Tag Archives: Bartholomew Smipson^*====$

00330305

“Dub’s Jungle, eh?” said D’Eddy. But he was looking a different way now and not where neighboring Freddie was pointing, D switched with B. He becomes lost in his thoughts…

“Well guys, I’ve got to go visit my sweetie up in Dairocha. See you soon. *Losers*.”

He hopped back in his Bandit 25R sailboat and was gone.

Simple fishermen Luther and Al, formerly sharing the pier with him, didn’t say goodbye to Blackbart. They just sipped whatever was in their bottle and can respectively, thinking about the Starfish Lake or Sea arm they live on and the differences between above and below. Elbow to hand: White Elvis was all the rage and bottles were still in hand, like with Luther. Bottleball remained more popular than basketball, with its professional leagues not yet desegregated. Elbow to shoulder: Black with White. Shoulder to shoulder, like cans in a 6-pack, ready to be purchased for drink, 6th man included. Let’s see, I think Al has a Sprite, both lemon and lime; green and yellow. And that’s where we need to head next. But first…

“There’s no women left at Dairocha,” opines Luther, then knocks back a long one. “Not free ones anyway, you know what I mean, you know what I’m saying, heh heh?” He elbows Al in the ribs, who takes it good-naturedly and even elbows him back a bit. Must be a different location, Al thinks more logically than his backward fishing partner. Blackbart is hiding something.

Tessa, his Tessie, shows up, breaking his reverie. “Sorry I’m late. Setting up a castle in Lebettu. I guess you’ve heard.”

Eddy takes a breath, resetting himself. “I’ve heard there’s some unsettling stuff about the landscape around it. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” She also takes a breath, recalibrates. They become related again, cousin to cousin. Our Eddy; *her* Edward. She takes a seat.

“Just having a daydream about your boyfriend,” he says, looking over at the tree again in the distance. Bud’s. “Talking to some simple fishermen on a pier, one more backwards than the other. In one arm, a fishing pole. Common denominator. But in the other: difference. One was drinking out of a bottle and the other a can. Strange fantasy, eh?”

“It’s the history of the place,” she says. She also thinks of the arm they’re situated more toward the “shoulder” of, Greek village here included with jungle, tame to wild. More oppositions, horizontal instead of vertical in that case.

After ordering a Sprite and a Coke, they talk of Starfish Lake (or Sea) for a while, then: “Oh… I almost forgot to tell you about Manassa.”

“Bull Runs?” Eddy guesses wrongly here. Tessa rolls her eyes to the sky, trying to fit that angle as well in her imagination. Both have wide ones. Yd. Yellow down. She decides it didn’t fit. Not quite yet anyhow.

“No,” she says. “Manassa *singular*. Without the ‘s’ like in the battle place in Virginia I believe.” She knew it was Virginia but didn’t want to seem too show-offy. She also knew details about the differences between Bull Run battles no. 1 and 2 but didn’t say anything about that for the same reason. No need to make Eddy, her Edward, seem lacking in comparison. They must remain even. They must remain as if cans in a 6 pack, 6th man included. Basketball not bottleball, although both involve a lot of cutting.

“Blackbart,” Freddie muttered in front of them, still pointing away from the jungle, though. “Blackbart,” he repeated, voice as even as before; no wavering in conviction. Eddy, her Edward, heard a speedboat in the distance. Blackbart, the *actual* one, had returned from wherever he came.

“Hello boys,” he spoke to Al and Luther from behind this time. “Miss me?” Their backs remain turned to him, as if they weren’t even alive, or were figments of his imagination, another Yd one. Yellow down.

He peels a lemon and is gone, WOOOSH!

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knocking on 102

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00330302

She finishes prepping her wig as Jeb drives up in his beat up old red truck. She knows him by another name but we know him as Black Bart. Dairocha has followed us, the reader and writer, here to this motel out in the sticks of Nautilus, one blending into another. This is (part of) the secret. That the inside has become the outside, flipped out and away from itself. Much like her bangs.

“Darling, you in there?” Grown-up Tessa decides that the reader and writer shouldn’t see her present lover, perhaps future husband. If things work out for her. A whole castle? She can get away from it all. (knock knock knock) “Darling?”

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jot em down (Pine Apple)

Could it be true? The tent would have been potentially facing that direction: toward the thick Pine Forest. But Mystery Cave to the north and Fern Wall to the south could also be involved. Maybe even *triangulate* between all 3.

Spongebub might know, if his last name is actually Triangleslacks and not the more obvious. We’ve already met his wife, his son in this here story through the similarly dreaming Leforest Bresford over at Ontario village. What happened to her?

