COLLAGESITY NOVEL 17
another guy
In human form, Guyd often visits his Grandmama and Grandpapa over in the Kowloon Gates Reborn sim. He’s never really grasped what the place was all about but always has fun exploring. Strange things abound…
The plaza where he first met Grandmama and Grandpapa, with the attached parcel called Assoc. for the Elderly appropriately enough.
The newest structure in the odd town is the Building of 100 Stories. More of its *story* at Pearl Grey’s blog.
Guy Benjamin (human form name of Guyd) will explore all 100 stories soon. But now he has to visit Grandmamapapa. Trouble is, as always: finding their apartment in this maze. He feels a bit like Agent Dale Cooper in the Black Lodge navigating Kowloon’s twisty-turny alleys. Where’s the appropriate Venus statue for orientation when you need it!
It would help if he spoke the native language(s).
And there’s also *so* many distractions.
He gives up for the night. He visits them often but sees them seldom.
—–
“Sure wish Guy would come around more, Alice.”
“You know he doesn’t love us, Jack.”
Heart Queen
Some things never change.
—–
“Fish Head! Give us a report.”
Merry Hell
He loved listening to Bing’s Song on the music box. But “White Christmas” was over in Eot and he was melting. He’d have to go back to Kowloon to keep perpetually frosty. He didn’t understand quite why, except that he was *made* there, much like Guy Benjamin’s Grandmama and Grandpapa. He must get lost inside the maze, only to be found when the Heart Queen good and well wanted him to for her traitorous ways. Because she was back at it (some things never change). He could room with Satan Santa again. Safe bet that he’s not living with anyone still, being there’s a Hell Portal right smack in the middle of the kitchen ceiling.
He likes to use it to warm his tush while he’s cleaning the counter.
—–
“Sure you can stay with me again, Frosty.” He points to the corner furthest away from the kitchen. “Park your half melted carcass right over there behind the bathtub.”
—–
Oh man, he thought to himself. Stuck in this spot the rest of the winter. Unless the Heart Queen needs me. Sounds pretty good right now.
—-
“Pass the soap, wouldn’t you Frosty?”
“Sure thing, Satan, er, Santa.”
Cat pole star
He was in a totally different dream place this time where everyone seemed to speak Chinese. He understood enough (somehow) to know that his mission was to retrieve something from that eye filled alley back there behind the soup restaurant here.
“Patriotic Soup Store closing in 5 mister. You’ll have to finish your food and go.” Herbert Gold looked at the squat cook standing on a high platform to stir his vat of soup. From the tone of his voice and then the aftermath stare, Herbert gathered he’d have to leave.
He then studied the big bowl of P-soup in front of him, realizing he’d never be able to polish it off — hadn’t even actually touched it, in fact. “You can have this back,” he then offered, pushing the bowl across the counter. The cook shook his head, seemingly in non-understanding but then uttering, in perfect English: “No refunds,” surprising him.
Herbert was about to protest that he didn’t want any money for the soup and that he just hated to waste such a goodly amount of food — a byproduct of growing up in tough Bennington Square — when a noise of something falling occurred behind him, drawing his attention to the end game of his current dream. When turning around after *seeing* nothing, he noticed the VHS tape beside him on the counter. The part of the title that he could read on its edge was, “(with) Other Other”. He realized *this* was what he was suppose to eye-ball here. Not something back in the alley.
He looked at the soup cook again for hints about what it was. Did the cook slip him this tape at some point? *What* was with Other Other? Or perhaps apart from Other Other now; Chinese against English? A yin yang, black and white cat that was also red all over? He logically thought back to Omega town and the newspaper referenced there through black, white, red. DDD. A dream, yes. He must keep remembering this is not Real. None of it.
“2 minutes,” the cook exclaimed, the glare from his face intensifying along with his stirs. Should he ask the cook to translate the Chinese underneath this cat? Was there an *opening* there to do this?
“1 minute.” He showed him the tape.
… back to zero
After work, Fish Head removed his fish (tattoo) and became just the Head.
From his perch in the sky, he saw *everything*. All 100 of it.
But now…
looking eagle-eyed into the future
Happy New Year! It’s been another good year for me personally. I got a lot of writing and art done. Work work is chugging along (only a little over 2 years until retirement! (projected)), and health is fine overall, for both me and the wife. So much to be done but a lot is being accomplished for my situation. Second Life still plays a big, big part in creativity.
Goals for 2020:
Well, I think the Collagesity photo-novels will keep popping out every 2 months or so with the generative system I’m using. 5 1/2 done this year alone (!). My plan is to keep doing these until I retire, then reassess the situation. I *did* have a rich creative life before they came along the winter of 2015-2016, a little over 4 years back, so I’m sure something interesting and rewarding will replace it. I don’t see hatching, you know, 70-75 of these things by the time I’m, say, 70-75, ha. Second Life appears to be dying, true. It seems to be withering. But, really, it still stands as a unique world in terms of player creativity and leverage. I can’t leave that behind yet. I have no plans for another virtual reality to replace it (unless it’s Google Earth!). As stated, I’m pretty happy with where I am and what’s happening creatively right now. I just have to keep working on establishing a proper balance between the several balls I’m juggling. And realizing the present situation won’t last forever.
Behind the scenes I’m writing as many or perhaps more notes on my photo-novels as I’m creating words for the photo-novels themselves. A good chunk of this is focused on what I call The Oracle, which involves maps — primarily of the US but extending a bit to foreign lands now. These are *not* to be seen by the general public, and contain a lot of typos, etc. That said, I would like some day soon to collect my vast notes on The Oracle, dating back over 30 years now, and create a type of book out of them — solidify, somehow, my flow within it. I don’t see my involvement with The Oracle ever ending in this life. It is my bedrock in many ways. Just so you, the loyal or casual reader, know. I’m hoping that will happen in the next 5 years. I don’t see it as a fixed endpoint, though. Further versions could and probably should emerge, granted that I live long enough.
I’d also like to return to audio-visual synching from a somewhat different angle — technologically and philosophically — soon enough. The structure of “modern” a/v synchs is not dissimilar to that of the photo-novels. Just another fyi.
And also, I assume, *collages* will continue. Series of collages. That might pick up again when the photo-novels are over.
I accomplished a lot of outdoor (real life) stuff this year as well, mainly: local hiking. For instance, these past 2 weeks in the mountains where we live I’ve been trekking various places, trails and off-trails, almost every clear day, which have been abundant. I always seem to be finding something new. We’ve had a good number of days off from work over the holidays. I *love* this balance of writing notes and doing research in the morning, hiking in the afternoon, relaxing in the evening (tv, reading, etc.) and then working on the photo-novels in the middle of the night. And fitting sleep in there somewhere!
I find the relationship and interaction between Second Life photos and generated fiction to be fascinating — one informs the other. I’m not sure I can ever return to pure prose in the sense of it being unattached from art (photos in this case). It’s a bit like theater for me as well. I, however, do not see the photo-novel photos as art in and of themselves. That is the province of others.
