Tag Archives: Cpt. Americus^*~ (deceased)

Henrietta

“We’ll have to call this Widow’s Peak after this,” offered still all grown up Kate McCoy (the Real McCoy) to the others sitting around this 4 chair table. Still grieving the death of spouse Jack Snow all the way back at the end of section 1 of this here photo-novel, 18th in the series.

Irish Lass Phyllis Klondike across from her, surname reverted to her maiden one after the death of hubbie Ben Wolf in that newest Bena coup in 2 — *supposed* death — turned around in her seat to look at it. Audrey, the most recent of the widows (husband = just shot Jeffrie Phillips back in Urqhart), followed her gaze. Parasol (wife of The Mann, killed at the end of section 3), didn’t want to look but just pulled a drumstick out of her pocket and began to munch. “Grey matter,” she garbled to the now staring others. “So good.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0504, Corsica^^, Henrietta

last

I sat about as far away from the attention mongering super duper heroes as I could. Swooping in here and taking over the basically dormant University of the District of Columbia property and renaming it DC Universe, hrmph. The audacity! Newly crowned neighborhood watch queen Mary Peppins, red umbrella-less for a change, is making some good points though.

“We must be vigilant for interlopers into our special, special sim,” she goes on, “now that they’ve discovered The Diagonal runs through it. Mr. Mann?” She points up to me. “Would you like to say a word on that? Since, eheh, you know, The Diagonal runs right through the center of your building. You, aherm, predicted its coming after all.”

I started to say, “well it runs through the middle of *your* property too; why don’t *you* talk about it?” But I acquiesced. “It’s all about The Man,” I said simply. “The Man (upstairs) is in the center of the sim that is on The Diagonal. My *nickname* comes from The Man. (My name’s) actually Larch. The Larch.” So — The Man; The Larch.” Made sense to me.

“Ahem, thank you Mr. Mann, er, Mr. Larch.”

“Whatever, honey,” urged husband Achilles T. from the side, nose still as big as ever. “Get to the part about the tiny orange house with the swing.”

“Yes, uhem.” Mary was obviously nervous about talking in public, being a simple housewife and all and without any experience in that area. But the neighborhood needed her, and former president Elaine Ratio was nowhere to be found. “Well…”

Just then, littlest vampire Buster Damm screeched up in an old pink convertible, surfing on its hood. “I believe you’re referring to *our* house!” he called through the hole behind The Mann.

He promptly went over the the DC Universe jail and freed Lego Monster Ken who killed everyone inside, RAWR!

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penultimate?

When I stared over at White Elvis, I realized I had his hair and got rid of it. The older doo, not the younger one (pictured) here. But still — a reminder.

I am now more The Man(n) than ever.

I turned to red, white and blue Cpt. Americus downing yet another piece of yellow chicken from his magical, chicken piece producing bucket and ask him where it went all wrong.

He mentioned something about Wheeler f-ing things up. I didn’t know who Wheeler was. He said she was the ideal woman, the Venus Da Milo. I said, “*de* Milo.” He said, “whatever,” and chose a breast to eat next with his free hand.

I thought back to the story of lusty Jack the Mallard on Fruity Islands for some reason. Probably because I was looking for the same there. I must go back sometime. Eden…

As he kept vociferously munching and crunching, I considered I was dealing with a Southerner here. Hence the chicken. Hence the White Elvis; black nowhere to be found in this recording studio. No Lena Horned, for instance. No “Ballad of Stormy Daniels.” I then realized this could be the studio of Your Mama. This was *the* room. I decided to ask.

“Who’re you recording today, Cpt.?” I didn’t say the full name on purpose. I was testing how far I could go without falling back.

Cpt. Americus glanced into the studio, as if someone was there. “Oh, the usual. Local gal.”

“White, I assume,” The Man(n) wanted to say, but instead said, “good that you’re developing the local talent.” And then more information spouted from the Cpt.’s masticating mouth full of chicken. Disgusting. But – must – keep — digging. Further tonight.

“Yup,” he spoke. Then the girl returned from her break, beautiful in a black gown.

