Tag Archives: Arthur Kill/Lemont SanfordGTAV^*+++%%

00500311 (Shakespeare never sleeps)

“(The ASUMH library entrance is) 7.00 miles from Arkana, 7.00 miles from Arkawana with the WA left behind in the attached, sad sad Robina crime spree story. Concrete (WA) again? Might be pressing it there.”

“Silver,” listening Wendell Biff Carter attempts an explanation of his own. “Silver = seven; you pointed that out before.”

“Could be,” admits Shelley, still on the bench, still beneath and hiding under and even within Noodle looming o’er her. Always.

“It’s good you didn’t come out from under the lamp,” Biff tries to summarize their talk so far.


photo-novel 32

“I was too little then. Wouldn’t have worked.”

“But later, I mean… when you were able to turn around and face the music. Miss Ouri had taken over *everything*.”


photo-novel 47

“Oh… right. But not quite everything,” she corrected for Biff, her manager, her… friend? Let’s go with manager for a while longer. “There was my saving grace,” she said. “I escaped through the island newly formed off the coast of mainland. (The) 4 (Apocalyptic) horses reduced to 2….”

—–

“What happened to your husband Arthur anyway?” Biff begins a related topic, bit of jealousy in his tone along with a bit of hope. Could it work between them? Nah — and he tried to shove that thought out of his head. “Last I heard: Oceania.”

“He’s still there. Playing the role of Godzilla or sumtin at Point Nemo which is the furthest location away from dry land in the whole wide world. He literally followed his lucrative paying roles to the end of the Earth, as far away from my loving arms as he could get, *sigh*. I guess all he has left now is either turn around and come home to me or go off to a different planet altogether. The louse.”

Ah HA, I think from beyond the wall. Explains a lot!

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00500310 (1 Pink)

POP-POP. “Huh, *whaaatt*?” Noodle stops trying to brake the Grand Theft Auto car she stole to set all this in motion. Because it was braking itself. Flat tire. 2 of ’em! How could this be happening??

The negatively oriented, vaporous pink creature escapes out the back just like a steady stream of released air. The cause! And also, maybe, just maybe, the solution. Plastic Beach. We move forward instead of backwards in the related Gorillaz series of videos. Or perhaps both in one, blue and red together. Time machine as well as song machine.

Murdoc removes his mask and emits a gasp as he looks around from his landing spot in the chaos.

All the band members have been reassembled here on the oh-too-familiar, blood red beach except one, the most important one now, the driver of it all.

(*Expel*). There she is! Tucked safely inside giant Russel’s mouth all along. Thank the God’s pink heaven.

A coral topped, scaly skinned Godzilla type monster rises out of the ocean determined to end this abominable mountain of pollution in the middle of absolute nowhere… again.

Let the lasering commence! TBC?

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00490611

Well I hope Spiff’s happy tutoring whoever he’s tutoring, thinks Arthur “Orient” Morgan, standing in front of an open fridge. Because I’m *roasting* in here.

“Order *up*,” calls Wheeler from the window, ticket in hand. “And *shut* that door, why don’t you. Do you think I’m made of money??”

“I don’t know *what* you’re made of, lady.” He dabbed more sweat off his face.

“Triangles,” she says. “Triangle and hexagons.” She laughs.

“Okay, good enough,” he says nonplussed, looking at the tattoo stamped on her forehead and wondering again if it stood for DEMO, all the letters exposed, or DEMON, with an N secretly hidden behind the flip style hair. He’d yet to have the chance to flip it back and see. Snapshots, all he has is snapshots so far. Missouri. Because, yes, he fancied her. He probably didn’t have a choice, given his name was Arthur with a middle name of Orient. He was starting to believe Wheeler’s cockamamie story about them being married in a previous life or something, parallel life she says instead sometimes. The attraction is real. Married and then buried and then… married again? Could it be? First he had to serve out this stupid sentence, work in this hot ass kitchen for 2 weeks until he made up the difference between North and South (painting). Then and only then he’d find out the truth.

“I don’t care about mainstream trends in Their Second Lyfe,” she said another time about her non-mesh status. “I am who I am, born full blown from the head of Baker Blinker. Notice the bit of pink in the skin tone — that’s her. And then I stole some other things,” she admitted. “It’s all lighting and trickery anyway, everything is. Real Life or Second. This extends to all virtual realities.” I didn’t see much pink in her skin tone, Arthur thinks, but maybe that’ll be part of the hidden that’s exposed too.

I stare into her eyes from beyond the 4th wall, wondering if there’s actually a soul in there besides my own. Baker Blinker, Baker Bloch, Hucka Doobie, Karoz Blogger — all me. But Wilson — Wilsonia. *Could* be different. Not yet, though. Not in the present. Presents *and* absence so far. Just like Xmas. TBC

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00490503 (slave)

After seeing the changed picture through the door’s window, she eyes the files again to her left. “Tell you what, brother in arms of mine. I’ll throw in all these top secret folders in this big box to sweeten the deal. All I ask from you in return is…”

“And so that’s how I got here. Replaced a fellow named Spiff; (she) said he had more important things to do in town. Tutoring was mentioned. Now if you’ll excuse me I have a batch of hash browns, 4 pancakes, and 3 eggs 1 easy over and the other 2 scrambled to cook. And that’s just in the next 2 minutes or so…”

“Snapshots,” I said, remembering that element. “What about the snapshots?” 2 cracked eggs and 2 batter pours later: “I don’t know what you’re talking about now.”

But from the tone of his voice I knew he did. You can read a lot into Arthur “Orient” Morgan I’ve found out. He wears his emotions on his now greasy sleeve. I walk away, satisfied I’d learned enough for this morning. Back in the evening for more food for both body and mind. Maybe bring Chet along too. TBC

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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 exude 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

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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 anymore but just because of the look. The lead singer/guitarist of Scissorrun© is all about style now, 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 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.

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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 manifested 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.

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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, then: “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

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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

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00490109 (Where’s the red?)

answer: in Red Dead Redemption 02 (*not* Starfield (crustaceans, PHEH))

BGR — backwards from the question mark on the mtn. that ends this trail of clues currently. Let’s see what happens next!

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