But, again with that said, I want to, sometime in the future, shift the focus back from virtual photography to real photography, as I have done in the past. I’d say my involvement with real life photos and attached *toy happenings* peaked around 2012-2013, as recorded in my blogs. I have firm plans to return to these linked activities.
What else? I lost my father-in-law this year. He was a good egg, and I have no doubt that he is succeeding on and adjusting well to the next plane. Our remaining living parent between the two of us, my mom, is almost *99* and is now living in a facility. She’s toughing it out; she’s a trooper!
We now have 3 cats with the addition of baby Philip in May, a strange guy indeed, so cute and so sweet and intelligent but also with a definite wild streak involved, much more so that the other two cats. But they both love him now. And of course we adore them all. I still have yet to meet a cat I didn’t get along with.
That’s it! Hope your new year brings you much happiness and joy.
Man About Time
“Hi. Mind if I take your place?”
So mild.
Blue Mountain
“It’s *glorious* in here, Col. Bucket.” She splashes some water in happiness. “Come on in!”
“I — can’t get — this *bucket* off,” the smaller person in the 90 room complains, yanking with all her might.
“Oh come in anyway. It’ll get a little soggy — so what? It’ll fall off naturally then.” Blue Feather was adamant. Col. Bucket must join her!
“You don’t understand, Blue Feather. That *is* your name? Right?”
“Yeees. You know my name, Col. We’re related.”
“We are?” Her voice was muffled by the bucket, but still strong and youthful. They were indeed related. “How?”
“You are my cousin.”
“Hmm,” Col. instantly responded, not surprised. “I think everyone is everyone else’s cousin to some degree — I — I — read that.” She remembers her primary task and begins yanking again. The bucket must come off! She must see straight once more!
“Here.” Blue Feather rises out of the water, but becomes instantly dry. She goes over, and in another instant, removes the bucket easily from the Col.’s head.
But, trouble is, the Col. disappears with the action. We’ll see her again soon, though.
Blue Feather cusses, complaining that she’s lost another one.
She leans down and begins to fill up the bucket again.
more rooms
X City’s Blurmaid and Horns of Hatton’s Cry Cat (65 & 66).
These are the capital cities of Maebaelia/Satori’s North and South respectively. And here they are again. Attempting to negotiate?
chance meeting
Grandpa (Herbert) Gold was introduced to the ringleader but didn’t know quite what to make of it (!).
“Other Other?” he ventured.
There was some kind of acknowledgement from the contraption, so Herbert went further.
“What is Cat pole star?”
There was a mysterious exchange. Then Herbert asked, “Do you know who I am?”
The avatar who seems to be Other Other didn’t know who I was.
More exchanges. He (or she) indicated that he (she) wanted to improve the sim by depicting reality more accurately.
I went for broke and gave him/her the link to my Sunklands site. Herbert Gold looked over while chatting, and couldn’t help but think he’s staring into the face of God.
There was a couple of exchanges about the 100 story building. I enthusiastically commended him/her on the project. He/she expressed hope that a planned, second 100 story building would be as successful.
I was translating both Japanese and Chinese at once. The contraption pulsed behind me but not in a menacing way. Herbert Gold’s head bounced with its.
Although wishing further contact, I had to excuse myself by saying my translator was out of date. Will we meet again? Could be.
helmet world
“I was in a virtual reality, Grandmama, Grandpapa. Two wrestlers had just made an alliance. One had to manage the other. That one had been replaced by the other in the far past.”
“Virtual reality, huh,” groused Grandmama. “Is *that* why it took you so long to find us?”
“*Finally*,” reinforced Grandpapa to her side.
“Then I found a store selling progressive rock t-shirts, but, get this, they were *cartoon* versions.” Guy shows his Grandmamapapa one of the t-shirts, with a parody of Genesis’ classic ‘Nursery Cryme’ album cover on the front. “Pretty cool, huh? They had *2* Genesis t-shirts, one for this and then for ‘Foxtrot’. You know, the one with ‘Supper’s—”
“No ‘Lamb’?” interrupts Grandpapa, staring at the thing. Among early Genesis efforts with front man Peter Gabriel, it’s the only one that interests him personally. He likes the story. The music is glossier and fuller. He says so, and adds, “just like Grandmama here.” Here reaches across the table and pinches her fleshy side.
“Stop it, Jack,” she complains, swatting his flirting hand away but at the same time taking the “complement” in stride. “We’re *suppose* to be angry with *Guy* here. 15 weeks since the last visit? Too long young man.”
“I’m trying to tell you that I can’t *find* your place that easy in all these twisty-turny alleys. And there’s so many distractions.” He indicates the shirt he’s wearing again. “Look,” he decides to display. “Here’s the other one.”
“Well sit down, Guy and I’ll put some more tea on.” Grandpapa attempts a joke about Guy putting on another t-shirt and Grandmama putting on another tea which fails in mid-effort. He clears his throat and then drives home his point about “Lamb”. “‘Lamb’ is *real*, not fantasy. *Not* virtual reality. It’s the gritty streets of NYC that we found anti-hero Rael spray painting his name on.
“Subways,” Guy corrects. “The album says subways.”
“Yes, of course.” Guy knew his Genesis. He respected “Lamb” too. He just digs early Genesis in general. The only album he really likes by them post-Gabriel is “Duke”. He laments the fact that the t-shirt fat pack didn’t include that album cover. Nor “Lamb”, but “Lamb” was probably simply harder to do, since no singular focus on the cover. Probably hard to create a cartoon image of Rael. Maybe that adds to Grandpapa’s point, he then ponders. Rael is too *real* to turn into an animation.
(to be continued?)
fly
We watch him from beyond the wall. He was on a journey. Lamb was taking him somewhere. Along the way he picked up two traveling companions who might have been figments of his imagination. Probably were. “Who are you?” he decides to ask despite this when they first came alongside him. “Space,” announced the larger being with black jacket and matching black pants. “Star,” came the piping voice of the smaller, blue hooded one. Both some kind of cartoon cats, assumed Guy, looking them over from the side. All traveling through the heavens on Lamb toward — something. How long before arrival?
Along the way, Space fleshed out a backstory of how, many *many* years ago, he spilled ink from a bucket or can, while Star had spilled milk from a smaller container. Together, hand in hand, this created our galaxy, he claimed. “That’s why Milky Way is here with its neon coat of white,” Star furthered, obviously reveling in the mixture. “We are travelers of the Lamb dimension now.”
Facing forward, the cats were suddenly gone. He was alone in his journey to what he now understood was the Answer to Everything, with only a looming, translucent wall between him and it….
SLAM! Guy Benjamin woke up. He excitedly relayed the details of his dream to fellow “Lamb” fan Grandpapa the next morning.
up down
“*Rebl*? What happened to your *eye*??”
Shark? What shark?”
Plans?”
Flash bulb? Blinding? *Disappeared*?”
“Go ahead,” she urged. “Find out where it leads. It won’t hurt you. Like it did me.”
“Aahh!”
—–
“Somewhere in this Edwardston Station Gallery, my love, my *future* love, is a clue to the whereabouts of my missing eye. I can feel it. So close.” But still they walk right by.
