Tag Archives: BIG RED MACHINE

July 23, 2025 · 6:09 am

00470412 (the great 100,000 book library in de skies)

“Lou, dearest,” he whispered over. “Buy your old man a can of soda while he’s busy studying will ya?”

“Sure thing Daddy. What’ll it be? Kolya? Pepi? Maybe even a bottle instead of a can?”

“Shhh, babydoll,” he said to her louder voice, finger over lips to reinforce his point. “Keep it down. Other people are studying here besides me.”

“And me — just sitting here twiddling my thumbs,” she responded in turn, tone not much softer than before. “Wishing there was an actual town again to visit while you read these old dusty things.” She became curious. “What’d you finding anyway? You mentioned a MOA or something or another.”

“Most Ancient One, yes,” he hissed, finger pressed against lips again. “Right underneath the library here, I’m speculating. That *whole town* you’re after. Files within!” Oh GOD. He shouted he was so excited. And now the whole rest of the library is staring. He waves at all of them, trying to indicate he’s sorry and that the outburst was just a slip-up.

Right through that Big Red Machine there it is, though. The secret passage. ‘Nother one.

He could walk through…

… and be in a different world altogether. And so it was.

“Ahh yes, thanks Lou,” he said after carefully popping the top and taking a sip. “Hits the spot.”

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May 19, 2025 · 2:26 pm

00460612 (Windsong Too)

“Uh, *Tessa,*” Carolin says to her on the Isle of Crow after the fairy had just manifested out of thin air in a puff of semi-sparkly dust. “Be-hind you (!).” Tessa stops playing the guitar, turns.

“I wass acttraccted by the musss-ic,” the odd looking entity started with a bit of a slurpy slur. “Bea-uu-ti-fful! Won-dder-fful. And that’ss jusst youu!” she tried to compliment the player. Too creepy? She doesn’t want to project creepy and odd. Yet she always seems to fail at this.

“Why *thank* you,” says Tessa, studying her face, her features in general. She didn’t want to seem too surprised at the sudden appearance. After all, this was End of Time. Weird occurrences and appearances happen with some frequency here, she knew from her extended stay back in the day. But she hadn’t returned since she was a kid. Not even a teenager then. It took her many years to refind this magical place. And of course she had to uncover the whereabouts of her old friend and former fellow cave resident Carolin to tell her too. “We can go back (!),” she says during that in-person meeting in Nawt Vaya I hinted about before in this here blog and attached photo-novel. “We can find the cat-people for real (!!).”

“*Why* would we do *that*” countered Carolin, having a quite different experience with those caves. Imprisonment! At least for a couple of days. Until Glinda got her out and sent her home. Back to New York where she was trying to get to all along. Mannikins PHEH, she can’t help but cuss inwardly, an old old grudge. Turned her against magical beings in general, truth be told. So she was certainly *wary* of this fairy. Wary of fairy wary of fairy, she chanted in her head to drill the wariness in. So back to the current dialog…

“Would you like to be a ssstarr?” the being mildly slurped and slurred. “Would you like to be a rocktt sstarrr?”

“Maybe,” Tessa lied, not trusting the creature before her either. A magical proposition. Always a bad thing, she believes.

“Would you like to have luxurriousss hairr?” she continued with it. “Would you, would you like adddoorration, like looking in a mirrorr and alwayshss seeing beauty. Puurrre beauty.” This worked before, the fairy thinks. Why not now?

“How about if she doesn’t? interjected Tessa’s mate on the bed with her. “Will you just leave us alone, then?” Blunt Carolin, more a glass half empty than full kind of gal. But a gal pal still.

“I… will leavvve,” the queer little fairy agrees.

“What’s your name? Fairy?” Carolin continued with the grilling.

“My namee?” She seemed to be actually thinking about it, like she didn’t know. “Scharlie,” she came up with. “Peet,”

“You don’t look like a Charlie or a Peet,” countered Carolin.

“Nooooo. Your contactss. Fairiess too!”

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May 15, 2025 · 7:19 am

00460606

Tessa (after getting a busy signal for the fifth time at the station and then giving up): “Oh DARN. And I so so wanted to catch up with my old old friend Carolin from the Caves. I have news about them!”

