.”

“This is not about that. I’ve learned to accept my fate obviously. We are not enemies. It’s just you don’t belong here.”

“Of course I do.”

“No.”

“Then where?”

—–

“*Where*??”

PHOTO-NOVEL 07

breaker breaker

Marion Harding thinks his world might be breaking down. He had been on Gaeta V going on 2 years now. Sent here by trickery and mistake; eventually caught in a tangled web of power and intrigue woven in Capitol City.

He didn’t like the continent’s largest and most central burg very much, although it had elements he admired. Of course there was the money, the flow being strongest here. But heiress Becky Latrobe wouldn’t even let him into her posh house now that he’d shot Dirk in the head and made him dead. And Madam Wanda Stinoble was going straight and returning to the old continents. For Gaeta V was news at the time of its birth eastward of Corsica. News and dangerous. And those darker elements naturally aggregated and congealed at the depression originally called Pittsboro. Pittsboro evolved to Pittington evolved to Darksity evolved to Capitol City. Over time the sinister aspects were smoothed away like the reformed, flat terrain. Gaeta V would have no natural sinkhole that kind history would remember. The Great Black Swamp which sucked up aboriginal settlers such as Ned Bartlett and Kindsey McTweed into an untimely doom was tiled and drained, and a shopping mall now graces its ironed over land, selling the newest threads and peddling fresh leather attache cases soon to be filled to the breach with lindens and gold and jewelry no doubt. Like his own, bought just a week and a half back. Because Marion liked to ensure that each case of treasure had its own home. He could himself probably build a small house with them even now, only 2 years in. Or, really, only 1 3/4 years in because it took him a little bit to find, then ingratiate himself into the sodded fabric of the city.

—–

“Baker, have I ever told you the story of my nephew Marion and how I mistakenly sent him over to walk the length of the Gaeta V continent 2 years back instead of having him watch the GTA V video Spongeberg actually requested at the time?”

“No. Do tell Cardboard!”

“I haven’t heard from him since. Until yesterday. A short note indeed: ‘I think my world might be breaking down.'”

where they are…

Gaeta 5 is the only finished continent of the Gaeta series. The initial project was to build 5 continents (named from Gaeta 1 to Gaeta 5), then to unite them into a single block of sims. Today, only Gaeta 5 is complete and a part of Gaeta 1 was built. Gaeta 5 is the most compact continent, with no gulfs or estuaries. On map, [it] has a [peanut shape]. This continent is an endless plain. It is linked to Corsica by a two-sim large passage (see Transcontinental Channels).

http://wiki.secondlife.com/wiki/Gaeta_5

where they *aren’t* (any more):

“Slim to none.”

“South YANKTON!” Eraserhead Man shouted toward the bleached face Norris. “We need INFORMATION! A man named PHILIP STREVOR has returned from there! Listen and this is IMPORTANT! There’s a giant BEAVER there!”

“Don’t look at me,” Norris demanded in a normal register. “Are you looking at me? Because you’re suppose to be looking straight ahead and not at me. Don’t look at me!”

“I WON’T! I’m NOT!” Eraserhead Man rummaged around in his pockets and procured a cigarette, lit it, and proceeded to smoke. “You don’t mind if I SMOKE, do you?!” he asked while emitting his first puff.

Norris didn’t answer, remained motionless. Eraserhead Man continued his grilling. “He goes by the name of CASEY here! Sometimes Casey the ALIEN! Last seen in GAETA V — get this — like GTA V! GTA I Said! Grand Theft AUTO! One of our INFORMANTS tipped us off! KEDAR! Use to live over in NAUTILUS!” He stopped there.

“I may have heard of him. We may have shared a drink!” Norris piped up.

“Had a GOLF club! MOTIONLESS FACE. Said, ‘I’m yrev very happy to SEE you old friend.’! I don’t have to tell you what color ROSE we’re talking about here!”

“You should leave now,” Norris suddenly demanded. “The holiday entities could be up and roaming about by now. There’s a chance they may come to this lower plane… just a chance but not worth taking it.”

“CHANTS?!” shouted the hard of hearing Eraserhead Man. Norris forgot to pipe up at the end this time. “What KIND of chants?!”

15 minutes later…

“Did you get the information I wanted, Norris?”

“N-no. Not yet.” He was trying very hard not to perspire, show fear. But Casey drew it out of him. He *fed* off of it. “I guess… you heard about the beaver?”

“The beaver is not of my concern,” Casey said mechanically. His whole tone of voice was drained of emotion. Casey knew that Jeffrie Phillips would soon be reading this blog post and catching up with him. He needed to stay one, preferably several steps ahead in the game. And we’re not talking about Grand Theft Auto here, ridiculous bank heists and shite.

Norris continued to stare forward into the red curtains. He’d been doing this for as long as he could remember. Weeks, maybe months. Years, even. He had *hoped* that Casey would stare straight ahead as well and not at him. But he could repeatedly sense what felt like two laser beams burning into the back of his head. Cheater! Trying to extract the needed information that, yes indeed, he had. Prison schematics.

But Casey already knew this.

The suspiciously tanned man moves forward on his couch and leans toward Norris’ head, his mouth not half a foot from an ear now. “There’s a par three at the back nine of my club,” Casey hisses menacingly, “where the flag pole sometimes goes missing when I make my holes in one.” He withdraws from Norris and gets up to take his leave. “You think about that over the next several days.”

Norris finally couldn’t help himself. “Don’t… *look* at me,” he said weakly.

“You have until Monday to get me that information, Norris. ” Then he was gone, silent as a cat.

—–

Karoz Blogger was next for a visit.

beaver cities

Ludendorff, North Yankton (Grand Theft Auto state based on Real Life US state North Dakota)

Beaver (formerly Beaver City), Oklahoma (Real Life US state)

—–

“This looks like a MATCH to me, Philip! Giant BEAVER — holding a Ludendorff WELCOME sign and then a soon-to-be-tossed COW chip! We need to get him back to that shitty YANKTON prison… ASAP!”

—–

Philip Strevor wakes up.

“I’ve got to stop eating all those chocolate chip cookies before hitting the hay.”

bank on it

“No turning back, huh?”

“No,” replied Billy Jean Kidd, who was no longer playing the role of Heidi Hunt Ives. “Gaeta V, and perhaps Grand Theft Auto V along with it — left behind. We must move forward, beyond mainland.”

George looked around. “But what *is* this place?”

“Unsure,” she answered. “Could be Hana Lei. I suppose it has to be in one way.”

“And all of this because of the sandbox.”

“Yup. Must have been deleted on the other side, the Capitol City side, the *Gaeta V* side. And now all that is gone, I am feeling… sensing.”

“What of Marion?” the boy queries. “What of your friend Philip? Wasn’t he suppose to be your new daddy or something?”

Billy Jean Kidd paused, looked over at George. “Where did you say you grew up?”

“Beaver City, Oklahoma. My father practiced law there. I told you this already.”

“I just wanted to reinforce the, er, oddity.” But before George could ask what was so odd about it, she followed with another question. “Did it have a giant beaver statue?”

“Um, not that I recall. There was a giant beaver, but he was on a float. You see, Beaver City is host to the Annual Cow Chip Throwing Contest. The big beaver held a big cow chip in his hands. Now about the oddness…”

“And dunes,” Billy Jean Kidd interrupted again. “You said there was sand. I dreamt about sand night before last.”

“Sand dunes are there indeed. I use to play in them. Before the coming of the bugs. And then afterwards a bit. But not like before.” George scanned the surroundings again. He was eager to explore this city, whatever it was. “We have to leave the playground sooner or later,” he urged to the girl, tired of speaking about the past. He thinks of his father, and how much he misses him. But George was a special child and had another role to fill beyond family ties.

“Alright,” Billy Jean Kidd relented.

Hand in hand, they walk out of the playground and into the brave new world of… wherever they are. Could be Cleveland for all I know.

PHOTO-NOVEL 08

C1718W fun facts

“Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” ends at the exact same location as “Collagesity 2016-2017 Winter”, which is in the exact center of the Purden sim in Snowlands, Sansara.

Part 3 of “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” starts with a post called “HHI Again”, partial reference to the first post of Part 3 of “Collagesity 2017 Middle” called “HHI.” I only uncovered this resonance after already composing “HHI Again,” though, and was pondering over a title for the thing.

“Private”, the 4th post of part 4 of “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter”, was created exactly one year after “Scissors?”, the 5th post of Part 2 of “Collagesity 2016-2017 Winter” (1/15/18 to 1/15/17). They also share several of the same objects or props (unique to those posts as I recall), and both end with “fires.” Like with the “HHI”/”HHI Again” parallel, I only noticed this after the creation of “private”.

In “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter”, characters first speak a foreign language (German; several posts), although one small exchange between Wheeler Wilson and Baker Bloch in “Collagesity 2016 Later” (“B-4”) is in the pretend language of Perch.

Almost exactly half of the 7th Collagesity novel (“Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter”; 47 posts of a total of 97) is at least partially set on the 7th created mainland continent: Gaeta V.

2 used locations of Gaeta V, Clemscott and Comfrey, also have about the same number of posts dedicated to them in the novel (15 and 14 respectively), and are linked in other ways. I see them as a balance for each other.

Almost all other posts (20) concerning Gaeta V in “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” are set in a place I call Capitol City, which is a fictional burg located near the center of the continent.

“Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” contains 25 posts located in eponymous Collagesity, second least in the series to “Collagesity 2017 Middle” and its paltry 7.

In the 1st post of “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” (“Return”), Tronesisia returns to Middletown piloting a small pink airplane down its main street. In Part 6 of “Collagesity 2016-2017 Winter” (“Huskers”), she returns to Collagesity driving a small pink car down its main street.

Probably the most common drink referenced in “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” is a bucket of blood, served with or without nails.

One independent collage was created during the composition of “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter”: “SpicA”. It may also be the first collage of a new series called Hunt, but we’ll see.

There are many “Twin Peaks” references scattered throughout “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter.” The names of a number of minor characters (see, for example: “Shirtless in Comfrey”) are “inversions” of those connected with the show, including Jeffrie Phillips (Phillip Jeffries in “Twin Peaks”, played by David Bowie).

Similarly, Philip Strevor, a key character in “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter”, is an inversion of Trevor Philips, one of 3 lead characters of “Grand Theft Auto V”. They also share a similar appearance.

There are a number of parallels between the consecutive posts “Revealing” and “can’t wait” of Part 2 of “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” and the post ending the first half of “Collagesity 2015-2016 Winter” (“Spire”). This is another of those “after the fact” discoveries.

In a similar vein, frozen character Tin S. Man is seen showering in a bathtub in both that earliest Collagesity novel (“Fourth”) and the most recent (“congelato”).

The Spookmobile of “Collagesity 2016-2017 Winter” returns at the beginning of Part 5 of the most recent Collagesity novel (“Well, we have a giant *beaver*. How’s that?”), and connected with baker b’s audiovisual synchronicity “Pumpkintwisters” again. The Spookmobile was also seen in the first post of part 5 of “Collagesity 2016-2017 Winter” (“Martins”).

Like all the other Collagesity novels, “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” has its share of Beatles references. See, for instance, “silver hammer” of Part 04.

The “Grand Theft Auto 5” storyline starts with character Trevor Philips robbing a bank in North Yankton as an adult. In “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter,” derivative and, name-wise, inverted character Philip Strevor is claimed to have robbed a bank in South Yankton as a child. Yankton is also the location of the prison Bad Coop is briefly incarcerated in toward the beginning of “Twin Peaks: The Return”.

There are a considerable number of references to the comedy group Firesign Theatre in “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” (“plans”, etc.). In 1970, this group was dubbed by the Library of Congress as “The Beatles of Comedy.”

“12 Oz Mouse” references are littered throughout “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” and other novels in the series: perpetually stoned Peanut Cop in “up and down”, for example; his pal Golden Joe too. A good obscure reference example would be the queer tune that Pitch Darkly miraculously finds that he can play on a piano in Spider Cave from the final post of part 4 (“breakthrough 02”), derived from this scene in the “12 Oz Mouse” episode called “Booger Haze”.

And I think that’s enough for tonight! More “Collagesity 2017-2018 Winter” trivia could be coming up.

PHOTO-NOVEL 09

“Smoking!” (blurb from “New Island Gazette”)

Encouraged by up and coming studios like Swanson’s Gallery and Artist Point Interactive (API), Marty Claflin and Jay Woodhull, two self confessed potheads, have decided to start a parent enterprise for New Island studios as a whole. You buy into the company — NEW ISLAND STUDIOS — you get promoted in the biggest and most popular Second Lyfe art venues, plus even off-world platforms like Grand Theft Auto, Mortal Kombat, and Minecraft. Way to go Marty and Jay! Here’s wishing you guys the best of luck in your new (island!) business venture. We’re sure to be hearing a lot more from these two wacky stoners in the coming months and years. Decades! Call 709-576-8220 for details.

PHOTO-NOVEL 27

cowed

It was raining when he got back to Collagesity and it made his depression worse. He decided to go to Vivian Blue Hair, the new girl — or one of ’em — for advice. She was a fire scryer, using candles for the most part, like here. He asked what was foremost in his mind. “Which… one?”

Vivian could have been selfish and said she was the one, but almost immediately upon staring into the flame saw black and white patterns all around. She slips deeper into trance, closing her eyes. “I see two countries — or counties — one black and the other white, but both named Austra.”

“Austra, yes,” Phillip replies. “There’s a Lower and an Upper — everyone knows that–” Phillip stops here, understanding that Vivian Blue Hair arrived off continent just day before last week. She was a friend of… he can’t remember. Maybe Man About Time, wherever the heck he is these days. Phillip is already itching to leave his Collagesity but has nowhere left to go, he doesn’t think. Not after Wendy.

Vivian Blue Hair changed into someone else, chessboard patterns moved to the face. “A promise made, a promise lost.”

It was the cards (!), heart upside down being a spade.

Jeffrie Phillips wakes up from the rabbit hole as the lot of ’em fall to the chessboard floor in a disheveled mess, like roses. He’s received his clue.

“Charlene,” he says to the woman beside him, the usual one, but probably not *the* one. This also stirs her.

“Yes, Mr. Jeffrie Phillips, sir,” she dutifully and groggily recites, automatically reaching for his red tie hung on the bed post but then realizing it was still the middle of the night. She returns her hand to his bare chest.

“That new girl in town…”

“Right… see where *this* is going.” She yawns and looks at her nails.

“No, no, I don’t fancy her or anything.” Jeffrey Phillips definitely fancies her as he does most women, but that wasn’t the point here. “She has black hair, correct? Not blue or anything crazy like that.”

“First off, blue *isn’t* crazy. My Aunt Zelda had blue, red, and green in a row before her death in the early 80’s.”

“She lived that long, huh,” Jeffrey replied, starting to contemplate time and the colors that one can change into at the end. “But to my point…”

“In a certain light,” Charlene said in answer, “yes, it could be considered blue. But the light has to shine upon her hair in a very particular setting, I’ve noticed. Early morning or late day perhaps: hafta check.”

“So: blue.” Jeffrey decides to lay the cards on the table, this time in an orderly manner. “I dreamed about her just now.”

“I bet you did.”

“Not that kind of dream. A dream of this whole continent, which (he then realized) broke down into a series of black and white squares — *sims*.”

“Fascinating,” she deadpanned, and put on her babydoll and got up to get some water. “Want anything to drink or eat while I’m in the kitchen?” He watched her move away from him in a satisfying manner. Nice to have compensation when he returned home. Charlene is a swell mate as well as lover. He’ll keep her around for sure; a short leash. Strange way to think about it, he realized. I don’t *own* her. Or maybe… maybe I do in a way. I pay her bills, I give her a place to stay here at the Blue Feather (building). She was rummaging around the kitchen now. “Are you going to answer me?” she called, hoping he could hear her over the static this time. “I’ll get you something anyway.” More noises, and then about 5 minutes later she returned with some milk and a plate of choco chip cookies. She lay down beside him, put the plate on his partially bare belly, and picked up the top one for herself, studying it. “Cow chips, they’re called. Saw them advertised on TV. Big beaver holds one up in his paws.” She extends her arms here and holds the cookie between them like a small steering wheel toward the static filled TV on a table just beyond the bed. “Like this.” In the snow, she imagined the big beaver mirroring this back to her.

He studies her, then he follows her arms to the cookie, realizing what this meant. “That’s disgusting.” He picks one up himself using just the one arm. Oversized and heavy on choco chunks, he sees, but otherwise just an ordinary cookie.