87 01
“It’s time to take one of you observing 88’s to the room to see what went missing. Maybe both of you. Yeah: both.”
—–
“First, a little wine before we start. Sorry you can’t have any, guys.” (sip)
“Guys? Can you hear me?”
87 02
“I’m going to make you partially transparent so don’t panic.”
“Okay, here’s the problem. Or deal. *I* sit on the black stool that represents the 8 ball. 88 01 (let’s say), you are on the orange “2” stool and 88 02 (we’ll say), you’re perched on the yellow “3”. Wheeler then considered something else. “Stool, huh.” She then took a remote picture before returning to the 87 Room.
Room 61
“Alright, so between you is an XVideos labelled laptop that, to me, obviously is suppose to represent “x” as in *times* something. But 3 *times* 2 (she points to the 3 associated objects in turn) equals 6. Added to my 8 (stool) you get 86. But this is (Room) 87.
If you consider the X might be a cross (+) it goes even one further from the truth, since 80 (points to herself) plus 3 (points to 88 01) plus 2 (points to 88 02) equals 85. Now the XVideos laptop sits on a stool representing the 1 ball in pool, the blue one. To me, this *must* represent Blue Eye, the missing one in either Arkansas or Missouri. So here’s the solution, people. I’m 80, you guys are 3 *times* 2 or 6, and then the stool, the one, when added in at last — *not* multiplied — brings us to the needed 87. You have to count the missing one hidden by the X to make sense of it all.
“So what’s the problem?” I asked just beyond the wall.
bar fight?
The Fish goes its separate way from the Head. Like seeks like.
Although the rain still pelts down, he is above the fray now.
Unlike the Bird perched down below, the Fish doesn’t revolve. Take that as you will. Just an fyi.
The bar directly below the Bird seems vacated. Is this a dying city?
It’s a rival bar to (grounded) Fish Head’s just down the alley. Did Fish Head cause the closure? Is his known confidant, the Heart Queen, also responsible?
Rotation, hmm.
One way to find out.
“Did you cause the closure of the Bird’s bar?”
“No.
—–
I mean maybe.”
—–
Yes.”
hidden
But something still doesn’t add up. Or multiply. We have another on the rooftops quite near the Bird — staring at it even — leaf umbrella in hand shielding his *head*, if not necessarily the rest of his body, from the localized rain surrounding the whale directly above him.
He has a different tattoo on it than Fish Head, but, otherwise, the same body it seems. A bird instead? Dry instead of wet?
And, to be specific, the rotating Bird he’s peering toward only has the head of such. The (white) body is instead that of a female human, outstretched arms sort of giving the appearance of wings.
If only I could translate the native languages better inworld, Chinese and Japanese. Because both are used here.
Maybe a trick to understanding all this is start seeing through walls. For example, we find a mysterious *hole* using this method directly below Fish Head’s bar on the ground level.
Where does this lead us?
Underwater, it turns out. A more realistic abode for, let’s say, a fish.
“You’re not going to be able to figure it out.”
“Countdown”
A series of pictures inside.
But what Duncan found really curious was the seeming resonance with the 100 Story Building still present as of this writing over in the Kowloon sim, understood through notes supplied by his employer (Pot-D). Specifically Story/Room 87 and its own symbols of billiard balls: stools representing 8, 3, 2, and then also the 1, but with that particular seat covered by a laptop with a prominent XVideos sticker. We’ve talked about them before in this earlier post of this here photo-novel (17).
Note the visible stools 8, 3, and 2 add up to 13 again. Something is hidden or covered up in each case, the Great Deceiver in action.
Duncan, then, has a plan. He feels his time in The Waste is over, East-West loss exposed. Much like this particular version of Kowloon’s 100 story building has served its function and is scheduled to be demolished in a day or two or so. He will *sit* in that room, waiting for the end. Then dust himself off in the rubble after the 87 story fall and move on from there.
He decides to write a song about the experience to mark the time.
Found
Tronesisia sits out of the way on the docks so that Baker Bloch can get a shot of “pipe alley”, leading to the doctor. He suspects this may be the Dr. of “Lamb”….
But then Baker Bloch changes his mind and has Tronesisia interact with this so-called doctor, who turns out to be an old friend: Dr. Diper, who helped her (and her parents) out immensely when she was a mere baby. Before she became, well, robotic. Gynoidic.
“It’s so so good to see you old friend,” he began, instantly recognizing his work. Perhaps his greatest work.
“Likewise Dr. Wiper!” cheered Tronesisia, just glad to be in a scene again.
“Diper,” corrected the doctor. “But we’re both grown up now. Call me…”
“Peter?” Tronesisia guessed. Yes. It was Peter. One of ’em.
Clanking within. The doctor was working on another case. Another Peter.
“It wasn’t going to hurt me,” he practiced, and then swiped his bloodied knife in front of him again, a built-in reflex action.
“Good, good,” the tv doctor cooed. “*Why* wasn’t it going to hurt you?”
Jack appeared beside him. Glowering. “Yeah, *John*. Why???”
ground
Feng Sui and Qi stare at the door waiting for customers that never come. “Damn that Fish Head,” sitting Qi exclaims at one point. “Damn the Head and the Fish,” reinforces her standing sister at the time, then later thinks, while still standing and staring over: maybe we should fix the bullet holes in the door. Maybe that doesn’t help with the customers. The Store Zero slaughters were a long time ago, after all. Maybe it’s time to finally heal the wounds. “We can’t have a repeat of the past, sister of mine,” she speaks down to Qi after telling her the same. “Oh *no*,” Qi doubles down. They both know, no matter what’s going on with Fish Head and the Bird above them, that they cannot return to the ugly, brutal past. The Dark Days.
Qi rises from the stool. “I’ll go try to find some sealant.” ‘Bout time.
—–
Later: back at their nearby apartment…
… Qi dwells on the dark past…
… while Feng Sui discusses what to fix for supper with Uncle Jack.
“Quinoa all right?”
Jack: “You’ll have to ask Uncle *John* about that,” indicating the man sitting in the rocking chair on the balcony. John Lockfry 01. Been a long time.
not today
I’m very close to the answer, Axis thinks while staring up.
He turns. Very close.
He buys the “white eye” offered on top of the old drum can for a linden dollar, wears, and instantly becomes blinded.
“*Shite*.”
seeing
There was only one place to go.
“I can’t see, Fish Head. I had to borrow an old man’s cane just to get here. He’s laying back there in the alley — may want to tell the local authorities in an hour or two. Make it two… since I’m blind. Anyway, you better tell the Heart Queen that I’m going to have to abort the mission.”
Fish Head begin mixing the booze in his hands again, eventually saying, “she’s not going to like it.”
“I know, I know,” Axis followed quickly. “Just tell her.” He points to his sightless, red eyes. “Not much choice.”
Fish Head retrieved a glass underneath the bar and poured the mixed drink in from the canister. He pushed the glass toward Axis. “Here. Drink this down. Then have a re-consider.”
Axis knew he wasn’t going to “have a re-consider” but took the drink anyway. Free booze was always a weakness. But Fish Head, of course, knew that already. “Go ahead,” he urged. Axis drank.
