“Oh it smells *awful*, Buster,” Duncan spoke about the green pocketbook mounted in a display case on the side of the newstand. “Nothing new in there atall. Something *old*, and rotten. Smells like rancid sauerkraut to me, maybe mix in a little mustard. Can you imagine? My hands are turning redder just thinking about it. I need to amscray outta here! (reply/order). Red it is (*click*).” Duncan will have to stay a spell longer. TILE is strong here in Slaashsides-soon-to-be-part-of-Middletown, Buster believes. Continuing his pained face beyond the odor, he walks toward the subway, intending to turn himself in to Officer Davis Jefferson and his pseudo-supervisor Martha Wiggins for the murder of Hot Dog, then spill his confession at the merged jailhouse and mental institution later on. It’s the only way he can get the inside scoop. He purposefully bumps against Cory on the way down, one with the mother now. “Happy, bud?”, he asks sarcastically as he spots Jefferson and Wiggins at the bottom of a long long flight of stairs.
Tag Archives: Buster Damm^*~~~~
If we could just recreate the original crime scene. Pigeon roosting on ass; Amanda Stoorm placing an ultra important call to Buster Damm.
Call? Looks like we just did. Duncan Avocado brings it home.
“I knew you’d be here, Ginger. Because of the face replacement clinic and all.”
“500 lindens for a whole new look. Worth every penny!”
“Yes, you look great, you look fantastic.” Could Duncan date a high class white chick like this and get away with it in this town, this place in the center of it all? It would be controversial. Maybe *he* should get an operation. He knows a certain Dr. of Mouse who might be able to help. He ponders the outcome, black to white. But is he running away from his heritage because of that? He’s *tired* of being discriminated upon, but he’s in the same boat with the rest of his color. He can’t date fair, red haired Wendy down at Mac’s Diner either for the same reason, that damn white racist rat Pansy watching over it all. If only he could get rid of the Pooping Pigeon franchise, maybe create a reality where Wendy branches out on her on, dumps the hot dog angle, and goes all in for burger. Pure Angus beef; not those ridiculous fillers for the dog like lips and genitalia, even if that isn’t quite true. People could be trained to *think* that.
And that’s what he decided that day in the late of May or early June or whatever. Kill the Hot Dog, stick a pigeon on its rump and call it done. Killer Andrea Stoorm, trained in the Death Star battalions, knew what to do, Buster guiding her and then Buster telling Duncan what actually happened. “We manipulated probabilities in that Middletown alley that day in early May.” “June,” I corrected, but understood it all now. There was only one actual killing, the other 5 being deflections or subterfuge. Although it still thrived in other realities, in this one the Pooping Pigeon was over almost before it started, with Pansy
behind bars behind a bar instead.
“What’ll it be Duncan, my man?” Always the “man” for the black dude, he observed. But at least he still played his old music here.
And now: Hidi.
He places an all important call to Buster Damm, his regional boss of sorts.
“Yeah, I’m standing right outside his place right now. (reply) He’s been here for *years and years*. (reply) Mom just came back in town. Now she’s in therapy. Or jail: it’s a mixed up place, with one establishment shifting over to the next before you can blink one eye and bat the other. It’s all red and blue here. I’m ready to amscray. (reply/question) Biker? Yeah, he’s here too. He just rolled up in fact; I heard his souped up motorcycle all the way across town. (reply/joke) Far as the ear can hear, good one. (reply/request) I’ll get on it.” Duncan Avocado hangs up the pay phone, glances over in the direction of the club’s entrance. The killer could be in there right now for all he knew, cooking up another crime in some degree of seriousness ranging from blue (not very much at all) to red (very *very* much so). “Damn town,” he reiterated again under his breath, and took steps toward the entrance.
“Ever killed anyone, lady?” he joked at the bar, continuing the conversation to its ultimate end.
“Define ‘kill’.” There were different degrees of seriousness to it.
” He wanted to show us one of our ancestors,” tiny Buster Damm explained to his fellow (sometimes) tiny wife Bettie about the latest Venus of Willendorf find.
He stood directly on The Diagonal in the corner of a VHC City gallery, famous for such. A boy of 10, then 13, then back to 10, then over and over the process continues, perhaps until infinity. Unless Duncan finds a cure for the boy’s ail, pluck him out of the cycle.
He had seen too much for his youthful days thanks to living in the city. Interior becomes Exterior. Eve holds the apple and the snake. Hissing of Summer. Buster knows.
“Fish tacos again?”
