“I only told a fib *this* big. Not a whopper.”
“Shut your mouth,” she responded, getting the joke but not liking it. Back to the cast of “Burger Wars” for her, it looked like.
“*Anyhoot*, we’re back to where we started from, you in your position and me in mine. This is good.” He puts down his hands. “This is excellent.” He begins to whistle a tune of no solid design. “This is great,” he paused in the activity to reinforce the positivity of the situation once more.
Wheeler/Wendy continues to wipe down the counter with a nonexistent rag. “Do you want me to keep doing this until we can see ourselves in the polished surface, hmmm?”
But her rhetorical question was answered by the first visitor of the night to this central Nautilus location, the basically vacant, sim-wide city we visited before for a couple of posts in section 3. Man About Time.
“Ahh, my most unfocused doppleganger, have a seat have a seat. How are things back in Collagesity, #2?” We are lone mates, thinks Jeffrey Phillips here, much like Speck and Crazy.
“I took Carrcassonnee apart and then put her back together, as you suggested.”
“Great!” Jeffrey Phillips was pleased MAT followed orders or at least suggestions for a change. “Any luck? Can we get her back? How long away from the tree can we expect her to live when disassembled?” So many questions, Phillips thinks. I need to return; can’t keep ruling the place long distance. But squaring the circle is important important and thus the return to this pretty central location.
“10 days at most,” MAT answers the second question first. “But it doesn’t matter,” he continues in his mild way. “The eye, even when separated from the (6 sectioned) body, remains staring and unblinking. No real response. I say we move to Plan B. Or Plan 2.”
“*You’re* Plan 2,” Jeffrey responded, laughing while simultaneously disappointed that Carrcassonnee couldn’t be reactivated. Wheeler/Wendy continued to needlessly wipe down the counter, wondering when this was going to end. Another visitor shows up. Fern Stalin. And right behind her, as usual, her own no. 2: Lichen Roosevelt. The old Yalta Bar and Grill gang had reassembled. They were all here to talk about what happened with the crashed ship over in Wallytown. Everyone needed to know; everyone needed to be brought up to speed.
“Speeding,” finished Fern Stalin 15 minutes later. “Stop signs ignored.”