—-
He woke up in a trench beneath the water. He wasn’t blind any longer — looked up and saw a spinny red, fabric-like thingie wielding scissors and knife in metal hands. Another doctor.
He knew he had been fixed up.
He stands up and makes his way through the trench back to the surface. Still in the service of the Heart Queen obviously.
price to pay
—–
“I can’t believe it,” Guy Benjamin exclaimed a little later to Grandmama after she broke the news. “Grandpapa’s dead!”
“Did in with his own cane,” she explained, her voice starting to waver. “The old fool.” She was inconsolable for months, maybe years. Axis had done a bad thing. A bad bad thing. We must reexamine the ultimate motives of his character in light of this horrendous act.
tables
Axis again worships Lu Ellen Hutchison (or Hutchinson) before entering his NWES coffee shop. Who is now his wife, at least last time he checked (Wednesday).
He enters the coffee shop proper…
… only to see two avatars sitting at his favorite table instead of the one he expected. The conversation already taking place was briefly interrupted.
“There he is,” whispered Man About Time to Tracy Austin. “Behind the column. It’s as if he doesn’t think we can *see*.”
They talked about many things that night, the two of them and then all three together when Axis finally came out of “hiding”. One by one (by one), they began to understand all revolved around Peter — after all, the only Variant at The Table who was never a Variant. Peter and “Lamb”. They vowed, 3 hands clasped together at the center of *this* table (standing, remorseful Axis from the side), that Grandpapa didn’t die in Vain. Because, of course, we already know he died in Kowloon. His “Lamb” will live on.
“I am pleased,” I can hear him say from that Great Elderly Center in the Sky, lost cane back in hand again.
pipes
“We begin.”
bb:
Thanks Hucka D. The chronicles, whatever they will be called, will consist of another blog within a blog, like we did last year about this same time. We are going to determine why Peter came to Our Second Lyfe and what his Big Sink project was when he came.
Hucka D.:
In short he was impressed with Tronesis… saw that he actually did it in a probable way. Better than an actual movie, because heavily coded. Ram equals Lamb[ and so on]. He understands that the Lamb album should have been mixed up that way. 2nd is 1st, 4th is 2nd, 3rd is 3rd, and 4th is 1st. TILE.
bb:
So he applies, is accepted above Ian Anderson, Robert Fripp, and whomever…
Hucka D.:
No. Those were the other candidates.
bb:
How about Barrett himself? Syd… or SID?
Hucka D.:
It was destined to be Peter because of the Cross of the Lamb. He had to exit the cross. And so he did[ at 1974].
bb:
Another idea I had is that he built the structure that I call Gallery 7/10 to create the “time standing still” point at its center. This would equate with “Lost Cane“. In other words, Richard Alpert. Timelessness.
Hucka D.:
Correct.
bb:
From this point of stillness he effected the Sunklands sinking. Sink sank sunk.
Hucka D.:
He created the Big Sink.
bb:
And all other sinks.
Hucka D.:
Yes.
Gallery 7/10
“Did you get all that Head?”
Faint affirmation from the bald, newspaper reading man behind him.
“Do — you think it still exists?”
“No,” Cyber-Catwoman opines in front of him, Identity Disk spinning a different way. They stare at each other, Yin to Yang. Head keeps reading the news (oh boy).
Times Square
Later, while working at the Residents Union Back rolling out dough with a pin, Phyllis (aka Cyber-Catwoman) ponders why she was so adamant about Gallery 7/10 not existing any longer to her partner Chip (Cyber-Catman) at Head’s — almost directly above her at this point.
Because the place of timelessness is *here*, she realizes, and freezes the pin in its tracks.
The dough must be curious what happened.
—–
Feng Sui and Qi: gone, Chip realized when teleporting in from the roof. He just substituted 26 for 61 and he was here. Chip was needing advice on how to put up with a woman he loved. Because the cyan colored opposite sex remained a total mystery to him. Indeed, FS and Qi could have helped, but they were currently preparing lunch for the uncles. The bullet holes remain unsealed, Store Zero’s past still open and bared for all.
Someone opens the door….
(to be continued?)
zeroed out
When Duncan was rudely woken up he was falling. The 87 Room he had been sitting in and composing songs to mark time was suddenly no more. He fell on top of what was left of room 71 — its roof it appeared. Or maybe the floor of 72.
Certainly time to go groundside now and contemplate the next move. The 100 Story Building of Kowloon was no more. Will another replace it? Time to talk to this Fish Head hub-of-a-man to get the latest….
Oh. He’d figured something out in the meantime. The one ball in pool is *not* blue, as he had mistakenly thought before; been a while since he played the game. That’s instead the two ball. And two of the 3 remaining pool stools in what use to be Room 87, all exposed in contrast, were colored wrongly. The 3 is colored yellow instead of red and the 2 is orange instead of the yellow it should be — orange belongs to 5 instead. Only the 8 stool is aptly hued. So the question remains: what number was under the XVideos labeled laptop?
Ahh, never mind that now, Duncan thinks while peering around at inky space dotted with milky stars. A new stage beckons in Kowloon below, perhaps a new building along with it. He jumps and falls again…
what’s behind
It started in earnest when I found the curtains on the slopes of Mt. Piren Bistano, the very summit where Rooster’s castle once stood. Baker immediately believed it could actually be a leftover bit of the castle, then started thinking along more symbolic lines, like these might be the curtains hiding the missing blue eye of Wheeler. Beans. Yes, Magika and Flip were gearing up for a continent wide wrestling tour. I need to go visit Karoz — I suppose he’s still in Chilbo, even with the seeming loss of Baker Blinker. In a different way, Axis and Wheeler, I mean, *Flip*, have a different arrangement. Marriage is not what it seemed to be. The Collagesity novels are coming apart from the center. What’s more core to them than the sacred marriage of Baker Blinker and Karoz Blogger?? Way back in 2 — we’re now closing in on the end of 17. If I can stop the Nautilus bias of 18 from entering.
Baker checks. The 2 people who now rent the whole of Piren Bistano do indeed seem in love. And the sim is covered by a giant heart. Baker found the curtains near the center when he teleported in, with another avatar exactly in this center as well but apparently far far above him somewhere, in their Heart Castle in the Sky. Could it be Roostre again in some form?
And viewable from just other side of this summit, probably quite near where he rented a cottage way back in 2010…
… the legendary Dancing Woman of Nautilus. Rumor has it that she knows upwards of a 1000 dances. Baker has only mythological interest here, hence the Genesis fox.
—–
Meanwhile in Kowloon…
… Guy Benjamin finds the Red Door.
what’s behind 02
Guy has a dream where he is calling the fox through music.
“Put down that silly instrument that you can’t play properly anyway. We’re related!”
Newtonia Kashkow inserts herself back in the picture (MOO). She’s ready to give the password.
—–
Guy Benjamin wakes up. “Shite! So close.”
what’s behind 03
Leaday, who has mysteriously replaced Goldie in the meantime, whispers through the disconnected line of pipes toward Peter/ Dr. Diper. “End of tiimmmme,” the part fish, part frog creature hissed.
