Tag Archives: CHEEKS

June 20, 2025 · 7:49 am

00470212

Ho ho ho, what’s *this*? Siri thought, riding through the ancient amphitheater toward it. I don’t remember this giant statue from my previous visit to Tousaint.

Then she recalled surrogate father Gerald telling her about the construction of what he called a “skyscraper” in this general location by the river. That must be it, she determined, riding down to the almost 100 foot tall object. Unbeknownst to him it seems, he was describing one of its construction phases.

Gerald’s view of it as of her previous visit (re-creation).

From a worshipper praying at its base, she learned the name of the prophet which this represents. Lebioda. Introduced to the kingdom by the grandmother of current princess Anna of Lea herself, he said, surprised that this lass didn’t get off her high horse and bend down and worship with him upon learning this bit of information. Stranger, he thought; *tourist* to this realm. And he spat on the ground in his mind if not in reality. His eyes betrayed his scorn of her, though.

Instead: “I’m surprised they roused enough drunken workers around here to get the job done,” the still mounted girl said down to him with a smirk on her face. He rose from the ground; probably would have slapped the girl if her cheeks were within reach for this slur against the good people of his kingdom. But she rode off untouched and unharmed. Lucky for him.

When she got back to the vineyard she asked Gerald about it, jabbing him as well, as is her manner. “I ran across your *skyscraper* today while riding around the countryside.”

“Skyscraper?” Gerald questions, not remembering that he invented the term in the first place.

“Yeah,” said Siri, that smirk back in place on her face.

Gerald honestly didn’t know what his surrogate daughter was on about. Because he simply was on another timeline where the finished statue didn’t exist. They talk together here but they weren’t together. A gap formed at that place by the river which was never successfully bridged.

A related statue in a different game — surrounded by true skyscrapers:

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Filed under **VIRTUAL OT, 0047, 0212, C2077, J-Town, Witcher

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December 7, 2024 · 8:42 am

00450116

Look at them. Hard at work. Whatever they’re doing. Alchemy alchemy alchemy, he then thinks. That’s where the real work happens. Must get back to my lab in the cellar to test out some stuff. Let’s see, I bought a new pestle at the marketplace. Will try that in an old mortar first, or, what Young might call, a marriage of male and female forces to create the hermaphroditic whole. Can’t wait.

Just because it’s a pretty girl doing it doesn’t make the activity any more hygienic, he thought while passing the grape stompers. I’ll have to ask Barney if there’s any other way to do this. “What you’re name?” he asked, thinking she might be unemployed soon. “Pricilla Plum,” came the answer. “Well, that’s a plumb beautiful name,” he quickly shot back. “Just like you.” She titters while still stomping away. What a grating laugh, he thinks while walking away. Now where was I? Oh yes, the lab.

“Bob, Carol, Ted,” he addresses each individual at the table before him, eating heartily on a meal between breakfast and lunch. Let’s call it luckfast. “Do what do I owe the honor?”

“What do you mean? Witcher?” said either Bob or Ted, reader’s choice.

“Gerald, please,” insists Gerald over his more formal name.

“Yes, of course,” said Ted. Pretty sure it was Ted this time. “Gerald. With a D right?” then said Bob opposite him. “And not a T as more commonly spelled.”

“Spelt,” insists Ted, making Bob grin.

“That’s right,” says Gerald about his name.

Carol between them begins to titter in a way not unlike the grape stomper before, making Gerald visibly wince. “Don’t you see fellas,” she followed. “*Gerald* has forgotten where he lives. *Again*.”

Now hearty laughs from all 3. Gerald realizes his mistake. This was not his vineyard. He had gotten confused in the maze of Beauchamp streets and exited the wrong gate. It wasn’t the first time. In a dream of alchemy he was, ever since the library.

“Down the path over there and take a right at the bottom of the hill,” said Bob between laughs. “Just ask one of your workers if you get lost again, ha ha ha.”

“Ho ho ho,” echoes Ted. “And, ho ho, ask them where *I* live, he he he.”

“Hu hu hu,” goes Carol. Gerald had had enough. His cheeks red from embarrassment, he spots the indicated path and was on his way again. At least he remembered their names, he tried to console himself in the moment. The Fishers. Not *his* vineyard but theirs.