—–

In another dream that night, the cookie Charlene holds expands and turns into a whirling vortex, sucking up everything in the room including his milk. “And so on the 5th day…” he heard her say beside him as they fell and fell, blobs of white and chunks of brown all around. The rabbit hole seemed endless this time.

yin yang Yanktons

Seeing the cow chip holding giant beaver in the snow and all, hot Biker 02 knew he was in the right place. It was a small but significant burg, and he had designs on digging up someone in a church cemetery there.

In a similar sized town directly south, cold Biker 01 bikes down a main artery, passing vein after vein. He was searching for the church in vain. He should have been looking up to icier climes.

PHOTO-NOVEL 27

00360612

Clifton “Carbon Glow” Mahoney taking a well deserved rest at Gloomy Gus after a busy day working on the train and railroad. He’d figured it out. The last *key* was removing the cave front and replacing it with this suspiciously rectangular piece of rock positioned at the top of the town’s cascade, a leftover mistake of residents at the time…

rock before the move

.. because this was obviously the old front of the tunnel that the train passed through beneath the 7th and final spire of Castle Soos, also known as Soos Mountain Castle, or Somoca, not to be confused with the Soos Mountain Community, instead abbreviated Somoco. Anyway, once he figured this out and did the switcheroo, the train slotted perfectly into the hole, spinning keytop on the locomotive fitting comfortably beneath the top now, which the shorter cave didn’t allow. Check it out.

Another thing he had to do to make it all work was to shrink the miniature train found in storage behind the castle (more sloppiness!) from Tiny back to Teensie, an even smaller, original, pre-Robolution version, the one that allowed for proper portal hopping, he felt. He wouldn’t go to Oklahoma next time, even thought that was just a dream. Or if he did, he’d know it wasn’t in error this go around. Something about dunes last night. Check here:

https://www.onlyinyourstate.com/oklahoma/sinister-beaver-dunes-park-ok/

That’s not the first time we’ve brought up Beaver formerly Beaver City Oklahoma in this here blog and attached photo-novels. More soon (stay tuned!).

PHOTO-NOVEL 41

00410611

I’ve now come up with an Option 02 for Jim Randolph the Bastard Pirate. Instead of crashing on Red Dead’s planet in his augmented ship, redesigned for space as well as sea, he winds up here.

As the only street in town not named for a number or letter, I think the implications are clear. This *is* Aisle of Palms. In a different form and connected to a different game besides Our Second Lyfe. A rival one, but not Red Dead’s again.

We’ve seen screenshots of it sprinkled about these here photo-novels. And also met at least the outer appearance of one of the 3 main protagonists. Or should I say, antagonist — hard to tell; up for debate. But not going by his original name and in a different gang of three.

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/philip-strevor/

And now he has a new home, same as the old home. Bombay Beach/Sandy Shores. Mr. Boss again to explain:

Gunn City

Of course I had to steal Bombay Beach’s Aisle of Palms street sign and make it my own welcoming sign to the city. I’m talking about Aisle of Palms again of course, My Second Lyfe style. And then it was logical to position Trevor Philips’ look-alike Philip Strevor in the Perch Restaurant table above it. Let’s check in on what he’s up to.

Well, currently he’s starting to play that game he loves called Gunn Mobile Trailer Park, with a style so similar to what his doppelganger up in Bombay Beach’s own double of Sandy Shores experiences each and every virtual day. I wonder if he understands the bond?

Soon he comes to a critical point, building upon hours and hours of non-stop action and violence. 223 trailer park residents and visitors killed in a murder spree no one will soon forget in the overarching Mobile, Alabama metro area and indeed the whole state, at least according to future newspapers he has access to at this level like “The Bermingham Journal” and “The Phoenix City Citizen-Gazette.”

He’s killed everyone off, with no further need of his avatar’s trusted .45 caliber combat pistol. Can he deposit it into that glitch he’s learned about through a Youtube tutorial and progress beyond the park, venturing into the Mobile-Tensaw River Delta region and its vast swamplands? He knows he’ll encounter Indians there: the famed Bottle Creek tribe most noted for their large platform mounds NE of Mobile and with many rewards to reap along the way according to that video. But he cannot find them if he still possesses the gun. The makers of the game wanted the player to learn a moral lesson beyond just learning how to aim and kill in the most effective manner.

Just as an experiment, he places the gun in the glitch but knows, all along, he can’t go through with it. Instead, weapon safely back in hand, he’ll have his avatar lie low for a couple of days while the trailer park repopulates itself with outside NPCs. Soon he’ll have enough to start the murder spree all over again. And, in his head, it will continue like this, week after week, month after month. He reckons it will never get old — at least until they release version 06 of the game with its updated graphics and even more intense killing scenes. He can’t wait. Projected date of release: Fall 2025. But will his beloved character Cloe Prince return? he wonders. And if not, will he form such an intense bond with a new lead “protagonist”? Will Cloe become — gasp — obsolete in the eyes of others? Will he stick with her even so? He knows he can’t, though, because the character doesn’t make the man. Instead: the instrument of death he or she wields. And it could be a he the next time around. He’ll get use to it. You see the irony here?

00410613

Baker Bloch and bee-person/blog guru Hucka Doobie share a pizza while Philip continued to play his game over there, watching from afar as the virtual trailer park slowly repopulates itself with killable, expendable NPCs.

“You sure bringing Strevor back is a good idea, Baker? He’s kind of a psycho after all, especially if he’s off his pills. Does he have his pills on him, Baker? I hope you made sure of that. Else… we could be in a lot of trouble shortly… after he’s finished with his game and becomes bored again. Boredom leads to violence in this case. Believe me, I’ve seen it up close and personal when I was going out with Marion that brief bit in Gaston.”

“Sure it is,” Baker defended the idea. “He’ll, in fact, lead us right to your true love Marion Star Harding. They’re natural partners in crime — different types of partners.”

“I wondered about that for a while,” she said, scooping the artichokes off her slice. Baker knows I don’t like artichokes! she fumes internally. Yet, in his selfish manner, he ordered them anyway, not thinking about his dinner companion. So similar to Marion in that way,” she thinks. But she loves him anyhow — both of ’em, she reckons. In different ways of course. Now.

—–

Okay, I’m beside the sign Philip said he would meet me at, Marion Star Harding thinks; now I just wait. He sniffs again, his face screws up like a walnut again. Philip better hurry, though, or I’m going to catch some kind of respiratory disease just standing here so close to that cursed sea, he thinks, not being able to get the rotted egg and salt stench out of his nostrils despite breathing through his mouth once more. What horrible germs and viruses are going down in his lungs?

Meanwhile on the opposite side of town, still portal hopping Marsha “Pink” Krakow seemingly arrives on the scene in her orange VW Beetle. After a long 2 1/2 month journey we’ve finally come full circle, you and I my loyal reader. We’re ready to end it here. But first we need to get Philip and Marion beside the same sign in the same town. A phone call from the latter should do the trick.

—–

“I’m here,” Philip said to his natural partner but not his lover. “Sorry about the mistake.”

“It’s that game again,” guesses Marion correctly. Distraction, he knew.

“Yup. Sorry again. Wrong reality.”

Having circled around the village in search of the correct Aisle of Palms indicator, the orange VW pulls up in perfect synchronicity. “Get in,” she said, and, without words, they did. They’d been expecting her. Their beloved Billie Jean Kidd in yet another guise, the third and final gang member and a shapeshifter of some power. She can take the appearance of a kid, an old woman, a young lady, a dog (poodle), and last but not least, a Bug. In short, Marsha “Pink” Krakow was never in the car to begin with here.

00410614

“Check it out guys. A TILE house, ha. And, let’s see, our place should be directly behind it on the next street over if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, here we are. Home sweet home, at least for this week, maybe longer if the sandstorms don’t move in afterwards as predicted. Can’t survive here in sandstorms, at least while you’re out exploring. And it stirs up a lot of toxins in the air and water too. A week it is,” Billie Jean Kidd decided then and there on the length of their stay in this here Bombay Beach, with virtual Sandy Shores layered on top of it.

She parks the car, which means she parks herself. She gets out of the car but it disappears behind her. A kid once more, her primary shape or one she herself likes to call home. Home for home.

“TILE again, you’ll notice,” she points out to her boys, speaking about the 4 colors, red yellow green blue, on the wall inside. “Nifty — another reason I knew this was the place.”

Philip Stevor and Marion Star Harding had said very little during the short trip from the SW corner of small Bombay Beach to here, more in the center. The heart, if you will. They were still dumbfounded at the turn of events. But Marion offered this while peering inside at the cold hard floor of the ruined shack. “Shotgun.”

“Nonsense, Marion Star Harding,” she said to this. “You’ll stay here in the house with me as I truly am. You too, Philip Strevor, whatever your middle name is. I refuse to turn back into the car just so you can have some cushion to your sleep. You’ll be here… with me.”

What could they do. They laid down on each side of her, determined to get some rest for what she called an even bigger day tomorrow.

“I’ll keep watch,” she volunteered, knowing there were other toxic dangers out there besides air, water, soil. Like Billie, modern art never sleeps.

She watched a tesseract, 2 surfboards in tuxedos, and a shark with a television for a stomach pass by without incident. And in the second minute she saw even more.

00410615

“Anything, Philip?” asked Billie who was a Bug again. It was the next morning and the men, the boys, had gotten a fairly good rest during the night. And like I said, Billie didn’t need any. She counted 256 pieces of modern art that strolled or slid or lurched (etc.) down the road in front of them during the night. Fantastic — all seemingly benign. Maybe there’s hope for the town after all.

He stared at the house and the queer windmill blades affixed to the roof. “Nah, nothing.” But he was working on his coffee and had yet to wake up. Moving on…

—–

“Then how about his one? According to the Rock Star wiki, you picked up a woman injured in a wreck along the highway and delivered her to this safehouse, either dead or alive, depending how fast you got here.”

“Maybe… rings a bell?” Coffee sipped and done with, he was getting fuzzy memories now, unlike with the windmill house. Things were starting to get jogged up there. A woman, huh? he thinks, trying to picture her face, her… wounds. Belly, he sensed. Accident on the road, yes. Fellow… criminal? But then the vision faded. Moving on to the next structure…

—–

This did the trick, if not initially. Philip felt compelled to stop and get out of the car and explore this time. Marion was fine with it, since they still had to eat anyway. Billie turned from a car to a person again — transformation unseen to anyone else as far as they could tell — and all 3 walked up to the establishment’s door, Philip all the time staring around, starting to clearly see the overlap. Bombay Beach to Sandy Shores. But in his mind there were *2* bars with the same design. How’d that work?

And it is here that we *really* end our current story/photo-novel.

“Let’s let Philip go first,” suggested Billie. And she and Marion stood back and watched him enter.

“I’m remembering!” But they’d have to find another place to dine.

(to be continued)

00410616

While Billie gassed herself up at the filling station next door, Philip had a bit of a lie down in his trailer. Gas station? he started pondering while laying there. When did Bombay Beach get a gas station? Then he laughed, a way to shake the dream off. Why did I call this place *that*? he he. I mean of course Sandy Beach. Then he realized this was wrong too: Sandy *Shores*.

He suddenly thought of Ron next door; wondered what he was cooking up. Why *meth* he realized. *His* meth. As soon as he starting dwelling on drugs he was gone from her, the Bug next door fading along with memories of Billie and even Marion, although the latter lingered on a little longer. Kept calling Ron Marion when he phoned him up, checking progress on the next batch; wondered if he’d been imbibing too much of it himself because of his peculiar thoughts this afternoon.

We have, in effect, returned him to his natural environment, his original home. Philip was no more as Trevor took over. He was soon to have a new gang of 3.

straightening out the past

They’d found it at the bottom of the sea just north of the boat house where she was staying. An Anton avatar was there in the Anson sim — so close of a name it couldn’t be an accident. Spiderwebs covered this orange version of a VW Beetle but she knew it was the same. Had to be. Someone was playing Grand Theft Auto in Our Second Lyfe and it all led up to this place. Shoes inside, she recalled. Of a ruby variety. Stolen as well.

Roger Pine Ridge kept looking at the flickering white glow beneath the water that he knew was Anton. Shoes stolen; mission accomplished. Like finding the ruby slippers of Oz, he thought. Anorexia’s gonna be pissed off as hell.

He looked over at the green robed woman beside him, face harshly illuminated by the glare of the flashlight she held. Scars. “I’m just waiting for the significant other to finish up inside,” he explained from his *self named* chair.. “How about you?”

—–

Cyberpaperdoll walks out of Fae’s Boat House with 50,000 lindens in hand.

“Come on, Biker,” she said just above a whisper toward the closest Pine Ridge chair. “Time to go.”

“Don’t forgot to sign the guestbook out there!” Jim the Pirate Bartender called from within, a request they most definitely ignored while leaving.

I should have kept the name Kelp, she pondered while still staring at the pirate ship in the bay from the balcony of the big white empty house. The owner, Shippe, *must* be the same as Jim the Bastard Pirate from back in those days. Too coincidental (once more). And as Anton is likewise close to Anson, so her own chosen nickname at the time, Kelp, is to Kulp, as in Nancy Kulp as in plain Miss Jane from the “Beverly Hillbillies” TV series, replaced by similarly plain Miss Janet in Grand Theft Auto, Ski Inn bar parallel. The one who woke up Philip Strevor to who he really is.

Apparently the opposite happened to his partner-in-crime Marion Harding back in the past which may be the same as the present. From the same deck she sat on and read her book of spooky stories in the dark one year later, he dove into the sea that represents the unconscious, intent on finding the vanished auto that was his little Bug. Where did it go? Back to the beginning of this here photo-novel? Think, June Bug, think!

Then she realized: Chef-Inspector Petty would know about Anson. He was there with Baker Bloch when the original auto was found. He’d probably have records of it in his files.

Now to figure out where he ran his private dick nighttime business in Aisle of Palms. In Perch Restaurant as well? Another 2n1? So many questions, but we’re still indeed nearing the very end of the thing.

PHOTO-NOVEL 42

“Yellow Jack” shaping up (also: Conejo)

She was at the point of auditioning acts for the new bar. This one was a stand up comedian from Cork.

“What do you call a parade of rabbits hopping backwards?”

“Receding hare lines,” he answers himself after a beat. She finds that joke especially pertinent, since she copied a lot of this decor from a place named Rabbit Island.

Rabbit Island items: free to copy yourself!

“I don’t need to hear any more,” she spoke up. “You’re on the bill.”

00420314 (snow)

“Is that sup-pose to be… me? IS THAT… suppose… to be… MEEE? What’s going on here? Wh-wha–”

“Let me show you your future to explain,” I said back from beyond the 4th wall.

“Yeah okay yeah I guess I see your point I guess I see.” He shook his head. “Jack, eh?”

“Jack,” I said. And then I showed him where I took out (the) yellow.

00420315

“Hucka D., there’s no doubt that this newer and truer Aisle of Palms in the same named town is connected to our Fal Mouth Moon animation. There’s even an equivalent of Steptoe Butte there in the background if we extend our draw distance to 512 and then shorten it back to 128 and take a photo before the landscape shortens again in turn. Mount Chinhae we can call it, after the sim it is situated on the lower end of. Sacred after this I would suppose.

“Fascinating. Keep it up.”

“The bar with the red rooftop to the left, like the dart in the collage is red tipped. Tipping allowed after all in the bar.”

“Tone it down a bit,” Hucka D. requested to this. “Focus on the *obvious*. What are we looking at?”

“Jack’s bar, obviously. (Bull’s) Ear for a target (name), but we had to settle on Bar since we couldn’t get the needed lights in the ‘B’ to stop functioning and turn it into an ‘E’ — shame.”

“We’ll work on it,” said Hucka D.

“So instead the dart turns into a cigarette or cigar which may be the same as a joint. This indicates that Jack is smoking hot. Icily cold later on. After the process is finished. The ear is removed from the side of the mountain revealing Lloyd the bartender for who is really is. The fuse on the bomb is lit. The color inverted VW, yellow at the beginning, speeds on to its destined destination.”

“Boomb! Bullsear!”

“Should be,” agreed Hucka D., already hatching more plans to make it so.

“What did you just call what you did, Dragon? Bulls-*what*?”

00420316 (two straight shooters)

After he improbably made one himself (he didn’t have his glasses on for one thing) he went up to the board to take a closer look at the resulting hole. For a brief moment, he went “inside.”

“Ah, I think I see what you mean about the bullsear, Dragon. I think I see what you mean, heh.”

And then…

… Colorado to end, an enlargement from the past. ‘Nother one.

