PHOTO-NOVEL 48
00480106 (pets pet)
I’d like to think this is my family. Father mother son.
And over there where the mother is staring? Baederwood. I have that much.
Now to find Dr. Tom who has information about the 2 Hills. Maybe a gardener too?
Let’s start here.
00480107 (front, and back too)
“I got my first full blown color tattoos right here in [Dokken Hollow]. Eddy, my Edward, was also my tattoo artist of choice. In that way and more. Butterflies,” she elaborated. “Red green blue, like the primary colors.”
“Of light,” I tried to pinpoint. “Not the Earthy pigment kind.”
“That’s correct. Combined to make purest white. That’s the navel. But there was also yellow; the gold chain that came later was predicted. This represents, you could put it, my connection with the Mother Sphere — Earth as you say. I am from this Earth and to the Earth I will return. The body is temporary.”
“Of course,” is all I could think to say here.
“Eddy — my Edward again — said the butterflies are the fish released at the core center. They work my way up one leg to here. He said the fish should not continue, poopooing the idea I came in there with. He said fish should be paired or countered with birds — can’t remember which one he said now. But I do remember the ‘aha!’ and the sticking up of the index finger in the air to also indicate he had a brilliant idea. Come to think of it, the yellow was already there too. He said he needed to release the Earth. You are from the Mother, he said. But you are not *of* the Mother. You are your own self, (in) your own sphere. Butterflies should do the trick, he said. Birds would be too busy, he went on. Butterflies are simple — pure flight indicated. Less Earth. Yes, he said, let’s look at some patterns and I can have the whole thing done in an hour, 2 hours tops. And so that’s how I met Eddy.”
“You mentioned several tattoos. Several full blown color tattoos.”
“Two, yeah, I flipped over after that and he did the back as well. A tree, but with the same colors, mix in a dash of orange this time, a dab of purple. I basically had to take my tank top off. And that’s how it all got started. I have no excuses. I’m just telling you the way it went down. At last.”
“Amen to that,” I say.
[delete 3 exchanges]
“Afterwards, he said he was closing at 5 because the band would be starting soon and he can’t take the noise. He pointed backwards, to the wall; toward the Bang Bang (Bar). I lose some business that way, I also remember him saying. Drunks coming in here from the bar, wanting to mark up their body in some way, in some fashion, often to keep up with the Tom, Dick, and Harrys of the world. Or compensation. OR — Tomasina, um, let’s see, Diedra I guess, and then Harriets to end all that (laugh).”
“Of course,” I say again. “Female to male.” I wondered if the mention of Tom was accidental but that’s just how my mind works these days.
(to be continued)
00480108
The band was already playing when we walked to the bar counter, started asking loud questions over the noise. “Anyone here by the name of Tom?!” I began. “Maybe a doctor or something?!”
The bartender looked confused at first, as if attempting to process the request. His eyes rolled upwards a bit, then he said, “Tom, you say?!”
“Yeah!” I shouted back. “Maybe a doctor?!” I reinforced the second part.
“There was!… here, let’s go outside and I can talk better! Joe, hold down the bar for just a minute!” What appeared to be the barback — bartender’s assistant — didn’t look too happy, but then moved to a customer who had just approached the counter and took an order. He seemed to know what he was doing.
Outside we got a lot of information from Harry, who also told us that Tom was a Dick. Tom Cruise, as it turns out. Like Julee but different.
(to be continued)
00480110 (Juice)
We stuck around to hear Julee Cruise since, you know, when would we get the opportunity again? Since she was dead and all. Oft-times hubby Newt and I had polished off a couple of beers by then. I checked the watch now on my arm. 2:41 AM. Time to head home, though, I suppose. While we could make our way.
She sang one last time about the Tennessee dog and bird and we were away.
00480111 (Rodentia!)
I don’t think there’s any mixing of words here. This place represents anti-establishment and anti-authority to the hilt! Witness this statue of a beheaded king straddling the corners of 4 sims, a centerpoint of focus. We must begin here to understand all else in the pretty huge metropolis which not only includes most of these 4 sims but spreads over a lot of 2 more as well. Much much larger than The Burg featured in section 03 from photo-novel 45; much larger than Nawt Vaya’s Juho, or Sunklands bordering Newtown, or even west coast NWES City probably, which I’ve considered the largest city of the Jeogeot continent until this point. We the Baker Family have our work cut out exploring this place and resolving its internal story. Might take a large part of a whole photo-novel this time instead of just a section. Maybe a whole one? Several? One way to find out — leap in again!
