Back at their rented house, the local servant boy was offering them some kind of regional soup that looked grody to the max to Gill Alex. He instead stared out toward the sea, which at least they can *see* from this spot, if not visit. “Rain’s coming in again,” he observed. “Had a brief reprieve…” “Between 4 and 6,” Rock completed for him. Always thinking about numbers, he observed himself about his brother-lover. Always 4, always 6. Like clockwork. The rain just cooperated with what was already in his split hemispheric mind. Thank Gods for the topping golden hair. He could always talk rationally with that; it operated the mouth parts and most of the nose and ears. The eyes he couldn’t control. Gill Alex continued to stare at the sea and become one with it. He kept thinking of the eye they spoke about earlier. Tulsa was typing out her notes on a (regional) computer-typewriter by now, getting ready for a splashy, stormy front page story in the NWES Gazette. Picture here:
Tag Archives: 7 Devils^^~~~~^*~~~~!
Roger Pine Ridge wasn’t home because Roger Pine Ridge’s home wasn’t, The Man About Time discovered tonight after another attempt to contact the progressive rock loving alien. Looks like he won’t be coming back to Collagesity. At least in the current photo-novel. Shame, MAT thinks. Wanted to talk to him about some things.
Suppose I’ll put a small park here or sumtin.
But it’s on to the main event of the night, perhaps. More attempts to contact Carrcassonnee in a meaningful, fluid way. Fluidity is everything, MAT ponders while crossing The Peninsula into *Collagesity* Eastside.
Looking back from the end of the bridge, he realized The Peninsula needed some palm trees to complete the effect.
On to Carrcassonnee…
“Very funny, Baker Bloch,” responded Hucka Doobie after teleporting in.
“Thought you might like it.”
“What is this?” Hucka Doobie peered inside. “A psychiatrist’s office?”
“So let’s get down to brass tacks. Tell me about this compulsion to not wear clothes any more.”
“Well,” began Blue Berry Girl in earnest. “It started with the death of little demon Melvin at my hands. He was the one who was suppose to supply me with clothes (but didn’t follow orders).”
“Hmm. Any way to bring him back to life?” queried Dr. Baumbeer, sipping on milk as usual. “I mean…”
“… since *I* was brought back to life?”
She stared at him with wide, mysterious eyes. “Well, ahem, let’s, er, dive into all that, then. Do you retain any memories of Cloe from that game your user was playing?”
“Not — sure.”
“Tell you what. Meditate on that aspect of this problem using the tv static we discussed before while I study my notes. Let’s get back together in, say (he checks his watch), 15 minutes?”
She wanted to go see it so I let her. She talked to herself when arriving and observing.
“So this is suppose to be *me*, huh?” she exasperated, and then sighed. “Well — at least Bullfrog shot at the *right* target. Take out their leader and take out the whole bunch, like a body without a head. Good for his left leaning heiny.”
She studies the unblemished abstraction more. “Roundies, hmph,” and then looks down at her own. The common denominator.
Both staring Melvins, frog and little demon, were dead. Blue Berry Girl remains without clothes, and it is in this way that she decides to approach the world in all her magenta majesty, gunn(s) front and center. We may see little of her beyond these points…
“Come on and jump in with me, Molly,” he implored in his squeaky voice. “The water’s just fine today!” The chicken beside Mick remained doubtful. Not as stupid as some people think, those creatures are. They’ve seen these Florida kind of tricks before. Could be bottomless, Molly ponders. Could be a black hole.
Besides, something is already there, stuck it seems. Plugging a hole perhaps, she ruminates further. All Blue — no, wait, the *hair* isn’t blue. And Cloe, sitting on this very cement porch yesterday, *lost* her blue hair, along, ultimately, with her hat, hands, and the rest of her body. The rest of the h’.s, including heart and, finally, health. Molly came to a logical conclusion: This *is* Cloe, but an Anti-Cloe, someone reborn that perhaps shouldn’t be reborn. An abomination. Let’s just call her “H” as in capital “H”, she decides, thinking of how to present this new town development to the chickens of the local coop later on.
Mick, tired of waiting, dives without Molly into the center of the watering hole, unconcerned about the presence of another being there. He doesn’t see “H”; she doesn’t see him. They exist in different dimensions, as if turned upside down from each other.
Anti-Cloe is freed from her spherical blue encapsulation, able to leave the pool now.
Having served its function, the watery hole then withers away into the nothingness whence it came. When will you learn, Mick, that it truly does take two to know?
“Get the f-ck out of here little demon,” she waves him off. “Oh, and fetch me some clothes from the dresser beside the bed. Anything but blue.
Well, just don’t stand there staring. Do it!”
“Soup anyone?” Melvin asks innocently to both.
“Not now, Melvin, thank you.”
The small demon dutifully withdrew toward the stairs, biding his time. Chloe directed her attention back to the visitor who had just teleported in through her offer.
“Okay, Sandy. What’s going on? *Are* you still Sandy? You look all weird.”
“Well,” Sandy Wanna Be tried to counter. “How about *you*? Where’s, um, your *hair*?”