00420401 (Mr. Price)

“I-I don’t need someone t-to… guard it with his life, j-just… be around.”

“We’ll be waiting in the shadows,” his new client assured the owner of the bar. “Ready to strike when they make the wrong move. We’ll keep it clean here.”

“I like that. And if they *don’t* — they gotta pay the price.”

“Now you got it Dragon.” Points at Dragon. “Now you got it.”

—–

“So what is this magazine you brought with you today, Baker Bloch? SecuroServ? Who’s that?”

“Let’s call it a… bleed-through from another reality. One important to know about, Wheeler.”

“He’ll probably be showing up soon,” he added. “To secure… and soive — just a warning.” He picks up the magazine from the counter and hands it directly to her. “Being the manager of this here bar, I’d recommend studying up.”

00420404 (Mr Price Too)

So to bring all this together:

“The two processes across the road from each other are one. It all broils down to a chicken situation. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? This represents the art on the two sides of Grant Price Hill Rd. in Bear Lake PA, human-made and who-knows. Why does the chicken cross the road? Because he’s already on the other side. Add in Happy Town and we have the full explanation. The blurred out figure beside the canoe is Gray Man. And… he’s probably Grant Price too.”

“Or Grant Hill,” Baker tries to quip.

“Has he shown up yet at the bar? Grant Price I mean?”

“No,” answers Baker to Hucka D. “But I believe he might be in the alleyway outside.”

“Guarding the place already?”

“Maybe (!).”

actual museum this time

I wondered why these two little figures of the same person were running around a Kangerootown table under the watching eyes of two looming rabbit creatures.

Then when I found two normal sized figures of the same in a nearby fort, my interest was really piqued. The name of the object was Magnum, created by Magnum Yoshikawa, obviously a self image of sorts.

His profile picks quickly led me to this shop in Kowloon’s Gate City, one of the most notable locations in all of Our Second Lyfe. Places like this are a big reason I keep hanging around the game. 🙂

His created museum there was *big*. Then around the corner…

Ah hahaha. Mr. Price! Well, the same Real Life guy who *plays* my Grant Price who is actually called Freddy Price. You remember, the guy who guards Bull’s Bar and is now the same or has incorporated the figure of Gray Man from the LSD Dream Emulator game. I’d be insulted if you forgot *that*.

This find certainly acts as inspiration. I must locate this “Greg” avatar if possible and purchase!

Reference video here, perhaps the best one about Second Life® ever made and certainly the funniest I would imagine. And the best video by the prolific auteur Mr. Moon period as far as I’ve been able to check, the Freddy Price ones included (although they’re very very funny in stretches too).

Ticket to Hell

00420602 (rockstars)

On his days off, Grant (aka *Fred*dy) Price likes to roam the streets of Los Santos, sucking up people’s dreams to replenish needed energy for his various security assignments. This unsuspecting guy walks right into it.

Meanwhile, on another planet altogether (most say), Arthur sees horses at the end of a tunnel.

“We got a second one!” shouts Newt from beyond the 4th wall as Arthur reenters the light.

PHOTO-NOVEL 43

00430117

In this here photo-novel 43, almost certainly not the last of a series, I’ve been cobbling together images from a number of separate Our Second Life locations to make a poor poor man’s rendition of Nightsity from the Cyberpunk 2077 video game, perhaps the most realistic virtual city ever created. Probably is, minus its NPC’s, which are a little wonky acting and looking still. Not up to snuff in that way with urban areas from vaunted Rock Star games Grand Theft Auto V and Red Dead Redemption 2. But most everything else is equal or better for the newer game, the latest Grant Theft and Red Dead installments being from 2013 and 2018 respectively. Cyberpunk was released in 2020 to much fanfare but was *filled* with glitches and errors at the beginning. Well, according to recent reviews these seemed to have been essentially ironed out in subsequent updates and patches, and CD Projekt Red, the company that put out the product (also known for the Witcher video game series), says they’re basically done with the thing as of earlier this year. The dust is still settling on the finished work and people are still debating what has been created/revealed. Seems important. Seems different. A terrifying vision of the future, *our* future as a country (US of America) and of the world as a whole.

Maybe when I get a more powerful computer I can go there in person. 🙂 But in the meantime I have my small, connected collection of Our Second Lyfe substitutes and also game exploration videos found on Youtube by the likes of Daydream Gaming (who I call Daydreaming Gamer in the blog and attached photo-novel) and Mares The Martian (who I shortened to just “The Martian” in same (coming up!)). Also: Let’s Walk has some quite fascinating Youtube videos out there, including a 7 part “Walking Around the Edge of the (Cyberpunk 2077) Map” that I’ve been slowly making my way through. So a big shout out to these Youtube content creators, and also the ones making the Nightsity-ish locations in Our Second Lyfe that include Mouser Dowling’s Dystopian Night and Sektor 2, Sensory Hax’s Neuromancer 2020, and ღJennyღ (llxjenxll)’s ATP Paradise. Well done all. And I’m certainly still exploring the content from these and others.

And of course it’s Night City not Nightsity, another blog/photo-novel alteration.

One day…

00430210 (Frank (acceptance of a proposition))

“The spool table at the beginning of the section was a tip off (spool tables play a part in a number of my collages). Keep your eyes peeled.

“And so I went back and replayed moving past the ‘Horn Girls’ sign at slow speed, got the correct angle with the leany telephone pole to display the situation as best as possible.

“Then I walked near the mega-mall heading down famed Grove Street and similarly blocked out the hyphen between the two words with a palm tree: no fairies with boots around, though, ha.”

“Ha,” Lexi responded in kind to the boss, not the big boss but the boss boss still. Someone to answer to. Which she just did.

“Then I waited at the Blue Balls sculpture until it got fully dark.”

“Blue Balls. And that’s the same as Blue Moons?”

“I suppose. Then, after narrowly avoiding getting hit by a train (he forgot to look both ways before crossing the tracks), I see Redd. Standing under a streetlamp to illuminate her cause.”

“Younger version. And you say you don’t remember the encounter but Redd does. She told you about it later.”

“Yeah. She said we… well, you know.”

Lexi sighs. This had been a long day at it and it was 3:30 in the morning. Time to send Edward, her Eddie, back to the loving arms of his non-wife Shelley.

00430212

Second shift for the flying noodle kiosk seen several posts back. Night time in Nightsity. Gloria has her own way of doing things, which includes less hanging out and more work to be done. Less flying about all over the place and more being grounded and sure of herself. She dresses modestly in comparison. Ianna is such a flirt with her willy nilly flashing peace signs and all, she thinks while watching the first customer approach. Like this one. “Can I help you?” she says to Horn puppet Shelley Johnston Struthers, trying to hide the judgment in her voice about the Crazy Blue.

Nearby Edward waits patiently with the food at a different venue while Shelley retrieves her sugary drink from Gloria. She’s not happy with just unsweetened tea like her Eddie.

But this was all planned. Edwina certainly has Cokey Cola and Spriite and the like in back. Just hid that fact to Shelley, enabling her to talk to fellow operative Edward alone and compare notes on the story. 43, both knew.

“How do you think the photo-novel is going so far?” asked Edwina with the appropriate number on her cap, turned around to make it less obviously so.

“Good I suppose.” He resisted the urge to say “fair.” “I hear… we’re back in GTA V again. Fellow named Frank. A writer I think. Not a hustler this time.”

“Red book,” Edwina elaborates about the primary work involved. “Starts with Redd from Jamestown Street; works in her blue bud Page. Pages about Page too.”

“I guess we’ll see how it all unwinds.”

“I suppose we will. Look for a physical copy of the book on Mars from the future,” she added. “Red planet after all. Seek Teebestia there. Seek *Asylum.* You should leave soon. In terms of ships, take the one after 909.”

“Like Snowden, right.” He spies Shelley in the distance receiving her drink from Gloria. “Thanks for doing this, Edwina,” he said, knowing they’d probably shared enough information to get them started again. “And thanks to Gloria for being in on this too.”

“She hates the Horns as much as I do. She’ll do anything to get back at them for what they did to her sister. Have you seen Ianna? Flying all around, hanging all about. Brainwashed. Oh… here comes Shelley.”

“So that’s what happened,” said Edward quickly in a lowered tone half to himself, then turned to Shelley just entering the scene. She takes a loud sip of her Cokey Cola to show her displeasure about Edwina’s drink offerings.

“Happy?” says Edward to her as she takes a stool beside him, pulls the tray over with the two loaded cheeseburgers Edward ordered. Before the planned “incident.”

“Suppose.” An even louder sip, right in front of Edwina’s face.

—–

“Tell me some of her weaknesses,” said Gloria earlier to Edward, trying to arrange the rendezvous.

“Well… she loves sugar. Can’t do without it.”

“Bingo.”

00430214

“Yo’ don’t understand. I want dat spool table. Dat shitz my f-in’ ticket out o’ here.”

“Fool. Why the f- yo’ talkin’ all gansta n’ all today? Yo’ sound like Stinch!”

“Hey, Stinch be lowballin’ us. Lowballin’ us shizzle like da bottom feedin’ pyramid dwellers we r’.”

“Can yo’ speak a lil’ plainer, Frank. I mean, yo’re use ta me talkin’ ghetto. Yo’ have a built in translator bcuz’ o’ yo’ goddamn mutha. My f-in’ muthaz from Leeds n’ datz in f-in’ England or somethang.”

“*All* *right*. *Is* *this* *bet*-*ter*? *Can* *you* *under*-*stand* *me* *now*?” He even affects a bit of an English accent to further the switch for his hood-pal Laramie with his present Leeds mother and absent Watts father, hood in both the neighbor and child meaning back there.

“Yeah biatch, datz betta muthaf-a. Naw say what the f- yo’ gotta say.”

“You don’t understand. I want that spool table. That object is my bloody ticket out of here!”

“There yo’ go!” returned Laramie to Frank, matching excitement with excitement and glad his talk turned from murky to clear. Now they can go get that table, roll it through the streets back over to here if needed. About 100 yards, Laramie estimated in his mind. Trick is crossing 5 lane Innocence Blvd. with it. But if they can drive a car 120 mph through heavy city traffic, he figures they can pull off this. It will be fun for a change. What if the police even catch them? What are they gonna do? *Laugh*?

2 days later:

“Whoa nelly, dat mo f- a done got away from us, Frank!” CRAAAAASH!

Oh well. Better it than them, I suppose. But Frank’ll have to find another yard table in which to write his Great American Novel on. The book of Redd with all those pages about likewise hood-pal Page will have to wait a little longer to start in other words.

00430216

Fern sits down with the red book given to her by Teebestia day before yesterday’s yesterday and opens it up to the bookmark. The Martian sky was particularly rust colored today, she noted at her outdoor location, picked for privacy. Just like author Frank Lynn seeked in same before starting the work in his own backyard upon a table of not spool but it would have to do. She pulls out her knife to check the color. Yeah, she thinks, spying nothing above the handle in her hand. Definitely a rusty one. Better sheath this quick before she gets caught. Don’t want to show out a Cleveland boner, as they say. She could be president, she reminded herself. Beginning with finding the Diablo-Draco reversal in that black list of the 2 quick as a wink, unlike our friendly but dense former porn star turned nudist who was destined for a lowly one instead. The Tennessee Blue Balls sculpture in Lost Sanos is an interesting, new development, she feels — right there on page 43 and not 42 where it should be to answer all. Displaced on purpose. One after, again. Like her ship taken in here this day of mid June’s May, with unrecognized and unknown Edward Daigle only a couple of rows back, on a mission of his own. She looks down and begins to read again.

—–

I had to walk by the object basically every time I went downtown so of course I was going to start thinking about how to make it my own, what I’d do with it if it were mine. First off, it was round, not square or rectangular like most tables. I could plan my Great American Novel as a circle, like a zodiac or something. I had rough ideas. All started with Redd of course, but then worked its way around to blue (Page). Then there was the ultraviolet gap to end — how to complete the thing. The last shock.

If I could just figure out how to get it to the house, I thought at the time. Too big to get into my car. Dense head that I was, I didn’t even think about borrowing Stinch’s uncle’s cousin’s pickup truck who lives out in Grapeshot in some kind of trashy trailer park or something with a bunch of white red necks. I figured I had to roll it, but maybe that was all part of the art. Because I ended up fitting that adventure into the book as well.

(to be continued)

00430217 (moomeries)

The moment Fern realized she was in the story too.

“The 3rd ball!” she exclaimed aloud in the Martian rust and dust. “I use to work there!”

Just around the corner from the big spool, in fact. She’d witnessed that same adventure too, watched it roll by outside her windows, heard the noise of the crash. Even talked to Frank at the time, encouraged him to keep on with his writing even though he didn’t have the table he wanted. They both looked down at the jagged pieces of wood lying all about, remnants of the object. The car that hit it in front of the car wash had moved on with minimal damage. But the dream: broken. It was up to Fern to help put the pieces of his life back together, have them make sense to himself and, eventually, to others through his art. This was raw, this was a plateau of raw. In short, she planted a seed, yes. She remembers.

She arrived here in a boat.

But not that one. That one is just a collection of rocks. Art on Eve Street. By Rust of all people.

—–

When he got the vehicle home, he found he had to get rid of the extra horsepower to fit it into the garage. Oh well: there’s always the pasture out back for when he needs it. “Albert, see to, er, Wilbur if you would please,” he said to his thought-to-be faithful servant, cooking up a name on the spot while handing over the reigns. “Some place with a lot of mowable grass to munch down on.”

“Right, sir.”

“And women. Don’t forget the women.”

“Sure thing, sire.” But he was talking to the horse now.

“Well — I’ll be,” Frank Lynn said to this surprising new turn, noting the long boner he had just thinking about it. What a grand scheme that dolphin wizard in the swamplands cooked up to make him the richest person in all of GTA V on top of being its most successful novelist. “Why not go all the way?” the wizard said about the original wish, knowing he had the power to amplify and extend. A chatting stallion would be worth more than the sum of all his cars, he realized while driving his VW with the now allowable headroom into his wide if not tall garage. He’d see to that challenged dimension too soon enough.

00430303 (transparent meanings)

Augusta ponders blame and culpability. Looking at you, city council.

In the mind’s eye, Frank drives by the now empty lot after the disaster and thinks of his own emptiness, as in the past he came from. Growing up in Davis with an aunt he didn’t respect enough in retrospect. Didn’t take her woman power ways seriously enough. And now here he is desperately seeking the feminine in himself. Too much masculine: too many powerful, horse laden yellow cars and such.

Who to turn to in a crisis? Certainly not questionable tea dispensing Albert from Murkville. Should’ve screened him better before the hire.

00430304 (Page?)

“I tried to lighten the mood early in our friendship by showing him the Tire Nutz juxtaposition, Lichen, which he didn’t know about despite being local too. You’d be proud of me that day. Two big tractor tires on top of an auto repairs shop just down the street from my dealership, with a phallic water tower in back if you look at it straight on. Obviously done on purpose. Can you picture it in your mind’s eye, Lichen my partner? Do you even remember what those things look like, how they’re configured and such?”

“The tires are nuts, right,” says Lichen, serious in the moment while trying to figure all this out with her lesser brain power. “And the Blue Balls were nearby?”

“The Kentucky sculpture, yes, with three balls instead of 2, so: moons. Made by Tennessee. This was the fulfillment of her unfinished Mars project, poked through into another dimension. But Asylum was behind all of this still.”

“So we’re beyond… the Black Wall?”

“I’m not ready to go that far, my blonde buddy. It’s beyond me right now. And you know how I don’t like limitations of the mind.”

“Dangerous,” responds Lichen to this. “Keep ’em at bay with jokes.”

“Hmm.”

—–

One sector over, Clara Bellissaria is keeping tabs on tobacco selling Redd back at her station, noting that she is a 2n1 now and that the new left is different from the old right. The white horse leads, the black horse steers. Hasn’t gone off the rails yet. But soon she knew there would have to be a decision made, and Fern through her.

00430307 (1/2 mil at least)

But does he really?

He goes into his bedroom to make a call to Lester, telling him the assassination is done and that he wants his money and new house for the job. After Lester says it’s a done deal, all his personal belongings disappear before his very eyes.

“What the???”

Frank Lynn wakes up, rises off the wide if short couch he fell asleep on. 8:30 in the evening: time to get in a real bed, he figures. He has 7 king size ones to choose from now, depending on which direction he wants the sun to be when he awakens in the morning after a refreshing 8 hours, beyond just these dratted accidental “power naps” of his. Ghetto dreams, pheh. Aunt Jen can only haunt him from them on a couch like from his youth, falling asleep to “Aqua Dude Hunger Force” reruns on the boob tube or something. He’s so far above his gangster roots and Aunt Jen and her woman power ways it’s not even funny. He thinks about the wide if not high garage full of short, powerful yellow cars — horse-powerful. He runs through other aspects of his wealth and influence in his head. Asylum Inc. He *will* make it a reality.