“Oh *George*.” But Duncan knew his ward was right and that they had become stuck in a rut in this here VHC City, famed for its gallery and music scene. They needed a vacation.
(to be continued)
“I don’t think Marty has any right to judge art from my town, Buster. *My* opinion.”
“You are right,” Buster replied. Better get to a picture of ’em.
“I went to the Fortress today, Buster,” Duncan Avocado confessed to his boss, the Pot-D Deputy Assistant Sub Vice-Chancellor for Internal External Affairs.
“I know, Duncan.” He nods toward the tracking skeleton heart medallion hung around his neck.
“Oh, yes,” Duncan replies, fondling it. “Forgot.”
“The Fortress is not for you.” Sterner now. “It is for someone else.”
“I know: Hidi.”
“Well… *whoever* it is, and you don’t need to know that yet.”
“What about… Jerry Lind, the Asian Indian–”
“We know about him as well. And he’s both American and Asian: a mix.”
Duncan thought of the red complexion and understood. “They were headed to the Fortress.”
“I said I don’t…” He blows out a tiny puff of air from his small vampire body, trying to calm down. “Just show me the new Willendorf.” He was ready to blow this joint, his regular hangout beside the railroads. Still red hot and angry “policewoman” Angelina Dickenson lives just down the tracks, but in a different sim. He’s safe here, he considers again. But he remains trapped overall in the southern part of VHC City. Best he and Betty move somewhere else. If only Nautilus’ version of Collagesity were a bit bigger, had a few more shops for the wife to frequent. But alas: not so. Baker had decided on a regular 8192 parcel and that wasn’t enough for extras like that: only what he deemed so-called *historic* buildings, like the Blue Feather, like the Temple of TILE, like Fal Mouth Moon and the Castle and a couple of other ones. Not enough.
Quickly they were in the gallery Duncan im’ed Buster about earlier, staring at the new Willendorf. Skyscrapers loomed above them. This was Middletown obviously, Duncan opined to Buster. Buster wasn’t sure. A gallery from the *future*? But it had happened once before and very recently. What can of soup had Marty opened up with his TWO TO KNOW project with Roger? Will traces of Middletown keep showing up and showing up until it’s finally *here*? he pondered correctly, knowing more that he knew at the time of the month.
Duncan closed his diary and stared at the tulips. So close.
“These are powerful people,” spoke Buster in my head. “They control *portals*. Portals between realities. And once you cross the line you may not know which is which.” Wise words from a small vampire man, still living in VHC City near Duncan for all I know. Still frequenting that bakery where Duncan was inducted into Pot-D, until the cursed, bloody Yelloo sun comes up at least. Give him the light and dark side of the moon any time. Give him money procured from criminal actions deep in darkness and shadows. Give him… well, we’ll leave out the third. In fact we’ll chuck the whole dark triad, for Buster Damm is now full of light and goodness, thanks to the blood transfusions combined with the positive energy of Pot-D itself. Yes, the story of our small vampire friend, best buddies with fellow and much larger (or regularly shaped) vampire Pitch Darkly, will have a happy ending. He has his wife Betty now, who can appear tiny, like him, but also larger — to allow the couple freedom to move about in the world of regular joes and josettes — are also born again TILISTS. They’d studied the sinks of Maebaleia and other continents extensively. They’re convinced of the 3d hyperspin of Maebaliea and Jeogeot separate from the rest of Their Second Lyves to create the sinks in the first place. And above and beyond this, roosting on it like a demented OWL… but I’ve said too much here. ROOST is key.
What did Duncan see on the other side of the 300? He observed the observer, almost hidden in a small wood of trees behind a barrel here.
He had dominion over his compact, changeable kingdom-queendom at 200 E Locust, he and his wife. But the wife also observes, 2 1/2 years in the past, an overturned chair on a porch just to the west. The lawn deer’s baby has moved back into its womb. Stars appear.
And a blue sphere moves from one side of a small garden space to the other to emphasize its importance. I think we know what *this* means.
Better shot of the observer.
“Well I must say that was certainly an interesting game of pool we just played (!). How’s your, aherm, back doing Marty?”
“Fine, fine. Just need to stretch it out.” Marty had never tried something like this. “How’s your beer holding out?” he says, turning. “Smoking and drinking at once, I see?”
“Yeah.” He looks over at the dizzying megalopolis outside the skybox window. “Middletown, pheh. Who knew it was going to grow so big.”