How did they know I was a stranger? thinks Wheeler.
(to be continued)
00480113
“I guess it was inevitable you show up.” He pauses as he looks over at his oft-times wife, now a ratcatcher complete with backpack cage with a couple of rats in it already. But not of the right kind.
“Yeah, I was attracted by the literal version but disappointed. No one home.”
Earlier: *Knock knock knock.* “Hello?! Anybody here?!”
“Soo now… an actual hole,” said Newt. Both stared over at it, Ratcatcher (aka Wheeler) with her useless rat catching devices for the job and Newt with his useless fishing rod apparently, just slung under his shoulder for looks by the look of it.
—–
She waved goodbye to him but he was already gone. Too laggy for him to stay logged on too while she entered. But not the fault of the sim. Probably my modem or something. Router. Anyway… inside.
—–
Eventually she found CENTER.
And directly above — still at center, mind you — a pawn shop named Escape with a browser named not Rat but Mouse. Doctor too.
That might be it, she thinks while panning up and peering into it.
“How much for this red dress here?” Mouse asks Wanda the shop attendant, pointing toward the object with his cane to indicate desire per usual.
In synchronicity, she then spots a blood stained hand poking out from a split bag of trash.
(to be continued)
00480114
Ironically, the only bags she had to offer Mouse for totting his newly bought red dress home were trash too. She unceremoniously dumps the purchased dress inside, draws the likewise red strings, and hands the filled black plastic container over to him from across the counter. Although he struggles with carrying both the bag and the cane at once while walking out, she doesn’t offer to help, doesn’t even hold the front door open for him.
He trudgingly makes his way toward the now vacant Rat Hole establishment from the shop, wondering if his not wife but girlfriend — maybe — will enjoy the gift. Birthday, he ponders. 666 or thereabouts. Hard to forget. Demon inside her too to help him remember. Might as well be stamped onto her forehead.
Wheeler again of course.
Where is the old fool? she thinks after glancing again at her watch still on her arm.
Must rest now, he determined, catching his breath. Hope she f-ing likes it!
00480115 (another one of those Hana Leis)
“Yes, how are you doing Father?” One of them, she thinks privately, because there remains great doubt that this Dr. Mouse, originally Dr. *of* Mouse, could actually be the biological one. *Psychological*: yes. But Axis and the confirmed DNA tests — 2 of ’em — still looms large in the background. Greg Ogden without his copper toned hair, she also knows now. So strange.
Mouse answers. “Come *home*?” she utters about his request as she watches Chet take another dive under the waves. “But I like it *so much* here. No drama, no tension. Just surf and sun and fun.” Immediate reaction, but Alice also knew he was paying for all this. He could cut off the funds. She had to comply with his wishes. “2 more weeks?” she tried to bargain. Mouse answers. “2 *days*?”
“Your mother needs you,” Mouse explained as best he could now. She wasn’t dying or anything like that; she was just in trouble, he said. Trouble but not sick or dying or anything like that. What could it be? she ponders after the click that ended the call. 2 days. She’d have to say goodbye to the dogs. And rock’n surfer boy Chet out there. He couldn’t come along, she knew — started band practice in Caledonia day after tomorrow with the Andersons, bassist Karl and then little Sherwood on drums. Good with the hands Sherwood was on this rock music. And Karl at least looked good on Paper (their “hit” single). Run with Scissors they were called. And I believe we have former runner-of-a-diner Biff Carter as band manager to end that 4 part string. We’ll see if they actually show up again in this here blog and attached photo-novels or are a kind of hard to get, one-off joke like so many others of its type.