Time to get back to the Red book colored blue. He has them all about the house to find easier. If he misplaces one, there’s always another to fill in right around the corner. Always puts him right to sleep. *No* ghetto dreams in an actual, full sized bed. Power.

00430308

“I have a weakness, Clyde. I can think wide easily enough, think about it all day long, all day and all *night* long. But I have trouble with *tall* — height.”

“Height challenged, yes,” spoke the psychiatrist back to his most famous and most wealthy client. Money to throw away on a doctor of the mind. All night and all day.

Clyde looked over at the 5’7″ Frank Lynn, soaking wet. He’d just emerged from the pool; took a quick swim to relax himself before the session. Albert didn’t have time to towel him down today, so busy he was with all the horses out back in the unmowed pasture. Dr. Clyde Ramsey came to him — house call. 2x the amount of money compared to back in his downtown office, he warned ahead of time. “No problem,” Frank replied, and they set up the 1st session. This was the 4th. This was the one where they started into the nitty and the gritty of the Martian problem, Asylum Inc. and all. This is the one where Frank revealed his big big plans for the future.

Albert came in through another door, smelling of stallions. Now Frank could get dry and gain an inch or two. Like the instant haircut he can receive from entering one of his many short cars except reversed.

00430309

“It all started with Redd, Doc. We were just sitting in my car at the time, an old Oldsmobile I believe. Some piece of junk or another Stinch talked me into buying from his uncle’s cousin up in Grapeshot. Anyway, Redd was there, telling me what she could do, the prices — kind of like you, Doc, ha. Screwing me over.”

“Yes,” said nonplussed Clyde from a nearby chair. “Go on.”

“Bj was the standard for the car, she said. Quick yet effective. The back seat and the others will be more, she indicated. I glanced in the back, realized I hadn’t cleaned off the seats from all those Burger Shot wrappers and stray fries and such. Damn Stinch and his junk food habits. You see, I’d just bought the car off his uncle’s cousin day before yesterday’s yesterday.”

“Wednesday,” Clyde clarified more for the reader than anyone.

“Yeah, suppose. Drove all the way up there with him and still had to pay 50 dollars more than what Stinch said he was asking for the old thing.”

“You mentioned Gold earlier. Color of the car?”

“Color of the *man*,” Frank Lynn corrected to his June-July-August therapist, soon to be replaced by Fremont in the Fall. “And the car. Everything gold about him, even the teeth.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Clyde. “You bought a gold car from a gold skinned man with gold for teeth.”

“Yeah. Midas kind of fellow for sure.”

“Sounds like a robot to me.”

00430311

“We’ve been controlling your dreams for a while, Fern, judging your actions and the consequences involved. We’ve been studying your tree in short.”

Fern knew to be quiet in the moment. Fern knew this was important.

“We see you’re *clearly* qualified to join our group, The Masters. What we, as a group again, aren’t sure of is if you should become president. It’s either me… or you.” He looks at the golden gun on the table. Fern wakes up.

—–

“Were any jokes involved?” asks fellow cereal eating Lichen that morning at the breakfast table, the sun rising over her right shoulder in the window behind her from Fern’s perspective, just like it did with her “rival” in the dream. Lichen’s usually twirling and swirling mouth straw kept still as the sun kept rising.

“No,” she answered. “It was all dead serious. The guy even had a skull for a head. Dead — serious.”

Lichen knew this was bad and that somehow someway she had to enter Fern’s dreams with her. A mind meld came to mind.

(to be continued)

WOW

“Do you not know me yet, Fern? I am the one you’re trying to forget.”

Fern wakes up, remembers everything.

—–

“Yellow Jack is where Philip Strevor turned back into Trevor Philips and resumed his Id role in the Grand Theft Auto game V,” explained Fern to Lichen later as the sun rose over her shoulder again. “Miss Janet was the key, and refusing to provide him service and saying he was still banned from the joint. He remembered his drug company, recalled his home in Sandy Shores. He was reassimilated, Lichen. Frank Lynn became the lead man after that, although we didn’t know it at the time. Frank Lynn, through Morro Bay, points to Nightsity. Did I explain the Morro Bay link yet?”

“I — I don’t think so, Fern.” Straw still not twirling. Still.

“But I have a new theory, Lichen my dearest,” she said, avoiding the temptation to spoon another pepper snake and mint ladder into her mouth swimming in what little was left of the now discolored milk in the bowl before her because of all the dissolved flavoring, the last of their kind. She wanted to speak as clear as a bell so that Lichen knew what was going down. “Aliens — now I believe it all points to the hippy egg camp outside of Sandy Shores and not Sandy Shores or Trevor or his trailer or business directly. A man named Night made it all — can’t be coincidence. But not with a K; with an N: the K person would not approve of equating his precious lord and savior Jesus with heretical aliens, you see.”

“I — see?”

“No, you don’t see, Lichen. But you will.”

00430313 (enter the 3rd (Mikie))

“Say again! How the f-ck we get fired?” Laramie on the phone to Frank Lynn.

“Man, it was partly all that bullshit you pulled… and partly this repo’s old man making me crash the car into the…

“… hold on, Laramie, hold on. I’m walkn’ up to the car wash where we lost the table. Gotta go pay my respects.”

Earlier that day:

“That the place?”

“Yeah, that’s the place, man. *Whoa*.”

“Drive into it. Right through the f-cking window, and fast. Or I’ll put two rounds in the back of your skull, and do it myself.”

Frank saw his life flash before him, just like he did day before yesterday’s yesterday, Wednesday I think we determined. Syncronicity, carma, call it what you like. He floors it into the object.

00430315

She came out of the dispensary beside the quick fix ganja vending machine V sipping chamomile tea and staring at the Black Star on its side and wondering how long Bowie had been dead. At least 8 years, she reckoned, maybe 8 1/2, the length of Fellini’s career up to the movie of that same title.

Her attention then shifted to the crime scene in the plaza slightly below her from this vantage point at the top of the cement steps, the heart of her po’ faux Nightsity, one of a handful I’ve found in Our Second Lyfe in the past month and a 1/2 or so. Another Blue Moon Kentucky killer victim, she gathered, 3rd this month of May’s June soon to slide into July. Should’ve shut down that so-called secret strip club behind the *sometimes* locked door weeks ago because of them, she thinks. Now another lies fallen.

Chef-inspector Petty studies the body outline and blood splatter volume and directions with rookie Dirk Bejirk, uselessly drawing a gun on the now vacant crime scene with no perpetrators in sight. Petty’s on loan from Aisle of Palms where absolutely nothing has happened since the end of the last photo-novel 2 months ago, not at the Perch restaurant in the Blue Feather complex during the day (chef 1/2 of his life), nor at the investigative agency in Cement Village at night (inspector 1/2 of his life). He’d even managed to get a proper amount of rest lately because he could now sleep on the job — both jobs — and get away with it. No more. Perch manager Percy Bidercy had to lay him off because of the lack of paying customers. The clients at the agency were also basically nonexistent. Put all this together and we have the current scene: Petty working in a different spot.

“It’s that strip club,” offered gun toting Dirk, still pointing at air. “City council should’ve shut it down weeks ago.”

“It’s not the strip club,” said Petty, defying common opinion. He gobbled another goober (peanut), trying to clear his mind of distractions. “Dirk, why don’t you go pick us up some food at that Chinese restaurant we passed on the way here. Bucket of Egg Foo Young for me. And a large Cokey Cola.”

“Shouldn’t drink sugary drinks, new boss.”

“Shut up and do the only thing you’re good for at this job. *Fetching*.” Petty kind of hated being so harsh to the rookie but tough love goes a long way. He’d know. Sgt. Petterson busted his balls enough in his early police/detective days to make them turn blue at times. Which, actually, also pertains to the current crime.

“3 Blue Moon crimes in the last several weeks,” he spoke to no one since a put-in-his-place Dirk had gone to fetch their food and drinks. He arrived on the scene for the first victim. He was just glad to get the job, glad of the income finally flowing into his bank account once more. Only after the 2nd did he start to get interested in the case itself, start to dig deeper into the facts. Then the 3rd here really took the cake. Fern arrived in “town”, also from a different dimension. Gave him information he couldn’t believe. We’re living in a simulation; none of this is real!

00430316

I occasionally come here to walk, almost always at night and most often in the rain when less people were around. Like tonight. As David Bowie following in the footsteps of John Lennon well knew, fame certainly comes with a price. No more anonimity, especially in my former hood.

Many things had changed since the 2 years I’d been gone. The old Hands On Car Wash behind Aunt Jen’s where I lost my cherished spool table was now the Crown Car Wash, taken over by big corp.

Fern’s old Foreign and Domestic car parts place across the street from it had been bought out by a neighboring business dealing with electronic circuits.

But Fern herself was still in the area; had herself bought a failing Crucial Fix Jamaican coffee shop nearby and turned it into a self named cafe, no possessive form this time. Just plain Fern — actually The Fern as I’m thinking of it. Drove by it during the day already…

… but try as I might, I couldn’t find it now in the dark and the driving rain.

Once found, I planned to spend time there with the smartest person I knew, black white or any other color. Except maybe for Stinch’s uncle’s cousin up in Grapeshot who could sell bacon to a policeman, ha. Fern’s a mentor for sure.

10:43. Better get back to the “mansion” and pick which of my 7 king size beds I’m going to sleep in tonight and pick one of those Red books to fall asleep by. Author a guy with Mars in his name — go figure. J. Marston. Could be John, could be Jack. But probably Jack, the son. I’m on chapter 4 now: ‘How to Deliver a Foal’. Fascinating reading; getting sleepy just thinking about it. Here’s my turn.

00430401 (“Alphanumerica”)

I came here…

… in a boat.

Cool! though Frank Lynn while encountering this object just beyond the edge of the faux sea and its partially sunk vessel. Maybe this is what my lost spool table has turned into. A model for a whole mountain of mystery! This made him even more excited to meet the creator.

He approached the truck not 20 yards away now that doubled as living quarters for the man both 10 and 85 at once. The one he would model, in his own manner, the character of Wayne Bruce later on. Builder of a whole city but derived from a mountain. This one.

“Mr Knight?” he called, not wanting to knock on the door or wall of the thing out of respect. “Yo, Mr. Knight. Big fan here. Just want a word if I could, dawg.”

Frank waited and waited. He heard sounds within. Someone was there (!). Being recreated as it turned out. Overt religious messages were fading from the truck as well as the mtn. behind. Everything was becoming alien oriented, JESUS, for example, being reconstructed as 6EQUJ5, “Love is Universal” turning into “Life is Universal”. Would he approve?

No. Mr. Night without the K emerged from the back, more devil than saint.

00430406 (Mt. Gordon Mysteries)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YzgnITHBHA

I’m in.

—–

In other news:

Found a rare 4-some in C2077! Hardest to see is weeing on the truck more in the background. The other 3 identical red white and blue punks are dancing up a storm in front of it with a couple of others. Happy Independence Day again I suppose!

00430407 (Wait)

“Did you check for bugs?” Fast food vendor Lana knew that Wanda didn’t mean insects in her chicken and fries. Spyware again of course. Everyone in town thought she was crazy whereas in actuality she was the only sane one amongst them. Except for Larry who’s heard it all too now (fish).

Page danced with her girl at the Dizzy Lizzy and thought about Wendy and the removal of alpha again. Gap in her knowledge, she knew. Zula might help. STOP

GO?

00430413 (The End?)

“Arroyo is a dead end,” Fern said to me through her dreams last night. “You’re going to have to swing back and forth wildly across Nightsity like a wobbly pendulum in order to approach the issue from all angles. Only then can you understand the city, but it will not be solved in this one photo-novel. Our Second Lyfe is dead.” That’s what she said. There’s no going back. She told me where to swing next. Lightning strike while crossing into Kabuki. But I can’t call it that, I suppose. Got in trouble with Arroyo from the locals. Fern already has a place there, a business, but won’t tell me specifics. Her gal pal Lichen is probably around too. And I was indicated they still have the list. Both of ’em, which are actually one of ’em. Black and White together. Here’s the strike. Took a bit of effort to catch the quick thing.

Fern is an ascended master for sure, beyond me in most ways except comedy. That part belongs to Lichen. And perhaps there we can find the spark that might kindle back my love of Our Second Lyfe. Because it’s certainly still there. Through Wendy, the third. But for now, in this post, we must acknowledge the death on some level; move on. Fern has fused with [Certain Death] on the search for the All Seeing Eye. Both share the golden gun that guides them through dream after dream after dream, like entering rooms in an endless mansion. For him, though, it started in a different game, on a highly neglected “third” summit called Gordon. Lighting strike again. We’ve seen this before.

Back to entering, err, *Kabusie*.

00430501 (Island Boy)

He came here…

… in a boat. He was looking for someone. A woman both 3 and 1. Is this truly the right location? But the lightning strike knows, he remembers.

Into the setting sun he continues. Like a caboose on a train going round a dark mountain it is, soon to disappear out of man’s sight only to emerge the next day. Roundabout. 8 sided even, like the I Ching. The endless revolution of black vs. white. Lists. Into Liszt. We continue…

00430505 (they only come out at night)

From the rail, she looks at the car submerged in the small pool of water in the ditch section of Kabusie, then she looks at the cat on the container at the shore. “Philip,” she calls over to it and not the car, because the Philip within the body of the car’s driver was no more. No response from the feline. “Phil. Phillie.” Nothing. Fern concludes that the action which could have occurred must not have happened. Transfer of man into cat. Just before the drowning. She drops the list as she was suppose to do and moves on. She knows the camera will record everything, and that the piece of paper will be in the hands of the doll people soon enough. Robot dolls.

(to be continued)

00430510

She recognized him while he passed her on the mean streets of her beat, apparently holding an invisible phone. “Hey, you’re Frank’s friend,” she said to him, making him stop in his tracks. “The, what was it. Bank robber.”

He spun ’round, approached her aggressively. “How the hell do you know– about *that*” He was upon her, poked a finger into her exposed cleavage with the emphasized word.

“Relax, baby doll,” she said, playfully swatting the appendage away. “Soon the world will know. He’s writing a book about it. *Mikie*.”

No one had called him that since he was a kid. And lived. He instinctively pulled out a gun, trained it on her head. “Listen lady of the night, whoever you are–”

“I already told you,” she cooed. “I’m Frank’s friend.”

“*No*. You said *I* was Frank’s friend. And that you recognized me. And that I robbed banks for a living.”

“Simmer down simmer down.” She approached him this time, grasped the gun, gently lowered it to his midsection and slowly let go. “Men always acting through their penises mm mm mm.” Her head came close to his; she licked her lips a bit. “I didn’t say *banks*. I said bank. As in North Yankton. Or as Frank decided to call it in his infinite wisdom, Yankton. Just Yankton. No North.” Her mouth was about 3 inches from his, ruby red like her hair, her dress. “But it’s easy enough to translate. And then look up.”

Mikie backed away, shook his head, got animated with his hands, one of which still held that pistol but perhaps also invisible by this point. “You — don’t know what you’re talk about, lady–”

“Redd,” she inserted.

“W-what?”

“My name is Redd.”

He looked her over again, noted all the red. “Okay whatever. But you’re talking crazy lady. Frank doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And, you say, he’s putting this in a *book*?”

“Yeah. Chapter One. How my best friend and mentor Mikie Wikie robbed a bank in Yankton and then died but came back to life. Like Jesus. Are you… Jesus?” She cocked her head knowingly. “You still gonna shoot me… Jesus?” She took out a cigarette from her purse, lit it up, puffed. “Last cigarette, then.” She let out smoke. “Give me some time — Virginia Slim, you see,” she said about the brand, known for its longness as well as flavor and lasting power. She puffed and puffed while he just gawked; finally put away the pistol back in his pocket.

He woke up.

—–

He called his new-ish friend and protege after he got good and awake. “Hey. Listen, er, Frank. You’re not writing some kind of book or something by chance, are you?”

00430511 (racist, sexist, stupid)

Oh no Phil’s dead!

Or is he?

We’re burning the only book that can possibly maybe give us some definitive and/or quasi-definitive answers.

Good work “modern” society!

00430512

He actually turned the other cheek after I verbally abused him. When did monkeys, representing animals in general in this scenario, become more dignified than humans?