MEANWHILE… Seventy-six radio station manager Marty had been stabbed in the head, heart and hands, leading to a severe decrease in health. Only the hustle of local paramedics Charlie and Peet saved his sorry ass.

https://www.morningagclips.com/head-heart-hands-and-health-a-short-history-of-4-h/

“Can… of worms,” he said up to them weakly as they carted him off in a gurney to the Chilbo General Hospital where he stayed a week I believe before getting strong enough to leave. But employee Carolin would be gone by then, unable to be canned by him for her troublemaking down at the station because she had, in essence, canned herself. Back to the caves with Tessa, who’d caught up with her by other means, in-person visit I’m guessing.

The stabbings? Cat-people, cat *aliens*. Who were looking to get back to their cubic, red home planet at any cost. Or so THE OTHERS would have you believe. Others led by the Horns (= Big Bosses).

(to be continued)

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May 11, 2025 · 1:37 pm

00460602

She was already on her 3rd coffee and 4th Blue Moon single of the day. From her solo period of course. She doesn’t like the Cracks, her old group, nearly as much, prefix them with US, UK or any other country — doesn’t matter. But her solo period, especially after the suicide/murder attempt (another reader’s choice): primo. Pure punk while also somehow remaining pure pop, unholy yet uncannily successful marriage of the two. She takes another sip while she listens to another tasty lick from the guitar of none other than Cary E., soon to be known as Car E. and then just CARE w/ all caps, logical terminus reached on the name transmutation process. Formerly of Sunamai of course, helping out Blue Moon on this particular track called “No More Big Leagues,” a minor hit that kicks off her first solo album “Louisville Cardinals” — playing on the fact that the state of Kentucky contains no actual big league baseball team unlike neighboring Ohio with its Cincinnati Reds and Cleveland Indians and likewise neighbor Missouri with its own double team pairing of St. Louis Cardinals and Kansas City Royals. But believe me, don’t let the name fool you, she imagines saying to her brother Ted, more fond of the Cracks (a Crackhead of course): the album is definitely big leagues, and she then imagines herself laughing at his irritation to this statement of fact. “Johnny Rose Bench” is also a pretty well known love ballad from side two. And of course there’s “Elvis Esley.” Or Isley — no one really knows which except Blue Moon herself and she’s not saying.

The old timey dial telephone rings beside her. Probably station manager Marty, she reasons, calling to complain that I’m playing too much Kentucky and to cool it with the Blue Moon. She decides then and there to play the entirety of the the “Louisville Cardinals” album, just not lift the needle off the spinning vinyl record after the first track is done. And maybe play all the rest of her solo work — in order — after that. Take the phone off the hook and just *do* it. She calculates how quickly Marty could get here from Chilbo for the canning.

Can of Worms, yes, she thinks while track 1 ends and track 2 (“St. Louie Blues”) begins. Just like in New York.

(to be continued)

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April 19, 2025 · 7:43 am

00460404

She was already absorbed in preparing for another case with an appropriate upgrade of clothes for a richer client. “Goodbye Ms. Brown. Do you need Wanda to help you back to the teleporter?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks!”

—–

“And so that’s how the whole thing started, the whole investigation thing,” Charlene began wrapping up her story told at the Uptown Bakery after the town meeting, Downtown having no such establishment and thus no option for them to support fellow Downtown businesses in that way. But, then again, Uptown has nothing like Emily New Moon’s adult oriented video store or Charlene’s records store specializing in vintage vinyl. “Sending Wolvie potentially up the Big Creek,” she continued, “but, lucky for us, wink wink, only resulting in probationary work. With me, ha. Working on my film along with Roberts. With her encouragement, I’m upping the bigfoot debunking angle. She’s got some major players involved now, bringing in some big money. We could be looking at Hollywood box office hit, Emily. I’m talking major leagues, Cincinnati Reds stuff. No more Louisville Cardinals.”

“That’s sounds fabulous,” said Emily to her friend, her lover on odd nights of the calendar with Wolvie taken even and them taking turns with the first day of the month, those always being odd and so stacking the *odds* in Charlene’s favor. They worked it out in a way. And then there was the problem of the full moon for Wolvie. Speaking of which, there’s one tonight…

“You know Wolvie’s right,” Emily New Moon said to Charlene after a couple more bites of her donut, trying to frame the words correct in her head. “Bigfoot’s real. It’s (munch), common knowledge on the Makah Indian Reservation where I was raised. My Aunt Whistling Bark saw them, or at least heard them. She was just unloading her trash at the Sooes Creek Dump. Recorded the sounds on her phone even.” She pulls out her cell phone from a back pocket. “Here, I think I have them saved—”

“No need, Emily. I know they’re real.”