(to be continued)
00480116 (fallen)
He stared at the can, thinking about all the repercussions of what happened in UT recently. Some say he invented the object, but that was Can the character — different. And besides, [Pepi “Can” Kolya] had turned into Newt now, hadn’t he? (he thinks) Better. Able to smile and perhaps even laugh. A new centerpiece figure for the blog and attached photo-novels as a whole on the male side of things. Female? Well, still obviously dominated or ruled by Wheeler. Which reminds him… (STAND)
He’ll return to this Arang 32/225/94 seat for more thinking and pondering later. But for now he’s got to get to another 32/225 spot in a catty-corner sim to wait on daughter Alice, fresh from a land removed from such worries. Her lucky streak has just ended, though, he thinks. Wheeler was not *in* trouble but just trouble period. A little white lie sold to Alice so that she’ll come home and help him deal with her. She doesn’t like his red dress he got from the pawn shop, she doesn’t like the cans of bargain soda he brings home from the grocery store, she doesn’t like this that or the other thing. Difficult (!). Alice was always better than him with handling her moods. And now she’s coming back. Yes, little white lie justified. She’ll get over it soon enough.
“I guess I’ll just stand right in the middle of the road here so she can’t miss me,” he mutters when teleporting in to the second 32/225 of the day. “Just don’t hit me!”
00480204
“Hey look, Frank. It’s me! You know, I was going to be the biggest Youtube pooper of them all. The Pooping Pigeon I was called — or going to be called. Bigger than Mickey. Pansy knows. Ask Pansy!”
“Dawg,” responded Frank Lynn, as was appropriate and desired. “What are you even *doing* here? In my castle, sitting in my chair, looking at my video feed, huh?”
“Well, I have to be here. Remember?”
“And *why*?”
“Well, okay… um.”
“Is it because that car ran you over while you were standing in the middle of the road, dawg?”
“Well…”
“Because if it is, I can fix that. We’ve already been over this. You don’t have to *die*. You don’t have to come *here*. You can still do good… in the world below. I can — fix — this.”
“Yeah, I remember you telling me that,” admitted still chair sitting Dr. Mouse, cane still pointed at his paused big Mouse head looming on the screen before him, part of a 3:33 long YouTube poop video I recently found online, ‘nother one. “But–”
“No buts. I can, let’s see, just place you back at that other 32/225 spot, where you’re just staring at that can of sody pop instead of being in the middle of the road, just waiting for things to end. Pick up the can, let’s say. Communicate with whoever is at the other end of the line. Don’t be… afraid.”
“Pick up the can, eh?” said Mouse, contemplating the proposition again, considering it more deeply this time. He *did* desire contact, mutual friendship. But who was on the other side? One way to find out.
“Okay,” he said. “Send me back.”
“On one condition, though — and we talked about this too. You have to deal with the man-woman polarity. You have to find a—”
But Mouse had already returned back to the place he was at just before he died. At that other Rodentia 32/225 spot, one sim up and left.
He picked up the can in front of him. He knew exactly where to take it next.
(to be continued)
00480210 (dressed)
“I *can’t* believe I *found* you.” He was talking about the cans but also the girl. One and the same.
You didn’t, she thinks. Then rotates 90 degrees in 3 years and changes, DEMON forehead exposed for all to see from this angle.
“At least you got us a *real* soda this time to begin,” spat out his girlfriend-not-wife, once the love of his life but now fading in the distance. Only the littlest fox unites them still. Their son daughter.
(to be continued)
00480306 (Lauren (Gays Mill sandwich w/ variant meats inside))
I dropped my light on the floor when seeing him in the corner, startling me. A white rat with brown in his coloring now, unlike Pansy who was pure light. Vanilla *and* chocolate. And he was just a big rat which differed from Pansy too, who had human qualities to his makeup, anthropomorphic as mentioned before. “Tell us your story,” he hissed in his rat way, “oh golden gloved one.” I knew what he meant. They had the general idea about what was going on with me, what I represented. Rodentia had a right to know?
So I stood behind the podium illuminated by the repositioned light, told my story, what the heck. Beginning with the new hair. Fabulous! Talk about the Hills, the big white and brown rat requested early on. So I explained that too. It was long winded, starting with 6’8 Grant Hill of the 1990s Duke basketball team who played with another Hill named Thomas standing 3 inches shorter. “Some say that he was merely Hill’s Hill,” I said about the latter, who was a good and decent player in his own right but not the star Grant was. “This naturally led to Missouri and the Thomas Hill (village) there, and also Taum Sauk Mt., the highest in the state. Obvious synchromystic reference to famed fictional character Tom Sawyer who also came from that state. And Pat and Mike in the middle — that indicated Mike, that indicated Coach (K.).” Rodentius, for that is what he said his name was somewhere along the way, nodded with this, seeming to be pleased with the revelations so far. “There’s also Denver’s variant name of Grant’s Hill up in the northern part of Missouri, another way to say Hill’s Hill. Then there’s Siloam but I can’t speak fully about that. Gays Mill.”