Knowing Fern performs before the green screen again while pal Frank Lynn observes.

‘Phil. Phillie,” she calls again from the rail.

“And *cut*,” the director directed. “Anyone got any rock cocaine because that was *brilliant*.”

00430614

It happened shortly after the rain started, probably after the first thunderclap. “What’s that, boy? Timmy’s fallen down a well and can’t get out but never mind that now and more important matters are pressing?” Frank repeated after his talking dog (in his head, for now). “Well, lead on!” he said.

The rain had stopped and it had gotten light when they came to this upside down guy with his parachute stuck in a tree down a nearby dirt road. A man from Tennessee, he claimed. No, a man *named* Tennessee, let’s change it. So the Blue Balls/Blue Moons sculptor is actually a man and not a woman as presumed. But what’s he doing in this tree, dropped down from the sky? Helicopter? Better cut him down so we can ask more questions.

Back on the ground, Frank told him that he had Chomp to thank for his rescue. But in turning around to find the dog — nothing. Frank didn’t own a dog, never had never will. And then the parachutist was gone too; Frank Lynn had apparently hallucinated the whole scenario. No more graytop mushrooms! he swore off then and there.

—–

But he eventually couldn’t resist — Mikie talked him into it I believe. This caused the second manifestation of the dog in another thunderclap during another thunderstorm, all part of it too. He was wetter and blacker this time, Frank noted through the gray-ish haze. “What’s that, boy?” he began to talk to the mutt again in his head. “Timmy remains trapped down in that well but there’s still more important matters to deal with tonight down at the damn, er, dam?”

So he followed the dog again down a different road this time to, as it turns out, the Petrochemistry Dam in a whole ‘nother game. The same guy was in trouble once more.

“Tennessee– if that’s your real name. What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s perfectly fine,” he said, teetering on the edge of death. “I just have to finish what the tree stopped before. The parachute opened by accident. I never intended to be saved.”

“Man that’s crazy. Get down from there!”

“Too late! AAAAAAAAHHHH!”

Muttering about him being a damn (dam?) fool, Frank Lynn rushed to the bottom….

… only to find someone totally different lying in the blood tainted stream there. Somehow someway, Tennessee had switched over to Kentucky in the free fall. Then everything disappeared just like before. He had Clyde on the phone in no time to schedule an emergency session, but his therapist had bad news too. He was changing jobs and moving. In the fall. No bookings before then. This is when Fremont came into his life. And Rutherford B. Hayes became the first president of our US of A to never be president. Triumvirate.

—-

“Go see Jonny Silverhhand to end this thing,” spoke Blue Moon to me when she popped up good as new over at the Kabusie roundabout marketplace after about 3 days we’ll say. “Just around the ‘corner’ — you can’t miss him.” And then she came to me and pecked a kiss on my cheek before walking away, saving the best for later.

00430701

“Hey, where’d you get that t-shirt, Frank?”

“I got it from–”

“HEY guys, what’s up? What’s next? Rob a bank? Steal some jewels? Beat some alien loving hippie to a bloody messy pulp, ha ha? Just kidd’n guys. I love you two. Big fan actually.”

Frank Lynn couldn’t look. “Jeez, Mikie, I thought you said he was *dead.*”

“Well. Apparently not. Hi Trevor.”

“*Strevor* to you. Philip Strevor.”

“Of course, *Mr.* Strevor.”

“Seriously. I’m not… me. I was acting all the time. You knew that, right? You knew that all along?”

“Riiight,” both said almost at once, then stare at each other, a tiny bit of doubt creeping in because of the book. “Strevor, you say?” said Mikie, taking him in again. Seemed like the same old psychopathic idiot on the surface. Tattoos checked out, shirt, pants, shoes, hair, crazy wild look on his face. Always looking for trouble this one.

“Not Trevor,” Philip Strevor repeated anyway. “No need to be killed off. I’m from a different game.”

“Well what f-ing game is *that*?” issued Frank, fed up with this fiction already. He’d written the character off in his novel. This is his novel. How the heck did a character manipulate his own storyline?

“Um, I don’t know right off. Something about second. Another life maybe. Second life, I suppose.”

“Alternate life, right right,” said Mikie. “Convenient name, then, just your real one kind of reversed.” He stood up more defiantly. “So tell us about yourself. Strevor.”

Philip walked up to him. They were almost chest to chest. He resisted the urge to poke Mikie’s bulging bosom with his finger. That would be a Trevor move. He’s not Trevor, as stated.

“Okay okay,” he tries, backing off a bit. “I was part of a gang. Like us three. I mean, if I was *Trevor*. Guy named Marion.”

“Um hm,” said Mikie. “Like *Maid* Marion?”

“Um, kind of like that yeah. Except a man. Then there was little Heidi but don’t let the size fool ya. She was a woman through and through as we found out later. Shapeshifter.”

“Shapeshifter huh? Got it. And tell me about these… shapes.”

“Well,” Philip said, looking down, trying to recount them all. “There’s the woman, like I said. The *wife*. And, uh, the older woman, the mother I think we called her. Then the girl, the little woman. Then the *dog*.”

“Dog?” questioned Frank, resisting the urge to run over and smack him, hoping he’d disappear again with the action. Never returned — remained deceased. “What’re you talking about Trevor?”

“*Strevor*” he repeated. “Strevor Phillips, I mean, Philip Strevor, pheh.”

“What kind of dog, fool? Not that I’m believing any of this.”

“Oh, I don’t know. A black one. Maybe a white one. Little… littler than the girl. But not by much. *Not* a poodle. I remember that much.” He looked around, as if the answer was physical and in the immediate area. Was he looking for the dog? Frank thought. Like the dog appeared to *him*?

“What you looking around for, boss?”

“What did you just call me, huh? HUH?”

“Boss… hoss. Just a name.”

“Oh it’s much more than that.” Then he began to whistle loudly, like calling for one.

“Oh come on, Frank. Let’s get out of here and let *Trevor* finish his trip, whatever he’s on, mushrooms I’d say by the size of his pupils.”

Frank remembers his last mushroom trip. The last time he saw the dog. “Listen, Mikie. I know this sounds crazy. But… I’m starting to *believe* this fool. I don’t think this is Trevor!”

“Say whaaaat?”

00430702

So they took him back to Fern’s restaurant, opened almost two years ago. Took a booth in the rear for more private talk. Fern and store manager Lichen weren’t around, having remained in Washington state to explore another lead. Another Soo(e)s waterway had been uncovered, the more correct one as it turned out. And at the conjunction of it and tributary Kabusie Ck., they’d found their Inner Place with the Indians. I’m not sure if they’ll ever get back.

“Soo. Tell me *exactly* how you got here… arrived in this world? I can’t believe I’m asking this,” Mikie said, shaking his head.

“Weellll, I went into the Yellow Jack. You know the joint below Sandy Shores, kind of near the alien…”

“For Pete’s sake, we *know* where the Yellow Jack is, Trevor.”

“Strevor. Philip Strevor,” he repeated once again.

“So you walked into the Yellow Jack, yeah,” questioned more convinced Frank. “Then what?”

“Well, Miss Janet, you guys know Miss Janet I assume.”

“Of course we know Miss Janet, Trevor,” said Mikie. “She’s the one who set us up with Grant Price. For protection that time.”

“Well. She told me who I was. In this world. I mean, she didn’t *tell* me tell me. But just by her words.”

“*What* words?” asked Mikie.

“Well, she said I was still banned.” He leaned back squeakily in his vinyl booth seat. “And that did it.” Suddenly Strevor was fading. Trevor was finally returning, coming down from the mushrooms. “And then I was…”

“Trevor,” guessed Mikie.

“Yeah.” He looked at each one, as if he hadn’t seen them all night. “Trevor.”

He was back.

They went out of the building and turned around. Fern’s restaurant was gone. The old Crucial Fix coffee shop had reappeared in its place, alternate history erased. Fern was never in this reality, nor gal pal Lichen. We can move on to another story in another place.

00430703

“Never forget. Our purpose is to secure and serve (soive), brothers and sisters. We’ve closed a portal but opened a dimension jumper. Be strong in our quest. Remember to sign and endorse your checks. Because coffee is more important than food itself because it provides food for thought. I’ve gone on long enough. I’ve provided you with enough clues to start your own search for the truth. Don’t listen to just me. Listen to your own thoughts, your own beliefs on the subject matter. Draw your own conclusions. Use the brain you were given. Rock* demands it, the Gods of the God himself or herself or itself. Anyway, good luck seekers. Baker B. outta here.”

END OF “SUNKLANDS 2024 MIDDLE”!

PHOTO-NOVEL 44

00440101 (the return of Strevor, Philip)

“Damn cube, OW! Why do they have to be so many damn cubes in my dreams lately, pheh.”

“Ow ow… ow. F-cking toe.”

“Hmm. Looks like Franklin was wrong. Nothing here, huh. Dead end. Nothing left to do but wake up.” He relieves himself on the canal wall even though he’s underwater. Then, getting down to the business at hand, starts slapping himself. Takes a while, but he enjoys it all the same.

—–

“Why is your face so red, dawg? You get slapped up by a woman or something? Speaking of which…”

—–

“Where’re we going Franklin?” he said, looking back at the coffee shop from whence they came.

“You’ll see. Just down the block.”

—–

“Are *these* your damn cubes or something? We were just here Tuesday after all. You were complaining about the art, and how simple it was and that you could knock up something like that — your words — after 12 beers and one hand tied behind your back. ‘No,’ you said. ‘Make that two. 2 beers and *12* hands,’ you tried to joke, but you were already pretty drunk at the time. Should have been drinking coffee back then too. Or eating… something.”

“I-I don’t know,” he said about Franklin’s theory about the cubes and the dreams, then looked around, actually still in a dream… something. “Hey, where’s Mike? Did we ditch Mike somewhere?”

“Dawg, where’s Mike??”

“That’s what I’m asking *you*. Dawg.”

“Mike!” Franklin calls in one of the bushes around the big red cubes. “Mii-ke.”

“Well he’s not in *there* for Christ sake. He’s not missin–” Trevor stops. He remembers… an S. An S in a bush. Flaming (SWITCH).

Part 2: Mikie, not Mike

That night he goes back to the dead end canal ditch and sees something after hitting his toe once more on that in-the-way big goddamn cube, ow ow ow! 1st monkey mosaic. “Frank Lynn was *right*!” he said before starting to slap himself red again.

00440102

“So we’ve gathered here at the cubes to save the planet. Are you with me?! Okay, great,” he said, listening to the enthusiastic response of his small group. “Cause if *not* we’d have to kill you because you’d be a continued *whore* to this world, equal or worse to those litterbugs down at Burger Shot. Am I right?!” More enthusiasm; no one dare let up. “So let’s move just down the street a bit and go clobber us some litterbugs, fellow planetarians!”

What planet actually *is* this? she thought while putting down the futuristic book in a pause. Uranus somehow came to mind, maybe because of this so called superhero’s blue face color, she rationalized. Such a funny name. The discoverer must have known it would be the, ahem, *butt* of a 1000 jokes down through the years. Been almost 65 years since its discovery, she knew. She intuited on the spot that we’re about due for another one. So this puts the year at 1845 or so. Handy to understand.

Claude stared at her with a bottle in front of me, she thought. Better than a frontal lobotomy, she completed the joke from that old sea shanty, carried to land locked Tousaint by roaming rug merchants long ago. Just had to develop some feet. “Claude, bring your keister and your bottle over here and make yourself useful for a change,” she said to her admirer since Tuesday. “I have a question for you.” Claude was good with geomancy and astrology, she knew, so probably also geography and astronomy, their more modern, more mundane counterparts. “Come here and sit down beside me.” She didn’t sit up to give him more room. He’d have to perch on the very end of the bench she lay upon like a useful big talking bird in the moment. Control.

“So, *first* off, what planet are *we* on?” she said as he wiggled about on his cramped little spot, too close to her head with its puffy bonnet hat for any real comfort, physical or psychological. “I have to get my bearings here before I can grasp another one. Futuristic writing is *confusing*.”

The question certainly came as a surprise to the man, learned in so many ways if not comedy. “Well,” he started, thinking of history more than astronomy or even geography, “we live, let’s see, on the world of the great North-South conflict. To the North are an assortment of many republics, led by Reddania, Kaed–.”

“*No*,” she interrupted Claude. “I mean, what’s the name of the *planet* we’re on, not the names of the lands of that planet. I know what you’re talking about here. I’m an educated woman — can read and such as you can see.” She holds up the futuristic book to his nearby face, returns it to the bench. “Don’t treat me like some kind of doofus, pheh.”

“Right, mum,” he quickly responded, still hoping for that date to come out of their conversation. If he steers it well. “Well, as you know, we have the Sun of course, then the Moon… of course. Then about 75 years ago–”

“*65*, Claude.”

“Beg pardon?”

“65 years ago. You were going to say we discovered Uranus and the known Universe expanded quite a bit. The blue planet. We know this from our more powerful binoculars and monoculars. Yes, I know about the Sun, the Moon, Uranus. But what is *this* planet? I repeat for your ears. Think about it before answering.” She became somewhat more seductive in her laying pose, or at least tried — hand on hip I believe.

“Well,” he said more carefully, glancing over at the head, the body, those hips (a celestial object herself, he considers). “We know that the Sun, the Moon… Uranus, are *spheres*.”

“Okay,” she said expectantly. Don’t go weak on me, Claude, she thinks. I haven’t had a man in weeks.

“So logically you would think we’d deduce that we too, us Touisanters and all the rest, live on a sphere as well. But this isn’t so, dear lady. Scientists — you know, the geographers and the astronomers that counter the fantastical studies of geomancy and astrology–”

“Just thinking about that,” issued, er, forgot to give her a name! Let’s call her Miss S.

“Well, *they* think we actually live on a cube. Not a sphere. Have you… heard that… theory?” Would she make fun of him again? If so, she’s making fun of the scientific community he considers himself on the fringe of as well.

“Cube,” she considered, turning around the word in her head, examining each side. “And, let me guess, the *known* world only exists on one of its sides, the Northern and Southern countries you started listing out before.”

“That’s right, mum.” He points to the east from their bench. “And beyond the Blue-ish Mountains over there lies another *side*, the start of one.” He points west. “And beyond the Grand Sea lies another — we haven’t been out there either, as a people I mean, or at least returned with any real, useful information. And to the north and the south — more sides. And then the back–”

“Dark side,” interrupts Miss S again. “Our opposite.”

“Correct. So that would explain the monsters. We’re a lighted side surrounded on all sides by chaos coming from this back. The theory’s all the rage in scientific publications like the Long Lane Journal, the Redd–.

“STOP, listing things,” she barked. She’d had enough information. Time to shoo this bird away, too bird brained for a love interest. Cube PFIFF, she fumed. Not a sphere. The idiocy of these *men*.

(to be continued)

00440104 (where?)

I picked him as my next NPC to follow because he was red and thus easier to spot, I figured. On my motorcycle, I hid in the flowering bushes, stifling the urge to sneeze while watching his every move. I thought of red striped shirt wearing Waldo who’s always hiding in those famous puzzle pictures, except the shoe’s on the other foot here since I wasn’t wearing red. Red shoes too, I suppose (he checks his feet). Hard to tell from this distance.

He was on the move again and so was I. I looked around for just a second…

… and he was gone! Disappeared as if into the proverbial thin air.

My determination from the overall study: NPCs, even the ones that stick out like a sore thumb, are ultimately impossible to follow in Lost Sanos. They just eventually make themselves… lost.

00440112

I’ve seen this band before. On Corsica. Group called Red Eye. Play King Crimson covers and who knows else. Genesis I believe here. Or is it Jethro Tull? Gentle Giant? Anyway, to the main part of the post…

Cpt. Planetary scanned his world map for signs of trouble. All quiet on the western front. And eastern… and northern and southern, sides. Yes he has time now for Our Second Lyfe, saving that world as well.

But first, the business of Burger Shot in yet another virtual world, one of many we’re involved in now.

Aeriel drives past the scene, curious about the protesters indeed. “Just down the street a bit” uttered by Cpt. Planetary to his small group of loyalists toward the beginning of this here photo-novel turned out to be moving from present back into the past, V to III or IV to be more specific. But Aeriel is involved in her own adventure tonight. Heading toward the Big Ear of Bone Country and seeing if the Horns were back on the radar, one or maybe even both of them this time around.

There. In the distance. Listening.

(to be continued)

00440113

Hmm. What is actually being protested here? Back to Big Ear, where the same has arrived…

… with a lab coat gifted by a giant, green eyed turtle, complaints successful. Mission accomplished; well done. No sexualizing the cat-like aliens.