“We’re running out of time,” stated Parasol across from Guy Benjamin while staring over at the Residents Union Back hourglass and its shifting sand.
But these were the “human” forms of cat beings Rebl and Guyd respectively, out of the End of Time caves and in Kowloon for a reason. Guy has human relatives: Grandmama and Grandpapa. Well, only Grandmama now, since the latter was done in by Axis the other day. With his Lost Cane in heaven, he still directs the good guys down below, however. Including grandson Guy. Parasol has other reasons for being here. She’s still looking for someone. Herbert Gold back in Rosehaven didn’t produce the needed results.
Across the alleyway, in the apartment directly behind Leaday, a phone rings. Satan Santa, taking his third bath of the day, cusses a hellish word, then exclaims to Frosty beside him, “You know who that is.” It wasn’t a question; no one calls here but her. Satan Santa stands up out of the tub and prepares to waddle toward the living room to answer it. Five rings, six rings… he knows she won’t let up.
Frosty is gleeful. He hopes this is the last time he has to see this ugly, hairy ass moving away from him. Too many times!
Tao
Phylllis/Cybercat-Woman, the cyan “it” power inside the walls now (thanks to Peter), illuminated the next place Herbert Glenn Gold should dream about.
—–
She slept on her guitar so-as no one else would dare steal it. This weekend was the big ta-do. Concert with her sisters at Loon Lake, also known as Kow Pond. It was to be the center of everything. And so it is.
giving her the Floydian slip
Red eye, Guy Benjamin contemplates. Like the band. This must be where they live!
He must find his way down to get an autograph. But he never does.
—–
About an hour later, Redeye manager Kuckoo Kuail urgently knocks/slaps on the door of Slash Girl’s small house, lead guitarist for the group. Unless it’s Angus Girl or Buckethead Girl.
Alarmed at no answer after banging again and calling her name, she enters.
Gone. Just like the others. Three lost souls. What is she going to do?? The big ta-do at Kow Pond/ Loon Lake is — tonight!!
return of the 88’s
“No, I think you’ve had quite enough spaghetti tonight,” answers Kuckoo to her daughter Louisa’s request. “Now let’s see if we can get that nasty bowl off your head.” But, having a revelation, she instead pivots toward googling Sparky at her laptop. “Anything yet?” she asks, lining up her thoughts while Louisa slurps a stray spaghetti noodle into her mouth. “Not really,” he barks back, and then relays what he thought was sidestepping trivia but turns out to be the heart of the matter. “Did you know, Kuckoo, that there’s a Cow Pond over on the old continent. Spelled with a ‘c’ instead of a ‘k’.” Kuckoo doesn’t get angry, but she inwardly thinks that Sparky should keep on track with his search for the missing girls. The big ta-do is — tonight! No time for sidestepping trivia. Even though, as I said, it’s the meat of the problem, the gist of the matter, white and grey. “Sorry,” Sparky apologizes when Kuckoo doesn’t respond. “I just–” “No problem,” she answers, thinking on the contrary, it *is* a problem. Perhaps they’ll have another sale on word processing dogs down at the marketplace soon. She’s saved enough money. She’s about ready to buy. One more slip–
“Bowl,” she then utters, remembering her insight. “Fish bowl,” she elaborates. “Google, Sparky, ‘fish bowl’ and ‘lost’ together.”
Sparky does as commanded (good dog!). “Yes, there’s a hit!” Sparky is excited because he thinks this can save his job as animal word processor for the Kuail family. Because he knows he’s in trouble too. Dogs are intuitive like that. “But — looks like there’s only two lost souls in that song instead of three. One off, then.” Sparky’s job is suddenly jeopardized again.
—-
In other parts of Kuckoo’s small house overlooking Tao Bay, daughter Thelma is lining up Benjamin Franklins to stick on her doll heads…
… while visiting Earnheart and Gordon fiddle around with drawers and cover themselves with grease stains. Who left those children here??
bastards
“The Queen is happy and sleeping in her royal bed,” recites Tronaxis (new name!) at his virtual reality game command center. “No stopping us now, right Cpt.?”
But then Tron revamped Axis remembers that he bagged and gagged Cpt. Americus earlier in the evening and left him hanging to dry. And the turtle (Norton Wise) had been turned into soup. And Fish Head’s head would turn since he’d been bought off. I will be the champion! he inwardly crows.
Purple mutt Ralph, a non word-processor, keeps guard and growls with every slight movement. The Cpt. within has learned to stay still and not eat the remaining white and grey matter in his magically replenishing bucket. Because he has a plan. The first, true, has been stolen and appropriated by (Tron)Axis but the second, the new one, is even better. He will *help* the Heart Queen in an about-face. Kick his traitorous ways down the road a bit, biding his time. If only he can get out of the current situation. Come on, white and grey matter, he urges, knocking his head with the drumstick still in his hand and inciting another growl from Ralph.
“Everything all right over there Ralph?” Tronaxis didn’t need a smart dog, only a loyal one. That’s all he demands from any of his subjects. Obedience; loyalty. The Heart Queen and he are too similar in that way. Eventually, ultimately, one or the other had to go. He hopes it’s her.
If only he had an ally — a human one this time and not an obedient mutt like Ralph. Tronesisia? No, she’s not an obedient robot/gynoid any longer, having broke her programming. Peter? But Tronaxis still didn’t really know who that was. Besides being a clone of Peter Gabriel of “Lamb”, etc., fame. Oh wait — there’s Randolph.
Just down the alley.
lost
She was indeed underwater but not in the right place. Damn confusing town! she cussed to herself. “Excuse me sir,” she requested to the fish butcher who was working down here. A larger fish swam between Parasol and him, eclipsing the man for a moment. Then she continued.
“I’m looking for Kuckoo’s place.”
“Loco?” the man tried back between chops. He was very fast, and was almost ready for a second gutting as they spoke.
“No — *Kuck*- koo. Kuckoo Kuail.” Her red and blue eyes burned brightly into the man. She wanted him to understand but saw he probably didn’t. She rechecked the psychological photograph taken earlier and tried again, using a different landmark. “How about the, um, Palace Hotel.” The first name of the hotel was cut off in the photograph. Hopefully this will provide enough information.
The butcher slung another fish in front of him and dropped the just gutted one in a metal bucket at his foot. “That one is for supper later,” he said, pausing for a smile, red chopper still for a moment. “No tell, no tell!”
“Okay, I won’t tell. But the hotel…”
“Ah, yes. So, I, ah, know that place you are talking about. You are looking for someone in particular? But not, ahem, *Loco*.”
“No. Loco doesn’t exist. I was looking for Kuckoo…”
“Oh… KUCK-koo,” the man suddenly beamed, resuming his cutting. “Now I know. She has two kids, yes?”
“I don’t know about that. I’m just looking for her house.” She was actually looking for the whiteyes Axis found earlier but of course didn’t mention this. It was on top of a barrel only a couple yards from Kuckoo’s front door, which she knew from the photo.