“Yes, we’re on the edge all right…”
“Of something *big*”
Duncan looks on, unseen and unamused. “You choose the medium you have,” he can hear Buster in his head, clear as rain, “and you have the medium you choose. Roger and Marty aren’t *lovers* per se. It’s all symbolic past the clue.”
“Fiftysix,” Duncan says aloud for no one to hear. “Paul’s switch.”
Better get back and prepare food for George, he realized, looking at the time.
He found himself playing this game in an arcade. They’d sent Hidi back home, saying the place, this Eveningwood, was too dangerous for a gal like her, all tempting and such. It was a job for a man, they said. A black man. “Me?” he asked, knowing the answer. The look in Buster’s eyes told him. “Me,” he answered himself. Thus: here.
He’d never heard of The Smipsons but he was told to play the game with the little yellow fellow named Bart. He needs to be fast on his skateboard to outrun all those giant tigers, Duncan thought, seeing the kid soar through the air like a bird or a plane.
If only he’d learned Roman numerals before entering that zoo.
“Yelloo!” Homer Smipson said in greeting. Duncan had his clue.
Peter Oesso upstairs, in contrast, had nothing.
Okay I’m here watching the Mercury capsule at Neptune Bay like Buster told me to, Duncan pondered. But I don’t think anyone is hiding there — I’ve been watching for hours now.
Just keep her inside, he requested. Don’t let her drown or anything but just keep her inside until the shoot is over. “Okay,” he said. Anything for a role other than prison.
“There she is in person(!)” Kick Ass 01 (Boos) said over to Kick Ass 02 (Bogota) about Elberta standing at the bar in the background. “I gotta hand it to me, pal. I sure can pick ’em!”
Bag wearing Kick Ass 02 was not staring as much now. “Yeah, but she’s not exactly what I expected. I remember, well…”
“Prettier? Don’t say prettier, pal. Because she’s a knockout(!)”
Kick Ass 02 looks over again. Were they talking about the same chic?
“Hello boys!” she calls over, drink in hand. But which one? One way to find out.
“Good job,” he pats him on the back while they walk over, but for reasons other than congratulatory, ha.
“Where’d you get that *hair*, brother of mine.”
Toothpick pats the top of his now thickly padded skull. “Neptune hair. It’s all the rage in the central parts of The City. Just a demo for now — trying it out. You like?” He moves his piece of straw around in his mouth in rhythm with Elberta’s. Both notice. Both turn a little red (?).
“Ahem, yes I suppose.” She couldn’t say much since she was testing out a demo as well. Silence for the moment, then: “Do you think he’ll still show up tonight?”
“You know. Spongebub. The reason we’re here. We need to tell him that his wife is still alive and well in Urqhart or thereabouts, selling rental units for the Illuminati. That’s the organization she was working for all along. It was the drink–”
“Sponge*bob*?” Toothpick was backing up, unable to understand the line of thought pointing to the single eyed ones, The Residents and Firesign Theatre (or Theater) both.
“*Bub*,” reinforced the sister. “We’ll call him bub in this lower, more paradoxical dimension.” She reconsidered the word. What was the adjective form of parody? She didn’t know. She remained quiet, waiting for him to talk again.
“You mean the little yellow fellow, the square one?”
“Yes. Sponge*bub*,” she pronounced again.
“You mean like the little yellow, square fellow on the floor beside me right now?”
“He’s right here. Beside me. He’s been here for a while. I thought you knew.”
Elberta stands up, peers over the edge of The Table and sees the top of Spongebub’s square head with its big goofy peepers ogling (?) back. “Oh. Okay.” She keeps staring, looking for signs of life. “Why isn’t he *doing* anything — saying anything?”
“Go ahead, little fellow,” encouraged Toothpick by his side.
“Bahahahaha!” suddenly came the activated sound upon this request. “She has a square just like *me*!” He reads above her head in his high pitched and oh so nasal voice. “Gone… mo… ing.” Spongebub puts a yellow finger to his now down-turned line of a mouth, a thinking gesture complete with bulging eyes rolled upward. “Err.” He stares forward again. “What’s a mo-ing?”
They correct him as one, synchronized once more.
Back to the canal for the both of ’em.
Buster gave Duncan what he thought might be good news. “They decided to get married after all, the brother and the sister. Disturbing I know. But par for the course in the Deep–”
Duncan hung up. He was already mentally prepared to move to the Sunklands to stay with Elberta and Toothpick. It was as if a cushy rug had been rudely jerked out from under his feet, leaving him to fall to a rock hard floor he understood all too well. It was his cell.
(to be continued)