No one here yet. We just wait. Patience. She definitely has a bone to pick with these two lowlifes. Good to calm herself first with some vapors I suppose.

00440207

I was almost halfway through my tour of the vineyard when I spotted it crazily dangling above an attached plant.

Then less than a minute later the plane crashed, BOOOM!

I rushed to the scene…

… only to find an empty cockpit bent up like an old tin can. But where was the pilot? I scanned the grounds from my position for signs of a parachute. None spotted.

Then I went back to the main house and found this tile thingy and knew one was somehow related to the other. Channeling, I realized later. Because I wasn’t the only one who’d made the association. More on that soon.

Despite the oddities, I decided to finished exploring the vineyard to complete my video. “How about that plane crash, huh?” I asked a passing worker in an upper field.

“Happens all the time,” he responded in a Hispanic accent without stopping, surprising me. Initially. Then I followed this up with, “And the vine!” as he was walking away, stopping him in his tracks.

He reversed course, venom in his eyes. “What — do you know — about *Viney*?”

00440208

Still no sign of the parachute even from this rooftop position, *sigh*. And what about that Viney obsessed fellow, huh? Turns out it wasn’t hate in his eyes as he approached me again, just fiery, passionate interest. Investigator of the paranormal. Just like…

00440209 (down from the rooftop)

Something to do with the plane, something to do with the vine, she thought parallel to the other investigator, the one who works more during the day. This one prefers night, when the NPCs are all asleep and silent and away from their normal routines. Silent night. Like the Hispanic worker also with an interest in “Viney”. Is that the actual name for the thing? Can it *talk*? Questions like these haunt her nights more than actual sightings of oddities fer sure.

This day was different. Special indeed. 25. “What are you doing at my house?” the man who looked like Santa calmly asked but ready for action if needed. As always.

“I-investigating, sir,” she managed through the shakiness. Came right up on her without a sound! Stealthy, she quickly determined. Cat-like.

“Investigating *what*?” Still calm. He spread his arms, indicating the whole manor. “We make wine. No mysteries here.” But there was a slyness to his voice.

“Th-there’s rumors… sir… of a monster about here,” she came up with off the top of her head.

“Monster?” Eyebrows raised again in disbelief, but with that wry smile. He stood his ground, waiting for more. Nonthreatening, but Stacey (Stacey?) knew he could pounce in a flash anyway. The tiles, she realized. She could make something up about the tiles. He probably saw her shine her light on them from this distance. So she said this, connecting them with patterns. Patterns of monsters.

“Ahh, that old thing,” he seemed to dismiss. “You’re not the *only* one. And won’t be the last one. But I’m surprised you didn’t mention the flying machine that collided with the field at precisely 3 o’clock,” he said in his cunning way. “Or the other thing.”

“Flying machine?” she offered, ignoring the second for the moment. “The plane you mean?”

“Yes, I’ve heard it called that. By the others.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully, as if thinking back to prior conversations with them. “Tin can too.” He shuffles his feet, reorienting himself. “Do you know what that means?”

Tin can — airplane, she thought. But all that came to mind is that old David Bowie song about space and its own set of oddities. Which was actually correct.

“Nothing?” he asked, eyebrows raised and arms spread at once.

“Nothing,” she admitted.

(to be continued)

00440210

“Since you’re so curious, um…”

“Stacey,” I said.

“Since you’re so curious… Stacey,” he began again, adding my name, “I want to take you somewhere.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking I had no other choice. I was trespassing on his land after all. And he was so much, er, bigger than me. And even more, I think, remembering the stealthiness.

“Up in the fields,” he continued. “Won’t take a minute to reach. An object, invisible to my touch but not to a certain set of others. I know you know about the plane, the *vine* — I saw you in the lower field flashing your light at the thing.” Your confounded, bright light, he thought but kept to himself. And your blasted crunchy boots. Nights are for silence!

“I’m with you, sir.”

“Great. Give me one second.” And he went into a nearby lavatory to stuff his ears full of cotton before proceeding.

(to be continued)

00440212

“I am glad the snow has melted overnight so that we can see better what is going on up here in the upper fields. So the… object appeared several days back between rows 7 and 8 there so I’ve been waiting for something to show up. This time, the flying machine with the whirly top.”

“A helicopter,” I offered, crouching by his side behind nearby row 5, looking down on it and hopefully out of sight. We’d been waiting all night, but since I changed from woman to man at dusk I wasn’t so threatened by him. Tough stretches in the night, though. The guy was frisky! “Sometimes called a chopper,” I added.

“Chopper?” He seemed surprised at the variant name.

“Yeah, you know. Chop chop chop chop chop,” I illustrated. “Like the sound it makes. Chop chop chop chop chop,” I repeated.

“I have a dog named Chomp,” he said in his intuitive, associative way. “I wonder if it’s related?”

“Chomp could be derived from Chop I suppose,” I said, playing along.

“Yes,” he said, raising his head to the approaching chopper. “Yes I think it is. I’m *remembering*.”

The helicopter landed just outside the field and a man jumped out…

… and ran toward the metallic silver object…

… making it disappear when reaching it.

“Ahh, the smart dressed pale man,” he said just above the noise of the still spinning blades, trying to control his anger. Thank Gods for the wads of cotton! “There’s three of them. This one, the sloppily dressed pale man with the wild look about his face — another monster, I sense — and then the dark man who dresses neutrally between the two. Can you hear me over the noise?”

I nodded; he continued.

“Any of them could show up in several modes of transport. There’s helicopter — chopper — today. There’s 4 wheeled machines other days, 2 wheeled machines other days, but… never one of your planes. The plane is separate. This doesn’t seem connected to that. This is an upper field event and that is in one of the lower fields, along with Viney. Although both often appear at 3 o’clock, PM here obviously.”

I checked my watch not on my arm. 3:01. Task apparently accomplished, the smart dressed pale man, as he put it, got back into the helicopter and took off northward, I noticed. Toward the swamplands.

“Well,” he said, standing up from his crouching position, noise abating (relief!). “Show’s over. The object does not return for days, sometimes weeks or even months. This inevitably attracts the machines when it does. And the men. Do you understand what happened?”

“Kind of,” I said, knowing I actually understood little.

“They’re building something. I know it. Something beyond mere ground and aerial machines. Something different. He turned his head toward me. My, er, half-cat senses tell me this,” he tried to explain the sensation, showing me his slitted eyes. “Half alien, actually.”

“Um hmm.”

“You look tired. I’ll let you get back to your kind.”

“Thank you.” Not captive, phew!

“One more thing before you leave if you don’t mind. I’ll even let you take a replica home with you. I’ll be needing your future knowledge in the future, I’m picking up. With your permission of course.”

“Who are you?” I asked, meeting a lot of strange characters online but this one taking the cake. So realistic, so believable. Indeed I needed a rest after all this weirdness.

“Call me Gerald,” he said, finally revealing his own name. We started back down the hill toward his house for that “one more thing.”

(to be continued)

00440213 (head’n south)

She started talking about Musket as a frigg’n genius and a red flag was raised for the first real time in the 2+ hour long video. She began to round herself out where I could see the other side, the dark one we all have; made her human beyond a whitewashed brainiac — fair deal. She then talked about the merger of technology and anatomy and told Musket to “go for it” with his related, controversial projects because it was going to happen anyway. This reminded me of all the Cyberpunk 2077 body modifications, like eye replacements (thanks a lot Blue Moon!). Musket is a genius but really only as a businessman and self-promoter, sort of like the Big Orange one he also hails, self reflecting self. Couldn’t this be a frigg’n warning from a game envisioning a dystopian future? Girlfriend Grimes is there. Grimes is the key. Musician.

But what is the warning? one might ask. What’s wrong with *worshiping technology*?

Let’s drop the cubes on the square to end.

00440303 (Debbie’s commute 02 of 02 (slooow internet))

Bruised and battered, I’m almost there… FREEZE.

… But not quite.

“Old piece of shit!” a punk driver shouted through the window at me as I drive through Little Seoul in the middle of my journey, stating the obvious.

“Hell-looooo!” I shouted back, then wondered why. FREEZE (Dammit!).

I made the rest of my commute quieter, with streets empty now. It seemed to be the safest way to return home. No freeze.

(to be continued?)

00440307 (in on the way)

On her way to work, Debbie drives past the old location of The Fern restaurant, lamenting its absence. Now a Crucial Fix coffee shop, still cool but not the same. She especially loved talking Plastic Cutlery with the owner Fern Stalin, a common love interest. Fern dated Plastic in the 00s and Debbie went out with Mr. Cutlery in the 10s. She wondered whatever happened to him. And her.

Later, walking back to the parking deck on her way home, Debbie wondered about the likewise missing Middle of the law firm Slaughter Slaughter and Slaughter, Upper and Lower still around. She makes a mental note to check up on that too.

(to be continued)

00440415

Waldo indicates downtown Lost Sanos in the distance where he soon plans to get lost to continue the game, even though he’ll be redder at the time. Not sure why there’re 2 downtowns here, though, to be honest. Have to study.

In other recent Google Earth Street View news while we’re talking about it: feet again.

Giant Foot

Just One Each

Or should I say Google Earth Feet View in these cases?

00440506

Q: Tell us a little about yourself. And how you got involved in the Mysteries.

A: Well, my name is ~~Tom Morrow~~ Jack Shepherde, and, yes, that’s like the LOST guy. Except with an extra e at the end, the 9 naturally leading from the 3 and the 6.

Q: Cool.

A: Yeah, that’s part of the Mysteries too as it turns out.

Q: Nice.

A: So, you know, I came up here to the vineyard because I like the nice view from the hills. Figured I could, er, practice my video techniques in this cool setting.

Q: Nifty.

A: And then people, you know, my online GTA buddies, told me about the vine and that I should check it out. So I did. Just over there (he points). You can just insert that picture I took here if you wish.

Q: I will.

A: And, um, as you can see from this next photo — please insert again — I also found out that the vine glows at night, which my friends *didn’t* tell me about.

Then I found the ring nearby which was *also* glowing; just down there on a, um, culvert at the bottom of the vineyard (he points again).

Q: Tell us more about the ring.

A: Well, er, I connected it — eventually — to a marriage, like as in a marriage that took place at the vineyard. That was the symbolism that Rock* put in here. Or at least that’s what everyone — my friends again, my online chooms — were telling me. Then I started to have my doubts. I started thinking that the marriage in the vineyard was *my* marriage, as if I was the one getting married here. But not to someone else as in a human — not really. Instead: to the vineyard itself, the wine and so forth. And, ahem, Viney.

Q: Viney?

A: Ah, you know. (he lowers his voice as if this is just a secret between me and him) The vine.

(to be continued)

00440507

He was wealthy beyond anything he could have dreamed of now but he couldn’t help but keep thinking of his humble origins in that vineyard over in the hills north of Lost Sanos, before he became, as it were, LOST in the hustle and bustle of the city’s mean streets. Capitalism, greed took over. Lust for power. Money. A simple video editor of GTA V he was back then. First camera. Couldn’t even figure out how to add his own speech in for the longest time. But then the talking started, and it never ended. Deal after deal after deal, making his way to the top of the pyramid, stepping on the heads of his competitors along the way. Smushing down everything beneath him that needed to be dealt with in his path like accrued sedimentary layers of mud and preserved skeletons. He didn’t feel like he was standing on the shoulders of giants to get to this point. He *was* the giant, towering above the land of man, tall as Atlas. A man and also a whole world. In his head. He could see the circumference, could navigate the surface like a modern day Magellan to all ports of call here there and there to collect favors, debts, even bribes if necessary to keep the collective going forward. But more and more lately he yearned for that old, delicious glass of Pinot noir, his favorite, while staring into the tiled fountain from his favorite seat on the patio, and wondering how to actually produce sound from his lips. Ah, the good old days.

If only he could find his fountain pens he could write down the halcyon beginnings, but big bucks blocked the way once more in the form of an attache case full of dough here, lid raised so he could gaze in on his most recently acquired booty. And he also wondered why he converted his laptop into such.

“Gertrude!” he called on the intercom to his underling secretary, one of the beaten down, one of the ones trying to escape the pressure of the city and return to country origins in her own northern arcadia of the early 20th Century, Morro Bay I believe it is called, a place Jack also knew about; where they met, actually. “Bring me a computer in here pronto and, let’s see, let’s make it a 62 inch monitor this time.” Big screen needed for a big view of the world, he rationalized. His world. F- the pens, f- the fountain, *f-* the vineyard. His thoughts had returned to the normal ones.

—-

“Do you want me to remove the attache case to make more room for you?” she asked after bringing it in and setting it up, gazing down on his now even more crowded desk and also wondering why he converted his laptop into such.

“No I’m not finished staring at it,” he said brusquely, barely acknowledging her presence all the time. Return to normal as I said. She left without words.

00440508

“My first real gig as an owner of a business actually came through the vineyard. I bought out the O’Neill Brother’s crop dusting business when 2/3rds of them died in that unfortunate fire which destroyed their family home, including the only 2 of the 3 who could actually fly a plane. Like me. Only later did I learn the true culprit behind the tragedy.”

“So… you knew how to fly a plane?”

“Yeah. Learned it from my 2 uncles growing up in Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it? Anyway, Martha — the owner of the vineyard at the time — said to come by every week to douse the vines with a special herbal pesticide she concocted herself, just like those O’Neill brothers did before me, and be sure to leave by 3, or else take a break at 2:45 and don’t resume until 3:15. Else — and the first time she mentioned this she made a throat slitting gesture with her hand and mouth, which of course I took as death. 3 o’clock — death; keep that in mind. But at the time I just took all of this as part of the peculiarities of the old woman and didn’t believe the stuff she was telling me. After all, she had a special recipe for pesticides, you see — a weird-o. But I still didn’t fly at 3. No use taking any chances, I figured. She later revealed that 3 o’clock at night would be bad for me too but didn’t mention it at first because she knew I’d only fly the plane during the day.”

“Why did you call yourself Jack Sheepe in those days?” he asked, thinking of the hanger and its sign. “Instead of Jack Shepherde, like you are now — like the LOST guy? But, let me guess: because you view yourself as a *leader* now, and not a follower. You changed the name to show this.”

“Correct. Do you even need me here? Sounds like you could have done this interview by yourself (!).”

“No, I need you here,” he says with no humor. “Now. Let’s talk about the move to the big city, how that came about.”

“First there was a detour. Through Christianity.”

00440509 (LOST no more)

“Eat Jack Sheepe power you loser!”

—–

“When I started mowing down pedestrians with my souped up riding lawn mower made from discarded plane parts, I knew I had to change or else face the consequences, like felony charges. That’s when I decided to become a leader rather than a follower. Else the pent up anger would keep resurfacing. I had to find my true potential.”

“Good, Jack. Good to get this out. We’re making so much progress today.”

“Well thanks, Clyde. Nice to see my big bucks I’m forking out to you are finally paying off, ha ha.”

“Riight. So let’s go back to the beginning (again). The vineyard. When did you return?”

(to be continued)

00440514

Frank Lynn cut off the radio in disgust. “Aw man, this car is like our country in that it’s a *wreck* and deserves to be towed away.”

“Oh, Frankie, Frankie,” countered one time lover Wanessa, having a different view on things. “Just because you don’t like what The Man be trying to tell us, the good Lord above us all, he still knows what’s good and best, don’t you worry. Don’t you worry a bit about this here country. We’ll be fiiiiiiiine.” She paused, then came up with what she thought was a winning line: “We’re saving *babies* after all.”

Frank looked over, sensing a divide between red and blue, as if an impenetrable white line was drawn between their car seats, passenger and driver. And she had control of the wheel now. Can they resolve it? Tow hook secured, the car moves up and then away from the scene of the crime, where Frank first heard the results. Like a big red cube dropped on us all. And not just one.

Here come the aliens?

00440515 (once more: the 7 and the 6)

Looking down from the damn dam rail into the still blood stained rocks below, I thought of changing Tennessee into Kentucky again and be done with it.

But then, raising my head and seeing the city-scape still beautiful in the sunset through the gorge in front of me, I turned away and started walking again, contemplating the red (technology) and the green (anatomy) and how to balance the two and not give up hope. Sanity don’t leave me yet!

00440606 (monkey man)

“Man I gotta find out what’s the shizzle about these red cubes so that Philip can stop having nightmares and falling asleep during our day work!”

“Just a little more into the light, my friend,” mask wearing Philip Strevor said far above, finally snapping under the night(mare) pressure. “Out of the darkness, into the light.” Luckily for Frank, his friend is not very patient.