—–

“There are rumors about a big floating can seen in the park or thereabouts, Ms. Bresford, sometimes with a woman’s legs and head attached to it. Some reports put it with 2 other figures, both cowboys, sticking out the can’s top alongside the woman’s. Others have two children, still others have red and blue dummies or mannequins. Others… well, you get the picture.”

“Yes. We: Can!” the blue one to her left wanted to reveal freely to the Big Wig before her. “You *can’t* do it,” countered the red figure on her right, knowing it was the wrong thing to admit. The only thing she could decide in the moment was that she had to choose. The world opened up in front of her. A bullet that had formerly been frozen in reality caught her square in the heart, the center. Bart had the last evil laugh or at least aberrant chuckle.

Another agent would have to be sent in. Or not… maybe just forget about the whole Ontario village sub-plot — for now.

Next!

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charmed

“Find out who is in that 9th spot and find out if black or white went first,” Agent 47 orders in his dream to Joey Avatar while hovering above it all. He doesn’t realize the impossibility until the next morning while eating his 9-sided Toasty O’s and remembering the game. But the tree is 9; the other vendor is 8. Time to head back to the plaza for some nitty gritty research. He takes a broom and knocks it against the ceiling, knowing Joey would understand. 3 times. 9 times. Magic Square.

He wakes up for real this time. He turns to Bart on the couch, cleaned up at last and looking like a little cartoon boy again, perhaps 9 himself. Saturn-9. But at what price? 1,000,000? Just then, Bart begins to glow as if radioactive. He’d been exposed, he knew — tricked even. He’d have to deactivate himself. Joey won this time. But there’s always regeneration.

He wakes up once more.

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102

He was called in to replace Agent Joey Avatar. Or help her — he wasn’t sure. Anyway, he was here, aiding her to begin, not mentioning the replacement part, although of course she suspects. Purple hair, he ruminates. Symbol of suspicion. Just woke up like that the other day, she says. Fat chance.

*There*. John or Jim — one or the other; doesn’t matter. Here’s where he comes out of the portal. Now to pinpoint the center. “What you got?” he asks Joey through his walkie talkie wristwatch after John/Jim moved down the road a bit, out of earshot.

“2 seconds,” she responds from her position on the other side. “He went into the closed up subway at exactly 11:37:07. Did he come out with his sub?” she tried to joke. Agent 47 was a serious type, she understood. She was attempting to loosen the armor. But she knew she was in trouble. First things first, though. They had to figure out the mystery of this plaza that stood in the middle of it all. Umbrellas, they had determined. But which one?

“Let’s let him go in one more time to make sure.”

11:38:37:

“Too foggy in this gal blasted town to do much more tonight,” Agent 47 said after the double check. “Let’s reconvene at 08:00. I’ll stay with Black Bart downstairs from you guys.”

“Um, I wouldn’t do that,” she responds, shaking her head for emphasis.

“Elaborate.” It was one of the most common words these agents used.  What he got back surprised him. A shadow being! And all because he was being tracked by The Mouse. Weelll. He’ll fix *that*. Shadow beings have no place in the land of living breathing Second Lyfers. All of Wendy would be for naught if so. Nautilus, hmm, he thought. That would come back shortly. But first…

“Bring him out in the light,” he rather commanded to Joey when they returned to the Underground Apts., 3 in number but only 2 viable in the moment. Because of Bart.

“Told you,” Joey Avatar said to Agent 47 after he opened the door, standing back a bit from the spectacle.

“Clean him up and bring him out,” he doubled down. *You* clean him up! she thought, but then did what he requested. She was only 45. No way to jump two numbers in a fortnight. She’d have to wait til Tuesday.

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0316, Wendy-Ontario

Center Point

Debbie Doom left in a huff, tea cup and saucer broken beneath her on the reckoning couch. The powers that be had deemed her replaceable. She made error 01 in the playbook of love. Falling for a relative. Taboo. Pot-D or Pan-Z couldn’t put up with the bad press. Leforest Bresford was send in. She’ll make shit happen, Erik Jones Johnson said in the office of the Big Wig, delivering the pitch for his ex-wife. “Do you love her still?” he asked back. He knew this could be a deal breaker. “No,” Erik lied, which is exactly what the higher powers wanted him to do. Lie between and out his teeth. “Okay,” the bigger said to the smaller. “*One* shot,” he warned, and then handed him her gun.

Her mission: to find Black Bart and put a bullet through his lead head before he becomes fully shadow and *all* are doomed. The renegade manifesto must not be written.

