Tag Archives: Andy Warhole^*~$

customers

Andy Warhole had been looking for Gabby all over town and finally found him in my new bar called Moe’s on the west edge, a low rent district. Art was on his mind again, and how to make money from it. “Look into your marvelous crystal ball, Gabby,” he requested, “and tell me my future.”

Gabby gazed deeply into the smokey sphere, saw the future, and then lied about it while starting to sweat. “Nothing, Andy. Sorry. Shall we talk about the weather instead. So hot, so muggy!” He nervously wiped his brow.

What he actually saw was a muscular man of reddish complexion walking underwater and wielding a menacing metallic golf club. Heading right toward him: The Boss. He knew this was one a-hole of a man.

He stared at Warhole. He reviewed the vision of the man. He stared at Andy Warhole.

——

“Ok, my turn, my turn.” Andy got up, Hilter from the couch sat down. “Ahem: How do I become chancellor of all of Germany?”

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around Cassandra City

“Where is he?” Warhole demanded to the mechanical soothsayer. “Where’s Gabby?”

“You come — bearing the mantle of other people tonight, Andy War-HOLE. You have been talking to — *people* too much. You are too — *peoplely*.”

“Well, yeah. What of it? I’m an artist. I have to mingle. Socializing sells art. That’s what I’m about. Baby.” He checks his watch with this. Gabby should have been here 20 minutes ago! He needs help.

—–

“Oh I look hideous,” Poetry Dancer complained to Marilyn.

“Won’t take long dearest (*coo*). We’ll have you looking, *exactly* like one of us in a jiffy, darling (*ooo!*).”

—–

“No sir, you don’t understand. We sell *one* book. The red one.” You’ll have to go to the other bookstore in town for “Moby Prick”.

“Aww, *geez*.” Dimmy Gene’s book review was due tomorrow, and now he has to walk all the way across town to get a copy and start reading.

—–

“It’s no good,” Gabby complains at the typewriter with its inserted, still blank sheet of paper. “I need people to write!” Long lunch break’s over. He better head back to the wagons.

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leaves

“I believe there are witches in Toppsity, Hucka D., turning the elements upside down. Perhaps Marilyn herself, who, after all, caused a Niagara in the suburb of Ona to complete the 4.”

“Fiji,” Hucka D. *finally* speaks. “Heaven for the Red Dwarf’s Cat. It is good that the Truths are leaving town for greener grasses.”

“Start the seed business anew elsewhere,” agrees Baker B.

“Maybe,” Hucka D. attempts to add. “Maybe…”

“Yes?”

“In Sink X?”

“Golden,” probably corrects Baker B. Me, after all. I should know better than anyone. Me and Hucka.


“Say you got it from a man from the future, huh. Wish I had one of those back in the days.”

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Niagara

“Well Gabby,” requested Brother Amos, “What do you see? Unfurl the whole long, boring story of how we got here and where we’re going.”

“Yeah,” exclaimed Marilyn in her breathy, ditzy way. “The fire is, *raging* out of con-trol; the earth is, *swamping* us alll…”

“I’m seeing something,” gabbed Gabby suddenly. “2 more; 4 total. A teal figure. Some kind of… creature. And the 4 colored clown. Um, *stumpy*, not as tall as a normal person. But much larger than the creature still.” He pulled his white face away from the scrying ball. “A possum I’m concluding. A clown and a possum.”

“*That’s* our, *fu-ture*?” cooed Marilyn. Warhole across the way pounded one iron fist into another, obviously displeased. “Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn,” he monotoned. “Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn… Marilyn.”

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continuation

This was the night Andy Warhole, iron hand ruler of White Horse Village near the southern shores of Blue Feather Sea (aka Little Sea aka Big Lake), learned about usurpers Your Mama and Raggy Too over at the concert area next door. They didn’t intend to pay the tariff for importing songs! Well… all of California will suffer for that. And anyone who has to suffer through Mondays. Words of love, those are. Tough love.

“I’ve seen them in the night talking to white horses. I knew you’d find out sooner or later. So I intervened. I beg mercy,” he gruffed, pecking his paws against the wooden floor while rebalancing.

Mercy, thought Andy Warhole, iron hand raised and then repeatedly pounded against the non-iron one. They could ruin *everything*. All his future plans. Future plans for the past. “Ross C.,” he demanded. “Wake up Ross C.” The robot sprang alert. “Yes sire,” it clipped metallically. “Eggs and bacon and livermush as usual?” Warhole emitted air. “No, this *isn’t* breakfast yet, Ross C.” He shook his head and then indicated Mamaduke, the dog of Your Mama and perhaps Raggy Too. “Tell her, hound, what you’ve told me.” Perhaps she can actually earn her money now as a robot from the future, an *expensive* robot with all the perks, most of which he afterwards found lacking or absent altogether. A *defective* future robot he soon realized he had on his hands. After the seller had conveniently slithered away back into the web of time.

Mamaduke repeated the issue at hand for Ross C. Her thinking lights began blinking on and off rapidly. Bleeping and blipping noises emitted from the general area of her head. Soon she had a calculation. “Kill then,” she clipped out. “Kill them all.”

Made sense to Andy Warhole. Good job!

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a cube revealed (Blue Feather)

“War-HALL,” he exclaimed from his chair opposite Ross C.’s, or at least the one she stood behind. “Not War-HOLE.”

“I will correct that in my programming, sire.” But she never did. To her he would always be a hole with capital letters. She’d served him too long.

“Anything else Mr. Warhole?”

He sighed. “No. You may retired for the night. *Behind* your chair again.”

“As you wish, sire.” Her lights went out as she slumped over in place.

“You again (!)”

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ruff

“And the little house beyond?”

“Phillips.”

—–

The horse leads, the horse tells.

Doors opening.

A man, a woman (sort of). A shallow grave.

So close.

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