“It didn’t work out for us in Cassandra City, Moe.” Man About Time (MAT) looks over at revolving Homer. “But maybe it will work out here. In another city: NWES City. The City.”
“Town,” Moe gruffed back at sitting Man About Time (MAT). “Check the latest *town* council meeting notes. Here, I’ll send you a notecard.” The bartender was clearly miffed about the decision.
Man About Town checks the notecard; then: “I see.”
“Diamondfyre was the deciding vote,” Moe went on. “East and West decided nay, and North and South decided yea. So it was up to Diamondfyre to tip the balance — the, er, unofficial 5th sim of the town. Northwest if you will.”
MAT was still staring at the notecard in his inventory. “I’ll fight it,” he declares mildly but firmly.
“It’s partly *your* lot’s fault, see. You Collagesity people, moving in here and renting here and there and there and there. Like this joint. Does Moe’s really belong in this town?”
“Yes,” issues MAT promptly. He stares at the revolving head again. But perhaps not Homer, he thinks. Maybe that’s the key. One of them. Removal of the head. But Moe already said he wouldn’t travel without the head. So here we are.
“Moe,” MAT decides to venture after a sip of American beer. So insipid. “How close are you to retirement?”
“I don’t know,” he returned roughly. “5 years?”
More like 5 days, Man About Time then thought. Maybe even 5 hours. The head spins ’round for one of its last times here.
“We may not be finished with Cassandra City, Baker Bloch. I hope you can mustard enough energy to ketchup with me.”
“I relish the thought.”
“I thought you would I thought you would.” Then he became mild again, his normal self. Man About Time, MAT, knew something. I had a meeting with him tomorrow to discuss Beet and the making of their next album, “Lived to Tell”. Lived to tell *what*? I want to ask him. Why did they pick The Crossroads to record that album? I separate myself from MAT for now and fade from the picture.
“So we begin.”
“Is he gone yet? Oh HI!”
“I want to buy this place.” Simple and soft from the end of the bar. “And the jar.”
“Homer?” Moe couldn’t part with Homer he didn’t think. Best to start over somewhere else.
“Bar not jar,” he gruffed over to his old friend in his course manner. His old *enemy* friend. Best to keep them close to the vest; know of their whereabouts. New Nun and Sticky between them nodded, since they were one with his mind. Shut up mind! Did I say that out loud as well?
MAT spit in his hand and moved toward Moe, arm extended. Dare he shake it? he asked internally while shaking in a different way. So mild. So dangerous.
He extended his figure upward. He reached.
“Pretty good, Keith B., dad wanna-be. But me thinks the head must go.” Both look over at the 2-dimensional version of Dr. Who’s Cassandra entity, at the eclipsed brain.
“Homer? Nah, he’ll stay for now.”
“Variables,” warns daughter wanna-be Kate McCoy. “Danger,” she adds.
Keith ponders what she said a lot as he attempts to sleep upstairs. 1 prim remaining of 60 — just enough to rez a bed.
Kate stays with him all night. Kate doesn’t need any sleep. Since, contrary to popular opinion and her last name, she isn’t real.
Ready for business?
We better check the 8-ball again.
Magic 8-Ball: It is certain.
So is Dinah Moe’s wife? Is that why they humm?
And who is Moe again? This is (old) Keith B. That’s not Moe.
A tea table (re)appears. We must have tea at Moe’s. With the Chancellor? How ’bout Gerald? Hope it’s well strained.
Let’s end with a map.
Now who will play the part of Moe, h(u)mm? ponders private dick Biff Carter, still redding that read book, ahem, *reading* that *red* book. *The* red book. Maybe a dame, he thinks. How about that new gal with the dangerous curves, aheh. Uhum. Danger… that reminded him of something. Something dead. He sniffs the air. Oh… something *new* again. Dead cat soap — just in at the local Hurdy Gurdy. He can’t stop washing with it. Wash your hands wash your hands wash your hands…
He heads downstairs toward the sink with the stinking, gritty, extra strength soap for the 15th time today.
“Scrub a dub dub (whistle), scrub a dub dub (more whistling).” The phone rings upstairs. He patiently counts to twenty using Mississippi’s as the rings mount to 7. He rushes back while drying his hands and putting on his bullet proof work gloves before eight. *Riiiiin-*
“Pizza?? No thanks, ahem. I’ve already ate.”
He set the reciever back down in the antique carriage. Took him a while to figure it out. Wrong number, he ruminated. Or was it exactly the *right* number, ohho?
He consults the magic eight ball at the other end of the bar for the next move. “Uh huh. Dead and Danger *are* the same thing.” He knew that something with the word dog in its name was coming up. Stand back!
“I coming bearing both a cross and a crucifix. I bring you Second Life. I am from Rhode…”
“…nwald,” finishes Baker for the new nun. He looks in a direction beyond Cassandra, thinking perhaps it might be Rhode Island instead.
“Ok, you’re hired.”