“C’mon c’mon *c’mon!*” Pause. “Aw, f-ck it,” and he drops the rifle and leaves the building and falls asleep on the sidewalk outside, not remembering anything about the aborted shooting when he is awoken by that policeman.

00440607 (that policeman)

A red mushroom, a green mushroom, Officer Howard Sterner observes in his head about the yard beside him. This must be the childhood home of the famous Frank C. Lynn. Deserted his hood for a fat, rich life in the hills after writing that bestseller book, pheh.

And there’s the woman who helped him get to the top, Officer Sterner thinks 2 minutes later in his beat while passing the Fern’s sign across the road, not his usual beat since he’s filling in for Jr. Officer Philburg Johnson Jones, sick with the pill. Fern Stalin — odd name; easy to remember (Philburg told him all about her). Sounds like a commie, a red, he continues to ruminate. Maybe she converted Frank Lynn to a red, hmm. Maybe that would explain that red book he wrote. Gotta read that sometime now and see if this theory holds any water, he makes a mental note to himself.

Not too long afterwards, he spots prostrate Philip Strevor on a pile of mattresses outside the Mile High Building and rouses him to consciousness. 4:44, he pinpoints with his watch. Time of life.

00440608

“Wild dream, man,” began Frank Lynn to the others, his so-called friends Mikie and Philip Strevor, the great triumvirate of video gaming for this day and age, at least under their truer names and not their newer names created for this here blog and attached photo-novels. “I — get this — was *Chomp* (= Chop). Driving through that repo man’s window you made me do when we first met in that car with you pointing your gun at my head.”

“Yeah, ha,” said Mikie by his side, still by his side but in the right way this time. “I remember.”

“And so I drove it through that big front window — just like we did before — and lo and behold I was there again inside. As me! I was the repo man who owned the car dealership as well as his hired help doing the actual work.”

“Totally f-ed up,” says Philip, shaking his head a bit. “Okay… me,” he quickly shifted.

“*You* had a dream too, dawg?” questioned Frank Lynn, watching Philip try to remember it.

“Well, not as a *dawg*… dawg. But: yeah. I’m always having dreams lately; you know that. So in this one… actually I had a gun pointed at you too Frank.”

“Say whaat?” said Frank Lynn.

“Hmm,” said more suspicious Mikie, sensing a tall tale. Which it indeed was but not in the way he was thinking, as we know from the posts before this one. Truth Philip is telling. He continues…

“Yeah. Let’s see: way up on top of a building, maybe a mile high even. Way up.” He points up, but only at some trees in this unspecified Lost Sanos location — working on it. “I-I was a monkey; yeah that’s it. Or dressed as a monkey, something. Maybe I just had a monkey’s head. Anyway, for some reason I didn’t pull the trigger — maybe couldn’t get a bead on your own head I was so far away. So I just dropped the gun and jumped — think I jumped.”

“Dawg!”

“Monkey,” corrected Philip, perhaps in a comical way. “But I landed right on a pile of mattresses, soft as um, downy pillows, heh. Or walked out and fell asleep on them, hmm. But then that officer came along and woke me up. And I woke up.”

“Wow man, Philip. You crazy!”

“*You* crazy.” He points to Frank as they share a chuckle. Two wild and crazy dreamers.

“Those are great, guys,” issued Mikie between them now, being only partially sarcastic in comparison to his normal, full on version. “Really. Both of you as animals… not far off, actually.”

“Pheh,” one or both of them say back.

“But now it’s *my* turn. I had a dream too as it so happens. Get a load of *this,* guys.”

And then he proceeds to tell them about finding the ring.

(to be continued)

00440609

“So I drove up to this shed in the middle of freak-n nowhere, knowing there was something inside I needed to see.

“And then when I get out of my car and went inside, I see… him.”

“Him?” said Frank Lynn.

“Monkey? Dawg?” said Philip, trying to guess.

“No, Philip. No animal in this one. It was a man. But a man made of green: a solid green man. I’m not talking about someone wearing just a green shirt and green pants or even a green body suit. Green — top of the head to the bottom of the feet. And *glowing*.”

“Freaky,” said enraptured Frank Lynn.

“O-kaay,” uttered Philip Strevor. He needed to get some meth ready for a sale tonight, he thinks in the back of his head, but it can wait a little longer. He wants to see this through. In the moment, he even tries to focus a bit, which is rare.

“He starts to describe who he is,” continues Mikie. “Said he was actually made of uranium and that he was from the planet Uranus. ‘Both?’ I asked. ‘Both,’ he said.”

“Maybe he wanted you to think he was a piece of glowing sh-t,” offered Philip.

“Maybe,” said Mikie. “Okay, so then I remembered I had a Geiger counter on me — don’t ask me how. I switch it on — in my head somehow; something — and the thing registered off the charts, way too dangerous to stand very close to. So I backed off, planned my escape. Just then he turned into something else, like he was picking up on my fear. A human. Maybe — I don’t know — to be more on my level or something. Some kind of mind meld, mind you.”

“Huh,” said Frank Lynn.

“Hmph,” said Philip, shifting his feet and starting to truly get impatient. Just a little more.

“He was, I don’t know, trying to tell me something. He wanted me to know how he got here. Or what would happen to him if the wrong people found him. He was afraid, get this, of white people. He was green; they were white. Like, er, you and me Philip. But not like Frank Lynn, who’s black instead. He said he wasn’t afraid of black — specified it. Just white. Unless white combines with black to turn gray.”

“Listen,” said a now quite confused Philip. “I’m outta here; gotta measure out some drugs for a deal. I told my dream, I listened to yours, Frank Lynn, and I’ve listened to Mikie’s here long enough too. Green man in shed. Radioactive asshole or something. Got it.”

“Don’t you want to know if the white people catch up with him, dawg?” said Frank Lynn to Philip Strevor, who was already walking away.

“Nah, I’ll leave that story with you and your outstanding blackness,” he waved off while leaving the scene.

(to be continued)

00440610

“‘I kill them,’ he said to me in the dream within the dream. ‘I kill them all.’ All the white people that accepted him, I realized, took him in and away from the shed. I felt horror. I was next!”

“Dawg, *dam*mit!” said Frank Lynn, alone as a listener now and picturing Mikie’s described awful scene in his head.

“But then he was back, just a dummy or something in a shed in the middle of nowhere, the nearby landfill smelling stronger than ever. I realized this was his proper place. I woke up.”

—–

“I think we’ve found our Slaughterhouse,” spoke observing Fern to — probably Billy still, I’m guessing. Yes, there he is.

(to be continued?)

00440612 (‘Gotta light?’ 02)

“Fern?

“Over here.

“The switch.”

PHOTO-NOVEL 45

00450305

He spied the 4 colored lines running parallel to each other and knew he was in the right place.

Now to figure out which color was *correct* for the next selection. Train lines, Philip Strevor originally thought…

… until passing yet another poster advertising The Bleeder and realized it was not green, not blue, not even yellow he needed, but red, as in dripping oozing cow blood red. Not a train line but good enough, yum.

He exits the train station and resets his course to the nearest Burger Shot for a quickie meal. Maybe even hold up the place so he won’t have to buy it, ha.

“What’s *he* doing here??” utters Grant Price the janitor as he watches him exit his taxi and walk toward the door he’s cleaning.

Collision, I’m assuming. Of realities. Might be human blood here soon to go along with the cow.

(to be continued?)

00450401

My study of Osamu Sato’s 1998 LSD Dream Emulator game and the setting up of this mini-museum to it in the attic of my Aisle of Palms “Big Victorian House” seems so long ago now. It was only April. So seems my heavy involvement with Our Second Lyfe, whose influence is undoubtedly fading from this here blog and attached photo-novels, 44 1/2 in number now (a long journey!), as more modern and much better looking games like Grand Theft Auto V, Witcher 3, and especially Cyberpunk 2077 and its humongous Night City take more and more of both my daytime and nighttime attention. But also, My Second Lyfe is not dead. Just *concentrated*. Think that’s the best way to put it. It glows bright blue to me, a square in the middle of everything still, a house-like home base sitting in the center of a large yard, with GTA V lying green to the west, C2077 red to the east, and Witcher3 yellow to the south (also taking the shape of a square unattached to the first (like a garage or large shed?)). This what-we-can-call expansion is happening now, but it also happened long long ago, in what seems like a different lifetime over 50 years back now. Aisle of Palms is my virtual village that represents the launching pad for exploring these post-Second Lyfe worlds, beginning, really, with Red Dead Redemption earlier this year, before the influence of the 3 likewise newer games I mentioned really started kicking in. A link from this far far past to the present in this way is MONKEY.

Monkey City = Lost Sanos

There I said it, Mother. Monkey City *is* relevant to all this. But I think she sees that now.

This is probably where I’ll first virtually incarnate beyond Our Second Lyfe in the near future. A good guess, given this snapshot of GTA V’s original monkey mosaic 1 1/2 photo-novels back taken by Trevor (beginning of 44) coupled with a snapshot of a *different* Trevor — recently dead — wearing monkey brand underpants in the Badlands desert of C2077 from later in the same photo-novel. Maybe hard to explain but I definitely think the two images from two different games are linked.

Why GTA V (Lost Sanos) over C2077 (Nightsity) then for the incarnation? I’ll have to think about that explanation and get back to you.

(to be continued)

00450403

“I figured we need to talk.”

“Mmmmm,” says Fern in return. “I know that was you talking since I was drinking my beer (!). So… what up? *Wendy*.”

“I’m still Wendy to you, huh.”

“Ever since Castletown, yeah. And, let’s see, you said you had information about the missing Lichen for me, I’m going to say. Part of our troupe after all.” She takes another swig. Blue Sky; pretty good. Hint of grapefruit, hint of raspberry, lots of hops.

“As you can see, my hair is blue. I’m not really Wendy here,” counters, um, I suppose this is Shelley, then. Shelley Johnston Struthers. Or Johnson.

“I see your hair.” Fern looks over. “I see your outfit. Crazy Blue both.” You’ve been taken over, she thinks. “What are your plans for this continent, this Nautilus, dearest? You’re here at the Scorpion Lake or whatever the locals call it — haven’t asked. Not yet anyway. Depends on if we’re staying. Are we? Staying?”

Shelley envisions walking around this inland sea of Nautilus, so full of arms they had to name it after an insect. Apparently. I knew it was suppose to be the Alamo Sea up in Grand Theft Auto V we were walking around but she became a distraction. Crazy Blue indeed. Will she keep the hair? Just found it by accident on the marketplace.

Fern: “We have to bridge the gap between you (points to Shelley in her yellow chair), and me (points to herself in the green chair). I think ‘Frank’s Moving Mountain’ was invoked. You can manifest that *here*, you know.”

Shelley was pondering what to say next when Fern got up.

Soon she found herself on a different parcel, walking away from the scene at the beach and its 4 chairs in a row. But not before one of those local giant crabs corrected her on the name Scorpion Lake, overhearing their conversation with his inner but still sensitive enough ears. “It’s *Starfish*. Starfish Sea,” he said proudly, having lived on its shores and in its water all his live long life.

“Oh, okay,” said Fern, logging it into her computer of a brain while continuing to head up to green beyond lower yellow.

(to be continued)

00450404 (Schrödinger’s Car)

With exactly 50% of the 1:04:58 length video named “Comfy Driving Around the Alamo Sea” behind us and exactly 50% to go, we find this statement by the maker at 32:29, saying he estimates there’s a 50/50 chance his car is still where he parked it up the hill several minutes back while he investigated a lighthouse down at the coast. And not derezzed like many vehicles when you leave them even for a short time in the GTA V game.

Btw, the car was still there. But there’s an equal chance it wouldn’t be according to him. Reality split. Fork in the road, as they say…

… where later in this same video, the maker, through his chosen avatar of Trevor, parks this same intact auto, a red Chevy El Camino as I’ve checked, to witness a crime being committed resulting in several shot people, perpetrators and cops alike. This is where he decided to peel off from the Alamo Sea loop and not complete what the title alluded would happen. *Around* the sea, it said. Okay, disappointment, but the guy was a freewheeler as he freely admitted a number of times in this and the other GTA V video he’s created that I found online. Anyway, *we* indeed intend to complete this loop, if on foot if not by car — which might be better anyway; can look at more details of the sea itself — through another video which hopefully stays truer to its very similar title. This one. We want to get an in-depth look at this Alamo Sea, dive into the subject matter as it were. I’ve honed into it as a place of special significance to this blog and attached photo-novels, 45 being the present number we’re on. What secrets does it hold underneath its gently waved water? and so forth. Circumnavigation first, though. *Hopefully*.

I’ll report back to you about my find or finds, if any.

00450405

Philip Strevor finds something inexplicable in the waters of the sea. How could I have missed this before? he thinks in his diving suit while gawking around at what appeared to be a sunken town of alien design.

He sensed it even projected a bit above the water’s surface. *Everyone* should know about this.

Philip wakes up.

00450408

Suddenly he was underwater again, although still staring at The Sphere. This was the center of his submerged Alamo Sea town!

Like Jack before him, he found himself staring at himself…

… as he went inside.

Further…

And…

… gone.

“What just happened here??” cried the observer of the observer from his control room far above it all. Time to send in another.

00450409 (Frank Lynn (no ape))

Holy crap! Almost dead before he even gets started.

“Mo-fo-er!” he calls after the car that almost mowed him down as he was getting out of his own.

But, rounding the corner of the abandoned Boat House restaurant he parked next to, he’s now at the sea.

Let’s see, do we want him to walk counterclockwise or clockwise? Guess it doesn’t matter. Using the power of the observer still observing, I suppose we could just dive straight into the Alamo and skip ahead in the game at this point…

… but we don’t.

Let’s head his still dry self off east not west.

Good idea in terms of psychic resonance. Because soon he encounters the shadow of a giant plane that isn’t present.

Only a bird as he looks up into the sky to check where the sudden darkness came from.

He figuratively if not literally scratches his head (and his hinny?), then continues. Like Superman he feels he can accomplish anything this bright day in late April’s May — endless possibilities — with not a little help from the reefer he smoked before driving out here. Good ol’ ~~Trevor~~ Philip. He’ll kind of miss him when all this is said and done with.

If only the smell of dead fish wasn’t so strong.

(to be continued)

00450410 (Trevor/Philip)

Hmm, he thinks while driving toward his destination today. Lookie over there behind those silos. One of those plane shadows Frankie Boy was talking about that’s actually a bird. So they *are* real, hmph.

Welp, better get to my destination and do what I’m going to do today. Revenge is *soo* sweet, he he he.

00450415 (1000 words)

“Okay, Philip. Just stay – on – the – bridge. Mikie is coming over on the first plane he can catch to find you.”

earlier:

“F-ck, man. Sh—-t.” Philip holds his aching head while continuing to talk to himself. “I think that was the worst crash ever. Threw me clean 50 feet from the plane this time, arrrgh. But, whatever. I suppose I’ll just have to start walking like I *always* do, like I’m *commanded* to do, pheh. Weell… feets get moving.” While watching his feet start stepping forward one after another without his conscious volition, he marvels at the lack of real injuries any time this has happened, and it’s happened, what, *7* times before now? From signs he’s run across, he’s determined he’s walking in Holland — again, commanded to do so by some higher up forces working for that damn *Sphere*. He’s *inside* the Sphere. Anyway, he find himself marching toward the nearest house. There won’t be anyone home, he knows. There never is in whatever hell-world he’s trapped within. No people. Better try Lester again and see if I can still communicate with him, he thinks. My life line, my only hope. He whips out his phone from his back pocket — no real damage to it either as usual. The only thing he can carry from flight to flight, crash to crash. The Sphere must have allowed this, he figured. Or the plane — whatever.

“Lester?” he says into it after flipping the lid, power automatically on. “Lester Corncrib? You there? Stop wanking your meat and speak to me!”

“Look Frank,” he says from the real world. “He’s talking to me again!”

“He who?” says Frank, jumping off the table he’s sitting on behind Lester to get a better listen.

“*Philip*.”

“But… Philip’s dead,” Frank utters, scratching his head while approaching. “He died in that plane crash over in Grapeshot, dawg. Everyone knows that.”

Just then, Philip’s phone dies from the other side after one last, “Lester?!!” “Dammit!” screams Lester into the computer interface. “Lost the connection again. This one was shorter than most of the others.”