“You *do*? Then why act this way? Why accept, I mean, you’re being *persuaded* to debunk the… I mean, um.”

“I know what you mean. You just have to trust I have a plan. Like *you* have a plan for your Blue Moon Kentucky video tape. Paired pet projects we can call them. You have withheld secrets and so do I, wink wink.”

—–

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of town in its Park District, Wolvie locks himself in and prepares for the long night ahead.

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March 2, 2025 · 2:45 pm

00460106 (Tin at ten)

“Shelley?” Wheeler started to answer Lexi’s question. “I don’t know. Wandered off into the prison surrounding us; lost in the maze that’s suppose to be a labyrinth, one way in and out. Time to make a switch; free myself from *that* kind of cage. Do you realize, Lexi, that she hasn’t changed her hair style since she was a kid? And those shoes. Kids as well. Keds!”

“I don’t care,” says Lexi back, stopped from dancing for a second. She’ll resume soon enough. “I love her still.”

“You can’t have her, Lexi. She’s… not in your league. She’s in the American, you’re in the National. If the Cincinnati Reds could play the New York Mets in the World Series then you might have a shot. But no sin in Cincinnati, if you catch my, um, lob. Out at home before the game even starts. Back in the pocket with the Bakers badge and all. You’re Mary Anne,” Wheeler summarized before her, still still. “Panama’s Ginger. But Shelley’s different — *I’m* different. And I set the rules. I’m tired of being the mother to a child that never grows up from top and bottom. You notice the change in *my* hair — I’m ready to dive back into the fire from the frying pan just above. Back to the dance. But first…

“… I have to let the butterflies free to do their work. Starting with the midriff, mind you. All Orange.”

Without further words, Lexi begins again.

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December 23, 2024 · 3:55 pm

00450312

“She wanted to *kill* you Madison Perez. She wanted to cut your *head* off, throw the body away in some trash pit in J-Town, and then parade it around town on a pole for all to see. The poll was rigged!”

I couldn’t argue with her since I didn’t know what she was talking about. See, my head had already basically been cut off. From the inside.

—–

We owned a big plot of land out in Texas badlands where most of my people were conceived. Hard to miss with its Big Red P on a sign above the gate. We’d find it. Even without my head.

I needed to confer with my people before the pole comes out.

(to be continued)

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August 11, 2023 · 8:42 am

Big Red Machine (skirted)

She could of course still summon him when needed, like during meditation. Not the meditation itself for the need but what usually came after, another afterthought of sorts, the byproduct of two souls being one. If she falls, he falls, so intertwined are their individual pieces by now. Which will inevitably happen: all things spring up and all things fall back, product of the clocks and the seasons. Always blue yellow blue yellow to go along with green red green red, if you will. A complete TILE is the only way to revolve in time. They had understood this ages ago, back when they were still kits, still in the box yet to be correctly assembled by the mother, the father. They’d tried once before, but left out some parts and the whole thing fell to Hell, a screw missing here, a joint missing there. But when they finally followed the instructions the way they were suppose to be: perfection. A girl and a boy both. Adam and Eve reborn. “I will call the female X,” the mother said, approved for such things. “And the boy: Z,” the father said, looking down on his own and then glancing over at what the wife had done, seeing it was good too. “We have done well Myrtle. My Myrtle Beech.” Sand was in his eye; he was dreaming but it was still real, just as X and Z, later Xia and Zimmy, were real. One could absorb the other if needed for protection. X could move up to Z and Z down to X. But given the circumstances of Constantynople and the arrangement at the top of the Kidd Tower, it had to be this way: Z to X. Mr. Babyface stares from his staring chair, understanding this. “Xilted,” he says, knowing it was behind him as well and no longer Zebrasil now two floors above in the alphabet. The Gods have spoken.

“Zebrasil,” he said, staring up through the transparent canopy of the bed and thinking of top vs. bottom and bottom vs. top. “Xilted,” she said in turn, pondering the same. There were degrees to it, well 3 that they could count in the current game. The 4th would represent the Null, the Void, the Absent; the return to home. Nothing to keep them apart. They were just on the surface still, first base yet to be encountered.  No sin in Cincinnati.