“I will take you there,” the butcher said, setting down the tool of his trade. “You will walk with me…”
“That’s not –” but then Parasol stopped her protest, knowing she would never find the place without his help. Another fish swam between them. “Thank you.”
lost 02
“Okay, don’t tell me Bird Brain,” he requested to his apparent friend at the main drag. “Okay, *there’s* the main door, the Yang and the Yin. I, er, have just erupted from the Flea Market which is my home. My *work* home — ahem, I do not *live* underwater, see, heh heh. I am not a fish myself, har.”
“Yeah, tell it to the bartender,” and Bird Brain walked away with this for a moment, avoiding the old man’s ramblings per usual. “Tell it to the bartender,” was local slang meaning, “go talk to someone else about your problems that gives a sh-t.” Or something along those lines.
“So we’re lost.” Parasol was thinking she could do better than this by herself. Perhaps the old man is senile. How would someone with even a slight case of dementia cope in this maze of a town. They couldn’t!
The fish butcher licks his index finger, then holds it in the air, as if testing the wind. The same finger then points toward where they just came from. “*That* way,” he exclaimed confidently, and began to walk. Parasol obviously didn’t follow. And, actually, he didn’t expect her to. The butcher knew the flea market and his included underwater work spot well enough. That was his world. On a regular basis, he would come out and ask Bird Brain (limited to his own world around this particular leaning pole) directions to this or that place. It was a routine they shared. And always the closer: “Go tell it to the bartender.”
The butcher indeed lived in the flea market. He existed underwater. And, by this point, was probably a fish himself. But he likes to forget this every once in a while and come up for air (but not for long).
Parasol was on her own again.
end 01
Parasol was so close to the man with the answers (Patriotic Soup Restaurant cook) but yet so far. The bearded lady’s answer to the location of Kuckoo’s or Palace Hotel was: “Ask the fish butcher at the flea market. He knows everything and everybody.” Another dead end, then, for, as we know, the underwater butcher knows nothing. She decided just to wander a bit more before totally giving up, and stumbles (and bumbles) upon a passageway she didn’t think she’d explored before in her many travels through the city now. She touches something and then finds herself here…
…. confronting a white rabbit on the sky object’s edge. Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer, murdered in “Collagesity Photo-Novel 16.”
Parasol didn’t know this fact, but quickly gathered she was talking to a ghost. “Your plan would not have worked,” he called over in earnest after introducing himself. “The whiteyes would not implant correctly over your own eyes and you would have been found out immediately and killed. Just like myself.” He faded from view with this, but the brief encounter provided Parasol with more valuable information than she had hitherto received from anyone in Kowloon. My plot would not have work! she said, spinning the possibility, nay *actuality* around in her mind. Because she knew it was true as soon as it spilled out of the dead doctor’s mouth. White rabbits are true guides. They do not seek to mislead in and of themselves.
Parasol looked up. Another mass of black and white color directly above her head. She flew up…
… to confront *another* white rabbit at the same position on the taijitu symbol’s edge. The symbol was smaller, brighter, and with a more irregularly shaped edge (with a good number of rounded protrusions) than the otherwise duplicate one immediately below. Another 2-n-1.
This white rabbit, taller and appearing feminine in the dim light to Parasol, introduced herself as Charlie in about an octave higher register than the doctor before her. Feminine indeed, although possessing a uni-sex name. “I am the continuation of the doctor,” she spoke, and then Parasol was in a very different location again. Very low instead of very high.
She stared up. The spinning, red fabricy doctor had just finished fixing the first red eye and was about to start on the second. A beam shot up from the “unfixed” eye, destroying the aberrant being in one poof of smoke. She stood up. Was she alive or dead? She couldn’t tell as she walked down the trench toward the surface again…
(to be continued)
end 02
Devil Girl, the unofficial 4th member of the Redeye band — so unofficial she was forgotten in the dispersal of the others — looked on from a safe distance at the Patriotic Soup Restaurant as dreamer Herbert G. Gold returned the “With ‘Other Other'” VHS tape.
“This does me no good,” Herbert complained to the cook, back to stirring his famous concoction derived from ancient Bing Song recipes such as “White Christmas” and “Jingle Bells.” “It’s blank — nothing on it. I ran it from beginning to end to make sure.” He lays the tape closer to the cook on the counter but no reaction from the stirrer. “It does me no good,” Herbert repeated. “I am no closer to knowing who this cat with the red eye is than at the beginning.”
A weighted pause. Herbert could tell the cook had information he wasn’t revealing. Then a bit here: “The tape (stir – stir – stir) is not blank.”
“Well, yeah, like I said, I watched it from beginning to end. It *is* blank. There’s nothing on it.”
The title label on the tape suddenly faded out, then snapped back into reality. Devil Girl noticed the anomaly from her observing seat if Herbert Gold didn’t. She realized at that moment that the tape was blank because the story of Redeye hadn’t been told yet. It lay in the future from this point. She decided, then and there, to steal the tape and put something on it. Something to remember the band by. Because this was all about her fellow bandmates Slash Girl, Angus Girl, Buckethead Girl. They had been dispersed, true, but something else could be made of it.
Herbert Gold was gone. The tape title remained blank for good. Devil Girl moved in and took his spot.
“There was nothing ever there, young lady,” the stirrer explained. “*Yet.*”
It’s yours to do something with now.”
end 03
Spies were all over town. The Queen’s gang: Frosty, Satan Santa, Norton Wise Turtle, Space Ghost (Space Ghost!), Fish Head of course. Others she has no time to remember the names of right now. Because she must hurry — she knows she will soon be followed. In the dreamscape things sometimes move very fast(!). She must keep pace. Blank VHS tape in hand, Devil Girl runs through a conveniently placed green door beside the Patriotic Soup Restaurant and down one of the town’s many “secret” passages. Too convenient, some might speculate. And they would be right.
She exits the passage through another green door and enters a larger alleyway. “Wagon wheels,” Devil Girl ponders. “I’m too close to home.” She knew the symbol spelt the end.
She turns. Most of the remainder of the Queen’s gang were running down the sloped stairs from the other direction toward her. Too late. She will not find the red door. She will be dispersed with the others, and the VHS tape stored in a safe place until information begins to appear on it. But this would be much later.
end 04
Before heading over to Kowloon, Jer Left Horn makes a stop in VHC City to pause and reflect on the recent death of the user behind longtime Virtual Hotel Chelsea manager Enola Vaher. Although I didn’t know the avatar (or user), VHC City, centered around the huge hotel, figures prominently in my mythology through, primarily, The Diagonal, which is now one (Head) of 2 (also: Heart) I’ve found spanning the Heterocera continent. I hope the hotel can carry on beyond this blow, and certainly the rental situation there continues to be healthy and, most likely, self sustaining for a while. Many musical events go on all the time there as well.
Jer Left Horn at Enola Vaher’s “Finely Torn Id” gallery in what I call VHC City.
—–
Moving on to Kowloon, Jer Left Horn decides to first stop by Fish Head’s bar to catch up with all the latest news. The first thing he notices are the bent stools in the back.
“Fight in here, Head?” he questioned while sitting down at the nearest, upright stool, becoming suspicious off the top. He had his knife at ready in the belt under his jacket just in case.