“Gays Mill?” questioned Rodentius from the side. His tone was patient still, like he understood; was putting himself in my black canvas shoes made for tennis matches.
00480311 (Tom tree (What lies behind the picket fence? Really?))
—–
Answer:
Green Thumb Rd. Master Gardener. To be continued?
00480507
Taking note of the too-similar design of this Rodentia sign with that in Sandy Shores, GTAV from the post before, we send Philip over to sit beside it, if only in a dream. He could be waiting for Wheeler (and perhaps Newt?) to emerge from the “rat hole” across the small pond in front of him we saw in section 01. Yes, there she is, waving at him from what was formerly the entrance and is now the exit, certainly glad to see daylight again however gloomy it may be. “I made it back, Newt!” she calls over to the shadowy figure whom she mistook for her oft times hubby, last seen sitting in this very chair 5 sections back.
But as Wheeler continues to wave and call, no answer is returned. She squints and notices the different clothes, the different hair, the different *man*, despite the same chair, the same location highlighted in the same photo-novel, #48 in a series. Something has changed with the passage of time in the passageways of the rat hole maze she’s been lost in. Unable-to-respond Philip wakes up, but is still in the chair, watching Wheeler in the pool now with several strange men. He stands.
Quack goes the duck. *Quack* goes the duck. My computer overheats and Philip wakes up properly. TBC
00480508
“And so you see you couldn’t help your father because there’s nothing wrong with me and everything wrong with him. So you were right to run him over in your car while the old fool stood helplessly exposed in the middle of Route 9 over there. Like you hit him with a bullet in the past in, what was it, 1785?”
“More like the late 1800s I think,” said Alice Tart to her mother Wheeler Wilson, finally together for that talk about the recently deceased Mouse. Overdue, as are a lot of things in life. Better attend to the important stuff before death.
“I– met the town leader I think,” she then revealed, “this Rodentia of the continent of Jeogeot of the metaverse of Our Second Lyfe,” she expanded needlessly. Like assigning a particular color to white.
“Oh. The male?”
“Yeah, the embodiment thereof.”
“What was he like?” said the curiously non-surprised Wheeler at this turn. She knew that behind the female there’s always a male, often in the same body whether virtual or real, or figuratively if not literally as was the case here.
“What you would suspect, I suppose. A big rat, but with brown markings on top of the white. Add in a bit of color.”
“Chocolate to vanilla,” said Wheeler, translating hues into flavors. “What did you say to… this rat?”
“I confessed *everything*. He seemed very pleased. I supposed I owed him that, using his town, his *female* half, for a good number of posts already. He kind of trapped me in retrospect, drew me to the assembly hall that was his sanctuary. So I just explained everything.”
“Pleased, you say?” Wheeler takes another puff of her cigarette. She’d already offered one to daughter Alice who refused. I wonder if she– no, can’t be. Can it?
“Yeah, pleased. He’s probably still over there if you want to pay him a visit. Checking… checking… yeah, green dot still there. He’s waiting for us… when the time comes.”
“When the time comes,” echoes Wheeler then inhales more smoke. TBC
00480604 (00420515 revisited (1/2 way))
“Get out the shot, honey. I’m trying to take a picture of that ghoul in the cemetery over there!”
—–
“My people were tough on crime. And they didn’t tolerate breaking the law either. We grew up in the shadow of a mountain that began with Wee-Wee. My mother, when we moved over here to the states in ’79, said to be proud of the name and where we came from. But I was embarrassed, always called it the alternate name of Onigbaporo however tongue-twisty and unmemorable that was to the white people of our new land. But when I found Pee Pee Creek over on the west side of Rodentia and its crazy cemetery and its baffling preacher church I knew I had also found a home again in this world of Our Second Lyfe. My mother was priestess before in the “Wee-wee” place we came from and now I became quote unquote priestess in the Pee Pee place, as male and female polarities also switched positions there. It all made some kind of beautiful, circular loop.”