From the couch in the secret meeting place, she aims for first one then the other in the short distance, watching them sweat and swear. “Choose him!” the red cried. “No, her!” the blue screamed back, eager to save his own skin even though it was the same “skin”.

The shot whizzed between them, somehow missing both. She had been trained well, and now had not one but two allies by her side, both male and female powers. She incorporated them into her being, even though no one could see the can except herself, when she wanted to. Like now.

The mist cleared as she exited the ruins, confusion over.

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0032, 0313, Wendy-Ontario

00320312

The lake is just silver shores now. Debbie is gone; the situation had changed. He had Joey now. Time to head back to the underground, check on Joey, check on *Bart*. If he starts to stir again he should be there. Too bad Debbie can’t help since she’s better at recording. But she has the library gig now, she explained a bit earlier, before the mist moved in and turned everything metallic. “I… love…” he confessed, and she just POOF: gone.

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00320311

“Good evening, Debbie. How are you doing tonight?”

“Been here long?” she asked her brother originally husband Dickie. “I… couldn’t decide what to wear. I just ended up coming as your sister. *Simplify* is what I say.” She takes another sip of her espresso, looks out the window.

“That’s Lake Ontario,” says the brother formerly husband. “Halfway here, halfway there.”

“Isn’t everything these days.” They sip in unison, tacit agreement with each other.

They catch up. Dickie fills in Debbie about Joey Avatar and Black Bart and the man who’s perhaps responsible for most evil in this town of Ontario which seems to be Ontario itself, one James or Jim L. Brown. “Pusher if not a taker,” he elaborates. He instinctively feels for his wallet again.

“Drugs?” she responds, glancing about the place to make sure no one was around still.

“Implied,” he said. “Through the indicator (Dasher).”

“Hmm,” she said, thinking of nothing else to say. It *couldn’t* be that simple. Pan-Z or Pot-D surely had more complicated reasons for being here. But she’s simplifying; maybe they are too. Ditching the paranormal aspect.

“You?” he said to fill the gap. “How’s Lorsters Worst going?”

“Oh I’m not there any more. Elisa took my place there.”

“Elisa?” He sipped, recalling her from other assignments. She always requested to be a red clad lady of the night. He thought she secretly just wanted to be a hooker outright, forget the force or group or whatever they’re calling our collective these days. He says his thoughts aloud for his sister.

“Could be, (sip). My theory: they let me out of the gig because I couldn’t find what was behind the purple door.”

“Elaborate,” he requested. His coffee was done. Time to light a fag. Fags always got his organizational brain going after a prerequisite caffeine boost. The more smoke filled his eyes, the better he could see.

“Oh dear,” she said, seeing the tears and redness. “Let me get you a rag.”

“No no, it’s just the smoke. Helps me think.” He continues to organize his thoughts and tear up, redness increasing. But he’s about to come up with something. He bursts out crying, finally putting the cigarette down. He loves his sister, he realizes. He never got beyond being the husband.

(to be continued)

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no comet

Dickie had solved the mystery. A man, walking in a cycle, runs into him if he stands in front of Jim’s counter and pushes him to the corner, where he then leaves him and dashes diagonally across the road.

About 2 minutes later he’s back, pattern repeated. Again and again this happens. Did Jim set this up on purpose so customers wouldn’t loiter? he thinks.

The morning light was increasing. He had to find Joey Avatar to talk to her about the shoes and some other important things. Like their prospective date tonight. He doesn’t think he’s up for it. Besides, that apple juice he just bought from Jim was not quite agreeing with his stomach. Perfect excuse for backing out. “I’m sick, babe,” he rehearsed in his head. “Jim?” he imagined her saying, because he was responsible for the bulk of things bad in town. He may even be the person behind the transmutation of Black Bart himself, Dickie realized in this created scenario. He then imagines going back to Jim, confronting him. Oops, there’s that guy pushing him to the corner again. Yes: convenient.

Jim L. Brown, he recalled. He makes a mental note to check what the L. stands for sometime, because he’s heard of another Jim Brown and doesn’t want to confuse the two in his continued investigation. A., he also remembers about the other. Jim A. Brown, with the A. standing for nothing, he recalls, even turning into B. at the drop of a dime, for no rhyme or reason. Maybe L. is just a progression of this, and stands for nothing itself.

Here comes the dasher again. “Merry f-cking Christmas to you too!” he called in turn, stepping aside this time. Dasher yes, hmmm.

He checks his wallet but it’s okay. The guy appears to be a pusher but not a taker. Hmm, again.

(to be continued)

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