“Oh, you know. Typical Tuesday night. Some of the Queen’s gang letting off steam.”
*You’re* one of the Queen’s gang, Jer Left Horn thinks to himself. Why the separation between you and them? The hand slides down to grip the handle of the knife.
“Like who?” he tried to ask as calmly as possible. “Norton Wise Turtle?” He forced a smile here. Everyone knew the big man-turtle was a first rate troublemaker.
“Yeah, him. And, let’s see — Space Ghost!”
“*Space Ghost*?” Jer Left Horn turns left. Then: nothing for a long while.
——
He wakes up in some kind of pod swimming with shrimp, it appeared. He keeps his eyes frozen, military training snapping into action in a moment of crisis.
“You’re getting old again, Space Ghost. Better head back to the time machine,” requested likewise observing TronAxis. “The shrimp have almost extracted all the information they need.” TronAxis returns his attention to Jer Left Horn’s floating form in the cylinder: the still frozen eyes, the glazed over look. Shouldn’t be long though, now, he thinks. Is there life already in that face?
The cylinder shatters. Jer Right Horn steps out, dry as a whistle, knife ready. The shrimp flip and flop helplessly around the floor amidst the spilled yellow liquid and broken glass, task unfinished. Now old Space Ghost knows he’s no match for the young prince and hobbles away from the scene as fast as possible. TronAxis stands steady, light disk at ready. He knew of Jer Left Horn’s military background — should have taken more steps to ensure his secureness. Hindsight is golden I suppose. But this is the way it was suppose to be, he adjusted to the situation. Me versus him.
A narrow boat materializes before the fleeing Space Ghost in the middle of the pool of water just beyond the pod room: Tessa, sans her driving challenged grandpa this time but still a dreamer. And this is the aforementioned Kow Pond, also known as Loon Lake. Indeed the center of it all. Thanks to Tessa.
“Gentlemen!” she called back into the shadows behind old Space Ghost. “Set down your arms!”
COLLAGESITY NOVEL 24
00240602
A room with no door (Shop 10, Kowloon):
Downstairs:
“Come in, Fern Stallin.”
—–
“Yeah, I’m not Fern Stalin.”
“Ohh, but you *aare*.” Pause.
“Anyway…”
“Cornfield,” the Old Man in a Narrow Room interrupted crisply. “I’m sensing… Corrnfield, yess.” The place had lightened up.
Blue Berry Girl, 1/2way back to Rules of Rose by this point, looked around without questioning more. She vaguely recalls twins named Cornfield, born in, yes, Valentine. A place called Valentine.
“Youuurr… *rememmberring*.”
“Listen, um, Old Man. It was nice visiting you but I have other places to go tonight.”
“Youuu… will *returrnnn*.”
—–
—–
Walking the RR in the Inbetween World. Watch out from behind!
—–
“Yoouuu… havve *returrrnned*.”
COLLAGESITY NOVEL 28
00280309
“Catch anything George?!” Burt shouted over, trying not to be jealous. 2 fish to one already. 3 to 1 may be too hard to overcome! What will the missus think? Emasculation!
—–
He goes back to visit poor Grandmama often but sees her seldom. Like today. He stumbles and stumbles and finally recognizes the Pipe Alley, as he calls it, with Doctor Diper at the end, waiting for another patient. Not him this time! He voices this out loud to Goldie beside him, who sometimes turns into Lead(ay). Alchemy, pheh. He’s *finished* with it. “Doctor doesn’t operate any more,” bubbles glistening Goldie back, good to go with gossip. “Broke — can’t be fixed most likely.” “How?” asked Guy Benjamin, a good guy for gossip as well. “Impotence?” “Hardly,” said back Goldie, gold scales showing a slight bit of gray now, transmutation beginning. Guy better get as much gossip as possible before the change. “So he still has his…” “Wiener? Yes.” Half gold half gray now. Time was ticking down, Gold(ie) cornered only a little longer. “Blackbird?” asks Guy. But it was too late. The gold had flown the coup, only dense Lead(ay) remaining who knew nothing about anything hardly. Guy would have to find answers himself. He approaches the good doctor from down the alley.
not (yet) blinded
“I’d like an identity, please.”
—–
He manifested in an apartment formerly occupied by sisters named Feng Sui and Qi. Was he sufficiently hidden?
No. “Who are you?” asked the lady in red who had just entered the room. He’d been caught!
Bar None
He ran.
—–
“It’s good you changed shirts and came here, Guy. She won’t look here: too far in the past.”
He wanted to say that he didn’t change his shirt he merely added another one on top of the first but just thanked his lucky stars it worked anyway. Now he could talk openly about the Heart Queen with his old friend Fish Head, the one who he could depend on to give him directions when he got lost. Which was a *lot* here.
“Who is she?” he asked, heart still thumping from all the excitement.
“Goes by Helen.”
Helen, Guy pondered. Like Troy. Destroyer of Men.
“What happened to Feng Sui and Qi?”
“Gave up the store. Left town.” Guy knew Fish Head was talking about Store Zero, where it all started and revolved around and shite. Murderous past. Which was, again, present. But he had no real choice. He had to escape (!). Gunshots outside. He’ll have to get use to it, he figured.
“And the uncles?” Two more shots, then a scream. Then quiet (for a while).
“One remains.” But Fish Head didn’t reveal which one. Could be Jack. Could be John. He didn’t have the guts to open that door and find out — the body could be slumping right against it; spill into the establishment and cause a bloody mess he’d have to clean up. And he’d lost his mop, dangnit. Probably stolen (again!) by the Mopheads down in Ragtown, the bloody gang. Maybe them outside right now, causing all this commotion. The Heart Queen had hidden him but for how long? It was up to her to open the door — not him.
red all over
The door to the bar was a decoy — sent visitors upstairs to another bar devoid of animations and life in general. Except for constantly humming Hurley. Let’s shorten it to Hummy. The bird.
“Where IS HE????” demanded the Heart Queen after teleporting up. The future was still the present, which means Guy was still successfully hiding in the past immediately below, purchased identity holding. Too bad she’d never learned to play croquet or things could have worked out differently for her. It could have relaxed her, taken her down a different path. And indeed, that’s the queen Fish Head and Guy knew (in the past). A kinder gentler one, a sympathetic sort.
“Have a Bloody Mary, Queen,” trilled the humming bird. “Let’s talk.”
The queen was surprised she could sit down despite the lack of animations. It didn’t bother Hummy, since he was a flier not a sitter. He expertly blended a tomato with celery and spice. He mixed in the liquor. It was ready.
One sip and she started to remember, heart of ice melting. She recalls Broken Heart. The spell was over.
She began to dance again.
the future is now
He sat underwater with Leaday afterwards and wondered what just happened? “Was any of it real?” he called over from his stool next to one of the circling opabinia, another impossibility since this queer 5 eyed, backwards headed fish has been extinct for millions of years. He remembers visiting the doctor. That’s it. But what happened inside was a blank.
—–
He took his first shirt off, finally remembering there was actually a shirt beneath that. Shirt Zero if you will. He was home.