I studied the photo she held in her hand, looked at the flat headed statue of her mother in the center square the townspeople chose to erect before they left, a permanent tribute to her famous presence in their small Nigerian burg. Then I looked up from the photo at Daisy’s flat hair, the perpetually shaving razor held by a ghostly, hovering hand next to it. I started to understand the dynamics involved. But there was still the explanation of her non-colored father remaining. Non, hmm, I pondered. Could that be the reason for the obsession with creating the perfect, non-alcoholic brew? Turns out this was so… partially. TBC
PHOTO-NOVEL 49
00490103
Per more cues in KY, she’d merrily adorned herself with ribbons and bows up and down, from the top of her new festive haired head to the bottom of her new festive shoed toe — toes. Bought for the season would be their reason, on the surface. Then she came back to the Rodentia Assembly Hall intending to give assumed ever-listening Rodentius the giant white rat with a bit of brown to keep him honest another show of information, holiday style. She even brought her Rudolph bulb along for good luck; it now lit the single room hall as much as the sci-fi floor lamp that also tagged along with her.
“What Christmas means to me,” she started after taking the podium, trying not to glance into his corner too much. Nervous for some reason! It was only a big rodent, though. Nothing more. “AHEM… Christmas, to me, to myself, to… I…” Stumped, she looks down here, saw the color highlighted in so many ways on her arms, torso, legs, feet. “… means *red*; yes, red. And Santa,” she followed, thinking of another red dominated being. “But not *Satan*, not 666.”
“Good one, ha!” Rodentius enthusiastically encourages from his thought-to-be ever-corner in the hall, named for what he would call his better, female half which represents the whole virtual town surrounding them on all sides and then some. “Keep it coming!”
—–
But suddenly, just like that, there was no one in the assembly hall except Wheeler, who just stood there alone, awkwardly dressed for the occasion. Should have been a more somber attire, black instead of red, the other half of the equation as it turned out. Black for the empty chair revealed by the vanished big, non-anthropomorphized rodent, just an oversized but otherwise very ordinary animal with no human form to him atall, or so she thought. Black for absence itself. Loss of a friend.
Rodentius is *always* here, she panics. Why now, why just before Christmas of all times of the year? Why did he have to go… so SOON?!
She turns back to the chairs of the assembly hall after staring quite a while at the corner bereft of soul, of consciousness, trying to reorient herself after this shocking discovery. Then she imagines the red chairs being filled with not humans but aliens to balance things out, a show of planets to repopulate a darkened universe. Like here:
Planets you don’t even know the names of
Planets, you don’t even know their names
Yes, this helps, she thinks. Mars, the first red planet as it were, was just a beginning. Black and red together makes more sense on this special special day. Absence. And presents. TBC
00490304 (Queen)
*CLUNK*
—–
She paced behind me, asking me question after question that turned into 1 question I couldn’t answer. “What did you do with the picture?”
“What picture?” I ask.
“THE picture. Of *me*… o-or, at least from the thighs down.”
“Well… who *are* you?” I ask back.
“You know who I am.”
I pause, gathering the energy to say what’s next on my mind. “I *thought* you were someone I met back in Valentine. But apparently you’re not.” Must be the illness making me hallucinate, I think here.
“Am I not?”
No, I wanted to say. You’re most likely just a common hooker. Not a noble person like Mrs. Downes. She could have made it big in this world with her heart, her determination. Instead he made her into, well, *this*. I deserve what I got. Death row for Arthur “Orient” Morgan, a man with a Far East history that would do him in.
(Red Row too, if Arthur (Morgan) equals Arthur (Kill), as I, the author (Arthur?), believe it might. We’ll see… but let’s not end there.)
“I want that picture you stole from the gallery,” she continued, emphasizing her purpose in all this. “The one from the wrong side of St. Dennis, the *Southern* part.”
“The underbelly, yeah,” I admitted.
“Right, you give me that and you can go. You can seek out the real Mrs. Downes if you wish. You can pay for sex with her, you can just pay her without the sex, I don’t care. I just need… that *picture*.”