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November 6, 2022 · 9:26 am

00350410

As soon as he logged back in, Biff Carter, former police officer now just out on loan, drove his old, battered patrol car — maintenance not kept up after his retirement much to his lament — over to the cell where they were *suppose* to be keeping Arthur Kill. Or Kill van Kull — whatever. He’d know the shape if not the name fer sure. And this wasn’t him.

“Where is he?” he barked to Policeman Clubb in terse greeting. Clubb and he go way back, had their hands in the old style beatings of ’73, miracle year indeed. It was all in the book that Shelley at the tavern somewhere below — beyond — just put down in favor of her tablet and dream related material. “Big Red Machine.”

“Dunno. This guy just appeared in his place while I was looking away for a moment. Said he’s a Receiver.”

“*Receiver*. What’s *that*?” Biff Carter was feeling the pressure of the beat again, the anxiety of not knowing what’s around any corner. Like this. He purposely fed Filburt those pills so he could get him ill and take his place back on the force, so it was all his doing. He had to keep up with the girl. He asked about her next.

“Missed her by a day and a 1/2,” replied Clubb.

“Darn,” cussed Carter. But maybe he said “damn” or even “f-ck” here. Then to this “Receiver”: “Who are you? What did you do with Kill? Did you *kill* him?” Carter might have emitted a small smile here but couldn’t manage it through the anger.

“Kill van Kull?” replied our Claude, who we met back in Section 01 and last appeared in this photo-novel (don’t say what # in the series) at the beginning post of Section 02. Seems like so long ago. “Lampton?” Claude recites another name this killer of the film went by, kill or be killed being one of his mottoes. He’s working on some more.

“Whatever he goes by,” replies Biff Carter bitingly. “I know *you’re* not him. Despite being a [delete name] too… sometimes hard to tell you f-ers apart.

Ah, the f- word n- word, thinks Claude here. Another one due for a visit to The Void. He’ll see to it asap. “He turned… into the Receiver that I am,” spoke Claude, knowing this wouldn’t make any sense to Carter, Clubb. He dare not mention the dog.

Carter finally emitted that smile, which turned into a laugh, which turned into a doubled over guffaw. Surreal truths sometimes do this to people. Witness George Washington Carver exclaiming that he invented a phonograph needle made out of peanuts to a world wide audience in ’84. Not a dry eye on the planet. Hmm, Carver… Carter.

Finally he recovered. “Bring him down to the station,” he barked at Clubb while dabbing his face with a handkerchief. “I’m going to the Kitty Kat Klub,” which Clubb knew was one of their old hangouts while on the beat. Wasn’t even invited. Who was in charge here after all? His old boss Carter or his new boss? Maybe, deep down, they’re both the same.

“Sure, sure,” he relented, not wanting a beating himself. Because he knew what was going to happen to Claude BOOF!

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November 6, 2022 · 8:19 am

Tesseract Inn continued…

The dead will return to their graves, the bats will fly back to The Void, and the orange lights on the fir tree in the center of it all will be replaced by anything but as Halloween season shifts inevitably into Christmas. Shelley decides to bed down for the night on the comfy couch by the fire as the fog rolls in, another product of the lingering evil. The “Big Red Machine” being finished as far as she can take it, she shifts back to her standard tablet for more reading. Always 1 or 2 or 3 pages in at this time of night and she’s ready for sleep; can stash the tablet safely away beside the bed — or couch in this case — its main job accomplished. She likes to read about dreams anymore, but still has problems remembering her own. Society offers little in training for that, unfortunately, with the emphasize instead being placed on “out there”, or the manipulation of physical objects and the achievement of material goals. How much do you have in your bank account, Shelley? Not enough, society might answer. Focus your energy on investments, financial planning. But the dreams, she might protest in her mind. What about the *inner* wealth. No answer for that.

She’s spacing out instead of reading. Time to shut the eyes. She doesn’t have her special neck molding pillow but, oh well. Next time she’ll be sure to plan an intercontinental trip better; this one was rather impromptu in nature. Plus, well there are the shifts in time/location to deal with. The Cross, pheh. And now she’s trapped, in effect, in one of its quadrants, let’s say, as it divides the continent into 4 fairly equal sections, with one remaining unfinished — not the one she’s in, though, this Mountain land with its many shiny granite peaks and ridges. Must be the mica.

“Goodnight Spider!” she calls as she rolls over, using her hand as a makeshift pillow.

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