And all was not well.
from Genesis to Lamb
—–
Now that I’m awake again I’m going to figure out who you guys are, he thought. Sorry: *gals*.
Gals?
—–
Other Other! (4:00)
Worlds come together. (3:45)
return
Guy woke up in an alleyway again. It’s those pipes, he realized, seeing upwards. Lead… weighing him down. Dense. Causing the wacky dreams. Stealing a golden goose letter, pheh. Rebel, bah. But… where were his Genesis shirts?
Better phone up Fish Head, tell him I got lost once more. Have to wear the “Nursery Cryme” one to get in. Gall darnit, I *always* have them on, one on top of another: “Foxtrot” beneath “Nursery Cryme”. Just in case. I feel naked without them.
He shivers with this and decides to get into action.
00280406
Fish Head wasn’t in for some reason. He’s *always* in. He’s on his own again, at least for a little while. Probably one of those improbable bathroom breaks, he guesses. Fish Head usually just absorbs it internally but it eventually builds up, he reckons. Have to let go sometime, despite the dangers.
As he keeps stumbling and bumbling, he spots Soupie down a passageway. Soupie can help me, he realizes, thinking back to what the old Chinese cook told him last year about, who was it? The owner of the place. The one with the master map. “What you need to keep from getting lost, young dude, is a *plan*,” he said. Also: “Follow the pipes if worse comes to worse. Always follow the pipes.” He’d forgotten about that bit of advice until now. And he was sleeping right below them. Density, yes, but in his own brain. He figures he needs a refresher course. Fate he meets him.
—–
“Good, eh?” he spoke over while still stirring. Always stirring his patriotic soup this one is. Hence the name.
Guy nodded. “Good, yes, Soupie,” and took another slurp. 10 lindens. Very reasonable for a nice hot meal.
“Musshroooms. Fresh from Wonderland.” Guy recalled that Soupie called the fresh market down the street Wonderland for some reason, although its real name was just plain ol’ Fresh Market, or at least that’s the only official one he’d ever heard. He starts to feel a little funny in the head. He decides to tell him about his recent dreams.
name games
He told him of the missing letter in the 4 letter name, and that would take his power away and the rebels could triumph and be top dogs (once more). “Before the coming of the 4 color-letters,” he explained. “We tortured him — extensively. We got a name: Rael. Rael McCoy. We could crush him like a (golden) goose egg, we realized, but, in the end, we just let him go, let him return to the other 3 of his ilk. We realized we could never win. Because we saw ourselves in *him*. *We* hurt when we tortured him.” Guy stopped, wondering if he should say the next thing. The Chinese cook kept stirring, always patient. He’d heard so many similar stories now down through the years. All involving letters, all ending in pain.
“Let me guess,” he said calmly, steam obscuring his head from Guy in the moment. “You realized… you were missing one as well.”
So he knew that also. Because Guy had started out as Guyd, the glossy yellow and green eyed cat who was actually quite inept as a guide, despite the name. Rebl knows.
little one (backs turned again (hidden in corn))
“I don’t belong here,” he said to friend Horace later on down at the docks in a kind of goodbye. “I’m not who I seem.” The wheels in his head kept spinning ’round and ’round.
—–
We go one outfit up for the next section: Harrison Ford Jett. We return to Collagesity and its Boos Gallery with Fern and him.
“So the taijitu ball was rolled over, giving the Mouse another head to replace the one just crushed like a…”
“… goose egg,” finished Harrison. Fern stared at him, wondering how much he knew about McCoy.
“The meteor, yes. Impach. Let’s move over to the Power Tower now — want to show you another baker b. work.” Things were different now, she realized. De ja boom and paths change. She’s glad, because she misses Harrison. And those apples.
—-
But for Harrison Ford Jett, Fern never made it over to the Power Tower. Alone, he stares into the eyes of hate.
Where is he (*panic*)?? Oh: there.
Boos (narcissist 02 (abcdE))
She finds herself in a place doing realistic things, like blow drying her hair. But this is the morning she finds out she is actually a man. She stares into the mirror, looking at them after the removal of the false, the fake. How deflating!
The mayor’s nose keeps growing. Guy visits the doctor again, still working for the resistance. A new strategy is being hatched. Stealing the golden goose egg *has* produced results. He’s straightened out, elongated: the I of TILE revealed.
(to be continued)
go fourth
The Paper Kings dropped a Big Baby behind enemy lines and Claude Sit-on got sat-on. His son Claude Jr. carried on the family name, obviously. In retaliation he tried to wire the school so that it would blow up at 4:20 o’clock on [pick any day], but the kids foresaw this and blew up Claude Jr. instead. With their minds of course, no primitive physics needed. End of mechanoid aspect of our story, but later the Claudes, jr. and sr. now conjoined and united as one Claude in the minds of people who couldn’t remember the originals, became martyrs to the cause. It was here that Dr. Mouse entered our story again. “He died for *our* sins,” the fanatic was telling him back in their secret basement lair underneath the mayor’s house, now run by Jim Turbine the plastic surgeon. He surged, he won. Former mayor Longnose went back to Yayaland where he came from and started wearing a different face (at times) and leading the resistance to his own cause, which eventually recruited Guy Benjamin from Kowloon who eventually was able to steal the little yellow fellow, the Rael McCoy, from the other 3 while they had their backs turned. And this is where Dr. Mouse enters our story once more (!), for he was asked to perform a special operation to straighten out the racist lad. *Not* remove the color this time, which should remain glinty gold or close, they insist, just like Claude down in Sittontown (Meatside renamed). “What, then?” demanded Mouse, afraid he would see a rat in such a remote place and eager to get outta here. “Turn him into an *I*,” they said, and left it with him.
Dr. Mouse went back to his basement lair, told the others what had happened. A plane crashed outside in front of the cave that sheltered Sheldon the Initiated, Fern Stalin in disguise once again — I believe this was 42 by this point. On the other side of Paper, Swamp Lake had been drained by the resistance *here* in an attempt to stifle the efforts of the kids. The Asylum was filled with those who weren’t really loonies but were deemed so nevertheless. And Dr. Mouse was the stamp-maker. He wore many hats, but there was only 1 he wanted to live under. Hatti’s.
“What do you think? First attempt, mind you.”
Greg Ogden was stymied. “Is that a… banana?”
NOVEL 30
choices
She was dancing in the center of the taijitu but she didn’t have a pole. Yin and yang halves spun round and round, making her dizzy. making her *ditzy*. They were almost opposite each other. She woke up.
She was blonde.
Oh well. Time to continue the course.
As long as she stays in Crisostomo and doesn’t veer over into Crispell she’ll be on target. Crisp itself.
Ooops (center of sea): *stall*.
In a subsequent dream, a rabbit driving a battymobile drove up to the center and asked her if she needed a ride . Wait — that was reality. Two days ago.
“Need a lift to the meeting, Wheeler?” Baker Bloch was always complaining she was late. This way — not so much.
“Sure.”
“*Hop* in. Get it?”
“Sure.” And she did.
But which meeting in Baker Bloch’s new rental by the Soap Bay Beach did she attend, hmm? It could be spun either way.