Dutch saw this coming, I think. He said it would be worth a lot one day and to hide it in a safe place, which I did. Turns out he’s right. Knowing my own well-being didn’t matter at this point, I thought of as much money as I would need to make Mrs. Downes comfortable in her older age, put her back on the right track and potentially allow her to thrive. “10,000 dollars,” I say aloud after determining the amount I’d been formulating in my head for a while, maybe since May. “10,000 or you won’t be able to find it. Kill me if you wish. I’m a dead man walking anyway.”
She ended her pacing, went to a nearby door, peered in. “How about… a trade? Thighs up instead of thighs down. And a man instead of a woman. Aand, clothed to the hilt, military style. An opposite painting. North for South. But just as valuable, probably even moreso. You can make up the difference later on.”
“Well I need to have a look at what you’re talking about first, lady,” I say while turning toward her as best I could given my roped circumstance.
“Yeah, ogle while you can old lady,” she speaks more to herself than me it appears, still staring through the window of the door. “The King will be taken from you soon if I have my desire.” She pivots toward me with this. “Wheeler,” she says. “You call me Wheeler.” TBC
00490305
She looked over at the files that go with the painting before leaving the door, debating in her head whether to throw that into the deal as well — as a sweetener. If only she had a copy… or a copier. “Wheeler… is that a last name? Or first? Or some kind of nickname, I don’t know.” In his chair, Arthur struggles against the tight ropes to no avail. She’d tied him down good. Old girl scout, let’s say.
“Wheeler is a way of life,” she answered cryptically. “Wheeler is something that goes and goes only to circle back in on itself again. Wheeler is love; Wheeler is… truth. Wheeler is. In short: I don’t know either,” and she emits a soft chuckle with this.
Arthur is shaking his head now. “First you appear to be someone I know, then you knock me out — don’t know how you got the drop on me so quickly.” And here, Arthur laments being overpowered by a woman again. A man would have been bad enough. He puts great pride in his strength and agility. Maybe she’s some kind of athlete, Arthur ponders, struggling once again in the increased frustration. Or a *witch*. He’d heard about such creatures roaming the streets of St. Dennis at night. And also over in the swamplands. “Then, you drag me in here,” he continues after finding the ropes as tight as ever. Arthur then looks around, sees the car tires, sees other objects he doesn’t understand. “Where are we anyway? This almost looks like it’s not St. Dennis any more.” How long was I *out*? he thinks.
“It isn’t,” says Wheeler. “We’re in a place called Rodentia formerly complemented by a giant white — and brown — rat named Rodentius, a male for the female. Yet Rodentius has left the scene. Giant bathroom in the sky is all I’ve got so far.”
“Nonsense, lady, er, Wheeler,” Arthur quickly decides. But he’s shaking his head still, trying to absorb. “And what about that *painting* you mentioned, the one I could trade for. Answer me!” His frustration had spilled over into rage. He’d reached a limit of whatever patience he had left.
Wheeler kept silent. “You’ve had enough for today, Arthur. I’ll come back tonight and we can talk more about the 2n1. I’ll let you cool down for a while.” TBC
00490310 (the truth)
“It’s suppose to be a representation of the Red Room from Twin Peaks but, as you can see, it’s not quite finished yet. Gotta get that zig zag black and white texture for the floor… and so on.”
“Really nice, Wheeler,” I say, wondering again why she hadn’t shown me this before. “And the painting — I assume it is a duplicate of the one over in Salty’s, in the old storage area behind the cooking section.”
“Or the same,” Wheeler answers. “Maybe this painting is in the past and the one over at Salty’s is more in the future. Or visa versa. Depends on if Arthur is still tied up over there. And I think he might, making this the, um, future?” She looks over at me. “But you’re not Arthur. And we haven’t made a deal yet. Better get over there, then.”
“Okay,” I said to end things here. Because I was never really here without her. I wanted to talk about the old core of avatars and her role in it. Baker Bloch — me, in essence — came before Wheeler. Baker Blinker came before her. Baker Blinker is more me than her. And then Hucka Doobie came along to make an original three. Hucka Doobie is of course the spiritual guide for the blog and attached photo-novels as a whole, although she hasn’t been in the recent ones as much. That might change. Then there’s Karoz, kind of my blue-green alien brother, if I am the same as Baker Bloch which I mostly am (Whitehead in Da Woods). Then and only then came Wheeler, and, at first, she wasn’t who she is today. All that changed with the photo-novels, 2 if not 1. She came… in 2. All the rest were there long before even 1. She was the last who became the first. Arkansaw.