Turning toward Frank after a long, head shaking then head lowering sigh, technology savant Lester, friend to the gang, explained the situation as he understood it as best he could for the present gang member’s less nimble brain. “Yes, he died in that plane crash,” he says with animated hands. “But *now* he’s crashing that same plane over and over… and over. Something’s trapped him in an alternate reality. As far as I can tell, he seems to be in a simulation of our own world, maybe even a one to one match, hmph. Well: kind of. Pretty good for whatever technology they’re running to keep it going from other side.”

“Other side of *what*?” says Frank.

“*Our* reality. Philip may have died, yes. But the other side is eerily like our own apparently. And he has some kind of magic phone that allows communication between our world and his. Just called me up one day about 2 weeks ago — I’ve been keeping it from you because, well, because I thought you might think I’d gone batsh-t bonkers or taken one too many acid hits, you know.”

“I see.”

“You *did* hear Philip on the phone, right?” said Lester, wanting reinforcement for his sanity. “You heard him scream my name; like me, okay? Can I get an okay from you, huh?”

“Sure, dawg. I *think* I heard the voice of that rat scag hellmouth of a person. Or what appeared to be Philip.”

“Oh it’s Philip,” says Lester, turning back to the computer, hoping for a reconnection. Being the ADHD cursed person that he is, he ponders that Philip just dropped the phone on the ground in frustration and left it behind, not remembering where he lost it. And that wouldn’t be good, plans for worldly success foiled. “But there appears to be no people, according to Philip’s reporting,” he continues after another sigh. “And although there’s cars, let’s say you try to flag one down for a ride. They don’t stop. Often they turn around right when they come up on you and start heading in the opposite direction, like they’re teasing you. We know he’s in a replica of The Netherlands; he’s indicated that by the signs. So funny. He said, get this: ‘*How* can I be in Holland’; — first I had to explain The Netherlands was Holland since he’s a dufus in geography, along with a lot of other subjects…”

“Tell me about it,” chips in Frank, trying to figure out how to tell Lester that someone is doing a number on him.

“Anyway, he says, ‘How can I be in Holland when I haven’t seen one frigg’n god damn sh-tty *windmill*. And, er, what about tulips? Aren’t there suppose to be a billion tulips around here? And wooden shoes — not a hide nor hare of them either. Not a cu-clomp cu-clomp cu-clomp to be heard’.”

“That’s pretty good, Lester,” Frank said about his imitation of Philip. “But…” He just blurts it out. “You know someone is f-cking with you, pulling your strings. Someone you’ve pissed off probably. A massive joke.”

“Maybe,” admits Lester. “Maybe. But if I, we, could just pinpoint his exact location someone could go over there and see if they could reach through the veil and make contact, maybe even bring him back to *our* side.” Lester thinks of glory here again, making his mark on the world. And at a specific point in said world. He’d be famous. The first one to penetrate the veil to the other side. Was this a wise thing to do? he thought again. *Sure* it is. Fame, fortune, women, the great triumvirate. Just like he dreamed.

“Well, I’d like to help but I have that gig over in Richland. I’ll catch you later you crazy mo-fo-er.”

“Byyyyye,” says Lester, waving him off, obviously disappointed that Frank doesn’t believe the communication is real but still having Mikie to convince. Good ol’ Mikie.

(see top)

00450502

“Welcome back,” said business partner Ronald nonchalantly from the porch of Philip’s trailer as he approached. “Where’ve you been?”

“The *Netherlands*.”

“Have a good time?” Philip slammed the front door behind him without answering.

earlier:

“Final-f-ingly,” he says into his magical phone at the end of part 2 of his journey, an over 8 hour walk so far. “A legit windmill, and not just one this time, Lester. Several of them. *This* is the Holland, er, Netherlands I expected. But… still no f-ing tulips which are suppose to be everywhere here. Still no cu-clomp cu-clomp cu-clomp of the wooden shoes since I’ve not seen hide nor hare of any people. Live or dead. So I’m giving the whole *experience* so far a D+ now, upgraded from F-. One out of three obvious clues fulfilled.”

“Well that’s super, Philip,” deadpans listening Lester from the control room of his modest house in El Burro Heights of Lost Sanos up in Grand Theft Auto V. “I suppose those kind of grades take you back to elementary school where you graduated, what, 60th in your class of 60 from the 6th grade?”

“*9th* grade,” corrects an angry Philip, his default state. “90th of 90 in the 9th.”

“Right right. Aany-way,” Lester lets off, “can you still see Amsterdam in the distance?” Pause. “Phil-ip?” Another pause. “Philip?? Aw shoot,” says Lester to Mikie also with him. “Dead again.”

“Can you hear me Lester, you high school wanker? I *said*, I *see* it.” Philip shakes the phone as if the action would spring it back to life. He’s frozen in his tracks until part 3 starts. Then it’s on – to – Amsterdam, he thinks, turning happy for a change. He’s heard the pot is free and flowing but he’s mainly interested in the harder drugs like smack, maybe even heroin. Although he’s not holding his breath for any return to normalcy about the situation he’s in. Good thing.

Because Amsterdam held new terrors.

“F-ck… me,” he says to himself while spying the melted towers after emerging on the other side of the city’s harbor. “Amsterdam? More like *Rotter*dam here,” and then he laughs at his clever pun involving Holland’s first and second largest cities. Yeah, he could have graduated high school, maybe even community college. If he gave a damn. The life of drugs drew him in and held him back. If only he was on something here to explain *this*.

(to be continued)

00450508

I decided to skirt this arid seeming patch of land a rather large group of buildings nevertheless exists within, not trusting if the ground was toxic or not by the looks of it. While doing so, I fantasized about an imbalance of dry vs. wet, and that this place was a barren wasteland because another neighborhood, perhaps even far far away, became too wet and exotic at the same “time” (quote unquote, because time does not really exist). I found my thoughts becoming weirder as I trodded across this flat flat terrain. How would it end? Perhaps badly, very much so. Yet I had to keep going, nay, I was *commanded* to march forward by powers still unknown. But I had hatched some plans for remedying that. I had to become a *power* myself. God-like.

20 minutes later I stared down at the canal I was walking along and realized how alone I was in this world. Only Me Myself and I around — the Holy Triad — and only 1 of those counted for anything. Yes I needed to consolidate my power. Become all supreme, all knowing.

50 minutes later brought me to Fred (sheep). Fred had a *lot* to say to me; said he’d been lonely too standing in this field of corn without any company for the longest time. He opined strongly about The Netherlands’ economy, saying it was a world heavyweight in comparison to the actual size of the land. 131st in size (among world counties), 2nd in agricultural exports, he proclaimed proudly around the midpoint of our lengthy discourse, which, when checking later, I found to be absolutely correct according to 2020 estimates. I guess Fred would know, living in this country and grazing amongst its agricultural products like this corn all his live long life. We exchanged email addresses and promised to try to keep in touch before I moved on, bound and determined to reach the sw corner of Holland by part 10 or at least part 11 of my journey.

A little over an hour later I entered this grassy field dotted with poppies (*not* tulips) and spotted Fred again, even though he had to have been miles away before. “Told you I’d stay in touch!” he yelled at me when I approached. I decided that I needed to call Lester, let Fred talk to *him* to see what he had to say. But all Lester heard was baa-ing of course. I needed that sanity check.

(to be continued)

00450513

He rolls down the window after pulling up. “Hey Philip, it’s me, Mikie! Get in the car. There’s room for 2 as Lester’s already told you. This is your chance, Philip. Get – in – the car.”

Without turning or acknowledging Mikie in any way, which was part of the plan so he wouldn’t get tempted and sucked in to the offer, he jumps over the rail he’s been waiting at for the longest time and into the canal below.

“You’re making a big mistake, Philip!” he heard from the bridge behind him as he continued to walk on water after landing with a splash. “Alright, gotta go! Loser! See you in the afterlife you SOB!”

And that was it. For Mikie.

(to be continued)

00450515 (grand theft auto)

Is that a red white and blue flag of The Netherlands up there? Philip thinks while passing, not use to such decorations in his journey.

At the same “time,” Fern, after having created her own, more limited Earth simulator along with her own bus for travelling through such, leaves Arnhem in the eastern part of The Netherlands, destined for Amsterdam more towards its west-center, a 98 KM trip. At Amsterdam she plans to take a specially rigged up gold car to the Ells Bridge and beyond, hoping to catch up with Philip before he reaches Vaalserberg at the SE end of the country. It will be a close race, she knows. That’s why she created her own simulator at a 1:10 scale compared to Earth instead of the 1:1 scale to same for Microsoft Flight Simulator. She’ll need the time saved, she figured.

—–

*Not* copper, she knew.

*Not* silver just up the road, which she also passes by.

But, dang, where’s the gold one that’s also suppose to be here? Has it already been *use*? She gasps. It’s already been used! she understands and starts recalibrating her goals and outcomes accordingly in her vast brain.

(to be continued)

00450516

“Quick, driver. To Vaalserberg. And hurry!”

—–

It was just a glimpse of green through the trees, but for the first time in his long journey across The Netherlands he found he had a legitimate rise in front of him.

The about 15 minutes later he climbed a rock face to get a much better view. Marvelous!

Yes, he was wise to jump off that bridge into the canal back there to avoid going home, he thinks while surveying the countryside before him, Lester and Mikie’s hard efforts be damned. And soon afterwards, he’d found that little fire in the road that couldn’t logically be there, also a first in his journey, and potentially much more important. He felt like a modern day Prometheus bringing humanity a gift from the beyond, proof of its existence and his own sojourn there.

Passing another kind of impossibility in this world, he imagines it riding on his shoulder to his final destination, the place of triple and perhaps even quadruple contact. And so it came to be.

00450607 (to Vaalserberg!)

“So this is what it looks like inside one of these Sphere’s, huh,” Lester says with awe in his voice, amazed he could get a plane in this far. “Well boys,” he continues after admiring the glinty surroundings a bit more, “I guess we better get down to the business that brought us here.”

“No no no, Walter,” he says, watching one of his two hired goons move toward the fake loot. “Remember what we talked about, fog for brains. Just ignore those shiny, weighty, but, in the end, worthless bricks of AU. That’s just fool’s gold. Might as well be ordinary rocks compared to what we’re *really* after.”

“And — du-huh — what’s that again, boss?” asked even more ignorant Jason from behind, dressed up like a bug exterminator with Walter for a reason. A multi-armed reason. All had extra arms for one thing, as in fire. But that was all part of the ruse, the subterfuge, the diversion.

“Just leave that to me,” Lester answered cryptically (again), finding the right way forward. “Through here, yes. This must be the passageway to the climax we seek,” he said almost religiously. “Prepare yourself for fire.”

Lester punches the correct #s into the keypad that opens the sliding door. Arms drawn, they head inside — further inside.

In a parallel dimension, Philip The Other walks with them, Gus still perched on his shoulder and suddenly burning brighter than ever, ow ow ow! (pop pop pop!) But shouldn’t be long now. Just that final rise over there.

(to be continued)

00450608

“Lester, can you hear me, Lester? I’m seeing 6’s and 9’s, just like back in grade school. Where am I, Lester?”

“Oh God, Lester! I’m falling!! Falling into a pit, AHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!” Splatt.

“Oh. That wasn’t so bad.” And Philip wakes up fully on his cushioning bed and remembers that he and Lexi have an important meeting with Princess Pinky Gumm at 10:15 over in Juho. Better not be late.

(to be continued)

00450614

“I-I’ve changed my mind , fellows. I shut the door back on the whole thing. There’s nothing but bright, burny fire in there. And — sorry to call you guys stupid before. Seeing that I was the most stupidest one of all.” 6’s and 9’s, he thought. Can’t even tell them apart — worse than Philip on that front.

00450615

He finds himself going backwards, back into Vijlin and reversing from the plane that couldn’t be there, fire still on shoulder…

… but not for too much longer, as he deposits it back on the ground in Echt. Shoulder cool, shoulder cool! Thank the Gods.

Distraction absent, he realized he’d missed something. Not silver (car)…

… not copper.

At Wessem, he hops back into the canal looking for the missing thing, heading for that Ell Bridge separating 8 and 9, he knew. Rail accident; something amiss. Soon enough he was there, and leapt back up on the bridge with a reverse splooshing sound and out of the canal, back to the rail where he observed it from above, heading southeast to the corner of The Netherlands. A place he’d never reach now. No burn, no burn!

He quickly turns to find the gold car. Waiting.

Backwards talk from the car but he knew what was going on now, and that he had about 10 seconds before it reversed itself off the bridge, back back back to Amsterdam or thereabouts where it came from. Gold found, gold found! he cried within. And jumped in. Time suddenly started to move forward again, Mikie greeting him with the words: “Excellent choice, Philip. Now we can go home.”

PHOTO-NOVEL 46

00460305

“He was just standing there when I looked down from the bird. You know, after the plane.”

“Then what?” Philip was into Frank’s story. For a change.

“Just for a second he was there. Looked like, I don’t know, *Superman*. All jacked up like a superhero, you see.”

“Like Impotent Rage?”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Like Impotent Rage.”

“*Love* Impotent Rage. That’s where I hid my drugs!”

Took Frank a second to get it, then he remembered the figurine in Philip’s trailer with the hollowed out core and pop top head. *Old* trailer. “Oh yeah. Anyway, thought you’d want to know, since, you know, you saw the plane shadows that couldn’t be there too.”

“I *did*,” said Philip without a doubt. “I did indeed. Grapeshot.”

“Grape*seed*,” said Frank.

“Noooo. Grape*shot*. *Franklin*.” Philip liked to call Frank Lynn by his old name when he failed to properly translate anything to this new format they now live in, GTA V imprisoned characters no more. They were free. Thanks to the power of the Alamo. “Remember the Alamo,” Philip would also say to jolt Frank back to the current (virtual) reality. “Remember it and then forget it because we’re in a different place now,” he might follow up, “one that doesn’t stink like *rotting fish*, PHEH.”

Alamo inland sea of GTA V fully transferred over to Nawt Vaya inland sea of Our Second Lyfe. Like Philip before him, Frank was totally on board with it. After all, they always had the dreams and reminiscings to return if needed. Like now.

“Anyway,” Frank continued in that vein, “he was standing at the start of that jutting out place, you know, the, oh what do you call it? Not peninsula.”

“Pier?” Philip offered, trying to help the story along.

“No dawg, nothing wood or anything. A *jetty* — yeah, that’s it. A narrow piece of land jutting into the water in a straight line.

“Or crooked line,” Philip said, thinking of something called the Spiral Jetty. He can’t recall where.

“Okay, so, you know, the Superman person was gone — only appeared a split second like I said…”

“Yeah?” Philip said, egging him on again.

“But when I was walking down that, er, jetty, in a straight line, I also knew he was *pointing* toward something. Something on the other side of the lake as it turned out.”

“Sea,” corrected Philip once more. “Alamo Sea.”

“Yeah, Alamo Sea, then. So I stood near the end of the point, looked across the lake — sea, sorry. There was a boat parked near the tip, but that wasn’t it. Then I heard it. Little Hell, Philip. Place called Little Hell.”

Philip had heard of the location but had also heard it called Heaven and said so. Out of their dreams and back into the present, both looked across the moonlit Nawt Vaya waters and wondered what *that* meant. Little Hell and Heaven both.

(to be continued)

00460415 (The River Styx?)

Rockstahr, Philip thinks while staring at the red green blue yellow lines again. Gotta find the origin. Who is this madman behind it all? Across the water?

“Whaddaya think, Frank?” he said after the story was over, still staring across the Nawt Vaya waters that had replaced the Alamo Sea waters in their now smaller, less broad virtual existences. “Little Heaven? Little Hell?”

“Might be,” he said, reminiscing in his own way about Redd. And that darn cat of a man she spoke about. She/he knew so much!

(to be continued)

00460513

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFbCMEsoT5M

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4ACTR2X26Y&t=128s

My first GTA 6 related post! Mention of Providence Canyon State Park in Georgia being an inspiration for a GTA 6 location in the first Youtube video linked above just after watching a video (2nd link) mentioning the Eye of Providence as an influence in GTA 5’s development. Cool! Can’t wait for more.

00460601

“Morro Bay??” Dreaming Frank Lynn was expecting a sign for Paleto Bay but got a surprise, Real Life location intruding in on Virtual here. He suddenly has another important piece of the puzzle. Now to find the Rock.

“There!” he said, seeing it coming into view in the distance after passing a large beach dune. Well… sort of, he thought. Not quite Morro Rock but pretty obviously the duplicate down here. And out there in the bay beyond it: the 4 islands with the, um, bodies. 2 apiece, he knew. A central mystery. 4 islands, 8 bodies. Infinity.

Carolin manifests back at the center.

(to be continued)