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October 13, 2024 · 2:07 pm

00440311 (Hellboy?)

He comes around when I sit down and slap him. He looks around. “Where are we?”

“Motel. Middle of nowhere.”

“Any specific Middle?” he intuited right off the bat, being the smart-ass psychic he is. They had to talk about Jonny. They had to talk about the relic.

I soon got this out of him anyway with a couple more slaps, turning his cheeks from orange orange to apple red: “The suicide model was just a prototype. *Arasaka’s* aims were always higher.”

Arasaka — the *Tree*, I think. Should’ve known. Add another hotel/motel to the growing list of hanging fruits.

(to be continued)

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April 11, 2024 · 3:45 pm

00420501 (Southern art gallery)

He was here to confiscate the so-called offensive painting and that alone, this Arthur *Kill*, disguised in another role. Even took the same first name this time. “Art like this shouldn’t happen in Saint Dennis,” the wife of a prominent town businessman said to the gallery owner on opening night. He countered that it was tasteful nudity, no naughty bits shown at all, “unlike, say, that one over there,” he said, pointing to another painting visible in the next room. “A bare bum! That doesn’t offend you but this does?”

“This one was done with more in mind. Chains!”

The gallery owner, raised in the North where his mama still lived (Illinois I believe), ruminated: I thought you Southerners *liked* chains and slavery. Maybe because the model isn’t *black*. But of course he kept all this to himself.

And so Arthur the policeman, gifted Shakespearean actor beneath the blue garb, was sent in by the powers that be to make a statement. Thing is, he helped seed the controversy in the first place, part of his overall plan.

“Oh Libra Neptune,” he quietly lamented from his position in front of the work while staring at it, contemplating the circumstances surrounding its composition. “I thought I paid you enough never to come back here.”

He also wondered if her unpictured cheeks had turned red again.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0042, 0501, Kangerootown, Omega^^, RDR2, The Cross^

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February 7, 2024 · 5:54 am

March 12 1951

The file was as thick and complex as St. Dennis itself. “How did you find this office?” queried Chef-Inspector Petty, watching her closely as she studied it, watching the eyes dart about, noticing the scars cutting across her forehead, eyes, nose and cheeks somewhat redden in the excitement.  He could look past it. He wondered if she had any hair underneath that metallic green hood. And what up with the 3 eyed owl perched on her shoulder (!)?

“A little birdie told me,” she answered, which he assumed was the owl again, whose middle eye quickly winked at him right when he thought this.

“Oh. Yes. I see.” He kept staring at the owl, then, but no more obvious winks were produced. Just a steady stare with intermittent, calm blinking, each eye taking a turn now. He decided to ask the sex.

“Um. Both I think.” She was still staring down at the files, flipping pages rapidly in the swift reading. Was the owl helping her with this too? he pondered. Odd thought, he realized. But nothing was ordinary about this case, nothing atall.

“Light okay?” he thought to ask, although he had no way to increase it. Electric grid didn’t get this far in Aisle of Palms yet, on the opposite side of town from the generator in the Blue Feather and attached Perch Restaurant. At least the sun was coming up now. She’d been reading for about 20 minutes.

“Fine.” Looked like she was about 2/3rds the way through the file. He then thought he was peering down on her a bit, understood that he had missed the mark on the size change once more. He’d have to wait to adjust. Can’t risk shaking the table and jostling the pages out of order or something. He’ll just be patient. He looks at the watch still not on his wrist. Sunrise in 7 minutes. He’d have to excuse himself and go to his other job soon, the chef-waiter thing. Looks like she won’t be finished by then, he gauges. Would she allow this? The owl and its three eyes kept staring, blinking.

“Ah HA!” she then emitted, spreading out and then matching the edges of 2 pages she’d reached in the file. The owl then turned to her as she turned toward it. “You seeing the same thing I’m seeing?” Both looked down in synchronization. Both were staring at a picture of St. Lemon, before the beheading and the replacement with a giant lemon. Dennis again.

Another 2n1, both knew. They understood where to place the time machine.