But we never got around to that discussion.
I watched her disappear up the stairs and then I did too.
<h300490312 (sideways (foreshadowing))
Q:
Are you Happy?
A:
Yes, I am Happy.
Q:
Pleased to meet you. Is everyone around you Happy?
A:
Let me check.
With this, he sees beyond himself for the first time. He sees… a gallery.
—–
“My Second Lyfe is over, Philip,” he spoke to the pillow at his bosom. “Banned. I should have never descended from reality to this *illusionary* place.”
“No, Philip,” says the pillow, because they both have the same name, one taking turns with the other as in any good ventriloquist act. “The energy of Rose Heaven here has entered the sphere of Rodentia and lives on accordingly. And Rodentius of course, the male at the center of the feminine circumference in this case. That’s why he has that bit of brown to add to the predominant white. That’s the rogue brown Thornwood sim here. I’ll take it from you.” SLIIIIIDE.
Philip, the bigger one still clutching the littler one, turns in his chair at the noise. “Oh,” he says staring over at the back corner of the Rose Heaven Yarn Shop he sits in the middle of on his own little island. “Another case, eh?”
“Yes.”
Happy stares too, knowing a certain book is involved, perhaps a journal. Philip turns back into Jeffrie. TBC
00490315 (Caledonia?)
“Who’s the cowboy in back now?” asked Chet to his on again off again girlfriend, this time toggled on.
“Oh, some guy Mom says owes her a favor. Working for free because of that. Or snapshots… something.”
“Interesting,” Chet says, envisioning the poses. Not abstract.
“Is it?” Alice Tart slumps even lower in her seat across from her still upright, toggled on lover. From this angle, she can barely see his eyes above his perpetual handkerchief, worn not for fear of disease or anything like that but just because of the look. The lead singer/guitarist of Scissorrun© is all about style, and of the Christmas kind in particular. He never wants the holiday to end. Else: he’ll have to think about other things. Like death. Because of his emphasis on style over substance, he’s never really learned to play the guitar properly and that’s understandably held his band back. Drummer Sherwood is pretty rock solid with his naturally hyperactive hands and all. And bassist Karl is at least good on “Paper”, their hit single and perhaps the only song of theirs that really matters in the end. Restaurant manager turned band manager Biff Carter is urging Chet to take lessons from a local musical genius named Spiff, no kin to Biff despite the similarity of names. Not a long lost brother or anything… I don’t think (?).
Chet leans toward Alice. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.” He’d heard it hurts more the second time around but of course didn’t say this aloud.
“Oh I was over all that the first time around,” she said, dismissing the sympathy. “Anyway, Mom has a new man now,” and she nods toward the kitchen.”
“Really?” says Chet. “That quick?”
“Yup. That quick. Pictures did him in, I’m guessing.”
Chet nods. He understands the power. 319.
00490404
“Who are you, woman? Really.”
“I told you, Arthur ‘Orient’ Morgan. I’m Wheeler. And this is my place. Wheeler Wilson. Hence: Wilson’s.”
“Convenient, I say,” said Arthur back to her, smelling a rat the size of a town.
“Well… you tell *me* who you think I am?”
Demon, sprung forth in Arthur’s mind automatically, staring at her forehead and the placement of her flip style hair upon it. He said the word aloud.
“True enough,” she admitted. “All women are evil to a certain kind of man.” She let that hang in the air. Arthur stared at her.
“I’m a killer,” he declared about the core of himself. “I kill for hire.” He let *that* linger in the atmosphere. He gazed at her through the haze of untimely death.
“I know,” unfazed Wheeler Wilson said back to him. “But you’re *my* killer.”
Arthur thought about the various ways he could take that. Do I *kill* her? he thought. Or is she saying that I belong to her, as in a beau or something? Before he could ponder further, she said this:
“I’ve known you before, I’ve determined. We were married.”
“*Married*?”
“Yes, after you were buried. I killed *you*. Shot you right clean through the heart.” A smirk appeared on her face. She was way beyond him now, she felt. Try to top *that,* she seemed to present in her haughtiness. “But then I dug you up, brought you back to life. You presented me with a ring and I accepted the call then I accepted the proposal. Buried *then* married,” she reinforced.