“I have hair. Blue like the sky. The sea and the sky both.” But here she reaches up to feel her stringy, wet curls and only grasps air. “Whe – where *is* it?? Aaarrgggh.” She flings the swim cap into the sea from which she just came at this point. I mean, the stream from which she just came. One of ’em, perhaps both of ’em. She pats and feels and pats and slaps. Still no hair to find up there. Certainly she would be pulling it now if she had some.
“May I suggest,” Sandy WB then said, watching over at the tantrum, “that someone *stole* it,” and with this himself disappears. Teleported out to safer lands. He didn’t like scenes.
She tries to google “instant hair loss” on her smart phone but stops at the lock screen displaying her name. It was here she noticed something else missing about her: the “h” in Chloe. Cloe instead of Chloe, it said. She looked around in disbelief, shaking her bare head, but in just a moment forgot all about both losses.
Melvin approached again with upheld bowl. “Soup, miss?”
Perspective shortened, she “accidentally” dipped her hand into the morbid concoction. The hand disappears, followed by the rest.
The Peninsula it is called, because it lies between two bodies of water and also kind of juts into them. Sort of. Anyway, the name still seems apt, given the flag in Heidi Hunt Ives’ new bedroom in her new digs, formerly Danny’s trailer. But who lives in the Scarlet Creative Sylvia House that sort of centers this peninsula? Is it Mabel once more? Or Ruby?
“That’s very nice Melvin,” Baker Bloch says as the small demon offers him a fresh bowl of hot fly and centipede soup while he ponders such questions.
Whatever, 7 Stones seems as alive as it ever has and in no danger of going away anytime soon atall now.
Maybe it’s *finally* time to bring back Karoz, hmmm.
Baker then watches reruns of old Lum and Abner shows on the tellie with Jerry until the latter gets sleepy and is put to bed by Gus, the caretaker taking care of the evil spawn until permanent residents are decided for *this* place, another NWES transplant into 7 Stones…
… as is the Red Umbrella gallery on the upper side of the Peninsula. Nifty. Switching out the larger Red Umbrella formerly here for this considerably smaller one allowed the formation of the Peninsula in the first place; domino effect once more.
They were watching “Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein” on the tellie tonight, a logical choice. At a predictable chase scene through a haunted castle, Merry Gouldbusk leans over and tells Herbert Dune that she got in contact with her brother about the banners. Herbert Dune arches his spiraling eyebrow a little higher, Spock style. “Welll?” he replied, thinking she needs to speak up for the microphones. But, overall, her acting was acceptable lately. She’d been taking lessons from one of the best. She’d learned a lot since Rosehaven. Except for the occasional name slippages she was fine. But just that: acceptable. Ordinary, even. Oh Alice Frame, Sandy Beech thought, how’d I get chained down with you. I am like a clipped Icarus.
“He said he had nothing to do with it,” answered Merry Gouldbusk, speaking up a bit at the encouragement of Bob Waffleburg off-camera.
“How,” stumbled Herbert Dune, then started again. “How is that *possible*?”
“*Dad-dy*,” Satan’s spawn Melvin complained from the pillow beside them, totally immersed in the castle shoot.
“Tell you what, young demon. You’ve stayed up too long past your bedtime already. Time to join your brethren upstairs. We’ll continue the movie tomorrow night.”
“Awww,” he exclaimed not too loud while obediently getting up and stretching and yawning. For a little demon, he was quite well behaved. They all were. Except Spunky of course.
“So explain what you said before.”
“About the banners?”
“Of course.” Stop ad libbing, Sandy Beech thought bitterly inside. Stick to the script!
“Wellll?” Herbert Dune echoed back.
“He said he didn’t do it.”
Sandy Beech complained to director Bob Waffleburg afterwards. “Jeez, it’s right there on the banner. *INGO*. How could her slightly older brother, her *Big Brother* after all, not be head of the police state here and spy on her all the time? Answer me that genius director.” Before, Eraserhead Man and his disjointed plots. Now, Bob Waffleburg’s logic gaffes. And he’s not a surrealist. No excuse for him!
“We’re… working on it,” is all he could answer that moment. Later, while the two were drinking at Spunky’s on Southside (no relation to Spunky the little demon), he let slip a little more. “It involves rats. *hiccup* And a secret room. *BURRP*”
It was the piece de resistance of the move. A celebratory endpoint. The return of the Shape Pullers from Merry Gouldbusk’s past. Now she could enjoy them at any time, 12:37 or not. “Thank you *so* much, Sandy Beech!” she said while cameras were rolling and leaning over for a kiss. It was not reciprocated.
“And CUT! Okay, *kill* the shapepullers, kill the lights. Benny, you were looking away from the camera. And Horace, you weren’t even in the shoot! Get your little red keister out on the balcony and take a gander with brother Marvin at what’s happening outside, why don’t you! Oh, you little devils!” Director Bob Waffleburg kept complaining. “But *you*, my fine friend Alice Frame (playing Merry Gouldbusk/Breeze). You’re going to *have* to learn the difference between a role name and an actor name!”
Sandy Beech, the actor playing Herbert Dune, just nodded his head and stared over at her. With bile.