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January 19, 2024 · 7:14 am

00410603

https://marketplace.secondlife.com/p/Rue-Saint-Denis-for-classic-or-BOM/15679735

“Well it was a foolish outfit and I was a foolish girl at the time. Blonde hair; rosy red cheeks after that, but not from rouge. Syphilis I contracted — still trying to be frank and honest with you guys. But it eventually cleared up when I got out of that crazy, mixed up place of a land full of bad, bad people. Arthur gave me some money. You see–”

“Arthur? Arthur Kill? I know him.” Red Dead Beardy Head again there.

“Err,” said Libra. “Yes,” she decided. “Yes, let’s go with him. Married to Shelley Struthers (partly named for Sally Struthers, TV daughter of Archie and Edith), right. It fits!”

“And what of Marsha ‘Pink’ Krakow?” Black Pearl responded to a slightly earlier declaration.

“The same,” Wheeler continued with the admissions. “Marsha ‘Pink’ Krakow equals Shelley Struthers along with 2 other components, a kid named Frankie Brown who provides some gestures and perhaps a conscience, and then another kid called Marsha. Shelley is the (grown up) body for the 3. Body, mind, soul we could call them, with the Marsha brain aspect up front and on top.”

“So… let’s cut to the chase,” said RDBH, trying to regain his wits in the barrage of strange information. “How do we get to the X on the pirate map?”

Wheeler dressed as Libra in her parrot dress exhaled. “You can’t… not with that ship.”

“You *sold* me that ship,” replied Black Pearl to this. “You *implied* it could.”

“I was wrong. That ship will divide the 2 of you. I know this because I understand the perspective from the opposite direction. I know the endpoint. I was *at* the endpoint. Red Dead Beardy Head,” she addressed the male partner of the 2 sitting across from her in the Perch Restaurant of Aisle of Palms, open for business at 10 but not serving fish until 4 to his disappointment. No perch in Perch yet. And will our damn waiter please wake up! he was thinking just before this. “Red Dead,” Libra said again, “you and Black Pearl will break up if you try to go in that ship. It’s certain death up there in Outer Space. I’ve seen the future!”

“But — you *sold* it to me.” Black Pearl was smelling a rat as big as a human and named Victor-not-Victoria. “You said the golf course is closing.”

“The golf course *is* closing,” followed Libra Neptune closely. “The Black Pearl was smashed up on the rocks outside. I fixed it up. But really, I didn’t fix it up. Not in the way that could take you safely to the X.”

“*Finally*,” said Red Dead, seeing the waiter shake his head and blink a couple of times before fully reopening his eyes. He’d been woken up with a poke from the right. Manager Percy had let him sleep until 10:15, feeling sorry for the overworked man who toiled both day and night, with few minutes for rest in-between.

Now, in the moment again, he was upon them. Talk of the ship and its position at the head of 2 streams of virtual reality would have to wait a bit; after some bites. “Sorry for the delay. Our breakfast special is perch,” he said, knowing it was unusual but wanting to please an irritated customer and his friends. He could hear like hell — just had to process all the information right after coming back into consciousness. Being both waiter and chef, he could make this so.

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May 3, 2023 · 3:11 pm

00380206

She barely made eye contact with him to acknowledge his presence. Cyberpunks, hmph, he thought. “Business good tonight, Lexi? Selling many sodas on top of the regular alcohol?”

“Whoa whoa there daddy blow. One question at a time. Try again.” She kept dancing to the beat that hadn’t started yet. DJ was still relaxing and chilling and drinking before the gig. While she had the time.

He skipped to the most important one. “Have — you — sold — many — *sodas*? On top of the alcohol which I know will do good,” he sped up.

“Two Hills,” she instead said.

“W-what?”

“Two Hills.” And she pointed to the left, the opposite way of the horn.

“Oh yeah. It’s a promotion.” He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing it could have been something else. Too early! “Now back–”

“Why does there have to be two?”

“*You* have two,” he wanted to answer, but then thought better of it. Maybe she didn’t. Was she a girl or boy? He never figured it out. I guessed she’d have them either way — doesn’t matter.