“I gotta get some air,” Arthur said, shaking his head once more, as was customary around this confusing, confounding dame. “Am I, I don’t know, free to go?”
“Go where you wish, Arthur ‘Orient’ Morgan. Just don’t leave town. The boundaries of the town are the sims of Arang — here — then, Baekga the great forest, Kumiho the city center, Mago the beachside, Yongwang, and then Dokkaebi from which the closest Oracle match of Dokken Hollow comes from. You know, the Bang Bang Club, where we first met in this town. I sent you a teleport invite just like you did for me tonight. We watched Julee Cruise and then uncovered the truth of Dr. Tom, Cruise as well. 2n1… so common in this world.” She paused, not knowing how much to reveal right now. She decided to end it like this: “You are as much an actor in this world as you’d want in any world class Shakespearean play.”
“Hmm,” he said, getting up, having enough. “Can I take the drink with me?”
But then he looked down and he had none. Came with the booth, came with the place. Wilson’s drink. And now he was apart from her. TBC
00490407
I seemingly had sort of finished my analysis of Indigo Parallel. I brought [Dandelion] out of that world into this one via connector Indigo Ridge. Funtastic. A base on an alien world where the mother/father planet’s rings flip every so often, just enough to remind one this is all a simulation. *Reality* is a simulation — no escape. The man inside the spacesuit seems to agree. He eyes me from afar.
—–
“Did you get the idea of the perpetual Santa outfit from Gorillaz?”
“No, they got it from me,” he joked. “Besides, it’s not Santa, it’s just Christmas, period. I stayed there. Gorillaz and its Murdoc didn’t.”
“Interesting. Soo, Santa is also Satan.”
“You said it. Not me.”
“666. Cracks coverup.”
No answer. (TBC)
00490408 (simulation too)
“No, not *those* apples, Mrs. Extra Ordinary. Because you are.”
She blushed through the anger, turning her cheeks a deep, winesap 2 times red. She throws the apple just picked away. It clunks into the grass beyond the tree, bouncing and rolling several feet beyond its landing spot. Poison, she understood, eyeing it from perhaps 20 feet away now. Or too close for comfort. She brings the basket of the already plucked fruit over for me to look at too.
“How about these?”
“1 bad, all bad,” I say, thinking I see the first malignant worm wriggling amongst the batch despite not trying too hard. “Here, take my hand. Let’s get you out of here.”
She hesitated. “W-what about the pie? The pie I’m suppose to cook for…” She turned to the 3 story, 5 bedroom, green with white trim house with attached double garage and rental loft. She couldn’t remember the name of her husband. She looked for him amongst the many windows hoping his figure would jar her memory… no one home. She also couldn’t remember the year she bought the house, the year, period. Paradise, but false in nature?
“The pie can wait until a better place,” I say, still holding the hand out. Will this work? I think. I had to try.
—–
“How could you not remember you were married to the sheriff of Fox County? I’m the most important man around (!).”
“I know. It was just a silly dream.” Still she wondered what would have happened if she would have taken that hand, be led somewhere else.
There. The apples are washed. No worms or other abnormalities spotted. Silly dream.
“I’ll be back in 2 hours for that pie,” he said while standing, have other matters to attend to in the meantime. Important matters for an important person. She knew her place. (TBC?)
00490409 (Sparks)
00490410
“For Scissorrun©? It all started right here, in Rodentia.
“Walk By Night.”
“Cool. I remember walking by there at night, wondering how a place that small could have a band that large. I recall.”
“Many a night I sat here at the bar, staring at that upside down cross, and asking, ‘why why why?'”
“Because of the band being too big for such a small place thing.”
“Upside down from what I anticipated, yeah. I wondered why Satan and his 666 powers had let me down so much. After all, there was the whole selling of the soul to him.”
So that’s in this story as well, I think. But I knew there was more.
“To cover up the cracks that were forming all over the place in Our Second Lyfe,” he went on. “To make it… perpetual.”
Oh, so there’s that too, I think
“Have you been around back? Have you seen the graffiti, the picture, round back of the place? Yeah, you’d think: *You* did that. To make your story come more in line with that of Gorillaz. But, no, it was there in the first place. Along with this upside down cross. This is the place.” TBC
Sunklands 