His lemon-lime drink awaited at the table. He looked around, seeing a lot of soda imbibing with his own two peepers. One over in the far corner had a Dr. Peeper. He resisted the urge to rush over there and swat it outta his hands, causing a scene. No scenes, his brother Benny Right Horn warned. “Tonight must go nothing wrong.” His words, not mine, Jer thought. That’s why he’s not here. Too drunk and coked up to make a proper showing of himself instead of a proper spectacle of himself. Typical. Cokeheads not allowed.

“Anyway,” he finally answered Lexi the bartender, still dancing to an imaginary beat or a beat from the future perhaps that only she can hear with her futuristic head and ears, “it kind of goes along with the idea of doubling the fun or doubling the pleasure.” He locked briefly with her sci-fi black within green within blue eyes. She was finished with him, he knew.

—–

He sat down beside her. The Hills came square to the camera, a horn curled against one of their cheeks.

“How is the wine?”

“Pretty tasty!” She downed another guzzle.

“Load up while you can. But not — too much. Take a swig of soda every now and then. People are watching.” He indicated the ads beside them. “Can’t let down the Hills.”

“Oh no.”

“Mike should be showing up soon.”

“And Pat,” she said. “I also invited Pat.”

“Oh boy.”

“Maybe. We don’t know!”

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April 1, 2023 · 4:40 pm

Cheeks

“If you are red you rise up to meet blue in pink. If you are blue you rise up to meet red in pink. Peaks are where things do a flippy floppy. And in this case one is larger and one is smaller. Crazy Blue.”

“I’m going to wear my Crazy Blue outfit for the rest of this photo-novel, Baker. Just for a meditative device.”

“Then we won’t be seeing much of you beyond these points.”

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April 1, 2023 · 11:06 am

00370502

Not too awfully long ago it was the other way ’round.
filed under: Which one’s pink?, Blue Mtn., One Pink Mtn./Pink Mtn./Pink, flippy floppy stuff

https://www.britannica.com/story/has-pink-always-been-a-girly-color?fbclid=IwAR2dDM-tb-P6QmvsioHs25uHjHJbSxy40fpJBBy4qQII4mCIN_0UFgRTI-M

At the beginning of the 20th century, some stores began suggesting “sex-appropriate” colors. In 1918 the trade publication Earnshaw’s Infants’ Department claimed the “generally accepted rule is pink for the boys, and blue for the girls. The reason is that pink, being a more decided and stronger color, is more suitable for the boy, while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, is prettier for the girl.” Additionally, a 1927 issue of Time noted that large-scale department stores in Boston, Chicago, and New York suggested pink for boys.

—–

“Let’s talk about your plug, Ruby.”

“Ruby?” she said.

“Just go with the flow.”

“Well… it covers up an anatomy flaw. Between 2 Cheeks.”

“Good enough. Now… let’s talk about the pink skin.”

“Pink?”

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May 5, 2022 · 9:48 am

the bird beats the bug

We follow him down to the door of — where he lived? We open the door. Not a chained prisoner as we suspected a bit. Not sentient Christmas excrement Mr. Hankey from South Park, another logical candidate. But Casey One Hole. Casey One Hole, yikes!

“A Blue Bird?!” he exclaimed, truly surprised himself. “I was expecting a Cardinal or perhaps a Rooster at worst, ha ha. This should be easy.”

“He swiftly moves toward me,” Blue Bird who opened the door to the outhouse — or tramp shack or whatever it actually was — kept on explaining to the others, “towering over me, cornering me, as the toys had tried before but didn’t succeed with. Then I looked down at his ‘weapon’ and started snickering.

“‘W-what?’ he managed between snarls, and followed the direction of my eyes.

“A mop instead of a golf club. He *had* no weapon. He swatted at my head with it anyway in the subsequent intensification of anger but it just kind of tickled my cheeks. Soft as downy wings — charmed obviously. Something had happened. Casey One Hole had been neutralized through the outhouse — I knew now this was an outhouse, a bathroom set to be cleaned, perhaps in perpetuity.

“‘Better get back to it,’ I joked while pointing in its direction as he jumped up and down in frustration, then swung the mop round and round, aiming at nothing now; crazy as a beetle. I left free as a bird. Appropriate.”

“Poe fellow,” said Mistress, seeming to miss the point but actually not. She unclasped her wing-like hands and settled back in the rocking chair again. Venus on the 1/2 bed decided to sing a song.

(to be continued)

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