—–

I decided to go back tonight. The place (with the beach chairs) Da Womann and I sat and chatted and some other stuff was gone. Maybe it was all a dream? But the statues were still there. Adam and his Eve.

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bastards

“The Queen is happy and sleeping in her royal bed,” recites Tronaxis (new name!) at his virtual reality game command center. “No stopping us now, right Cpt.?”

But then Tron revamped Axis remembers that he bagged and gagged Cpt. Americus earlier in the evening and left him hanging to dry. And the turtle (Norton Wise) had been turned into soup. And Fish Head’s head would turn since he’d been bought off. I will be the champion! he inwardly crows.

Purple mutt Ralph, a non word-processor, keeps guard and growls with every slight movement. The Cpt. within has learned to stay still and not eat the remaining white and grey matter in his magically replenishing bucket. Because he has a plan. The first, true, has been stolen and appropriated by (Tron)Axis but the second, the new one, is even better. He will *help* the Heart Queen in an about-face. Kick his traitorous ways down the road a bit, biding his time. If only he can get out of the current situation. Come on, white and grey matter, he urges, knocking his head with the drumstick still in his hand and inciting another growl from Ralph.

“Everything all right over there Ralph?” Tronaxis didn’t need a smart dog, only a loyal one. That’s all he demands from any of his subjects. Obedience; loyalty. The Heart Queen and he are too similar in that way. Eventually, ultimately, one or the other had to go. He hopes it’s her.

If only he had an ally — a human one this time and not an obedient mutt like Ralph. Tronesisia? No, she’s not an obedient robot/gynoid any longer, having broke her programming. Peter? But Tronaxis still didn’t really know who that was. Besides being a clone of Peter Gabriel of “Lamb”, etc., fame. Oh wait — there’s Randolph.

Just down the alley.

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to remember it by (Treasure Hill continuation)

“I keep looking out that window and thinking there’s someone sitting up on that giant live oak limb, staring at us. But it’s just that dark angel in the middle of the pond over there.”

“One hour ’til sunrise,” urges Eight-seven beside her, formerly Eighty-eight.

“Match tonight — better try to get some sleep.” Eighty-six now.

—–

Surely Wheeler will be alright on her own this *one* time, thinks rocking Baker Blinker back in Collagesity at her Gloomy Gus house. The 88’s will be with her.

But someone indeed has followed Wheeler to the wrestling arena in what use to be Morgan-Julia. And is manipulating time and space around her.

“One more piece then I’m done,” mutters Cpt. Americus, trying to polish off his bucket of chicken so he can think properly about another evil plot to hatch.

The stream rages on…

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deposed

She glances outside at the warped superhero still producing white or grey matter from his bucket. Like magic; another isolated superpower. But the meeting needs to come to order.

“Here here!” she cries, waving her monstrous red hands before the group. “We’ll have to start without him, ahem. We are — at the place Grey Scale can’t reach thanks to Cpt. Americus and, um, perhaps Chicken Itza — we’ll see. The chickens cluck, the cocks are eaten. Crows flies, uh.”

“We understand,” spoke aiding Norton Wise Turtle (alternately Wise Norton Turtle) from the corner, likewise nursing a blue-green martini. Nursing it to death.

“Fish Head!” she prompted. “Give us a report.”

“Water,” Fish Head bubbled and gurgled opposite Norton Wise Turtle. He also had a blue martini, locally called a Blue William, which he poured into his fish head bowl intermittently. “Fish,” he added just as gurgly. “Scale — working for.”

“Excellent. Good information. How about you Flat Tire?”

But Flat Tire Crow Flies hadn’t rezzed in yet. Just a colorful mist still.

“Never mind, then,” spoke the queen after silence. *Former* queen. “And then: Space Ghost. My old friend. One of my oldest friends.”

“I’ll never leave this land,” Space Ghost reinforced, having already nursed an empty wine glass. To death. “This land is my land and this land is your land.” He pointed around the room. “Each and every one of you.” He settles back in his chair. “If you so choose.”

“Thank you. Anything to add Wise Norton Turtle?” Norton Wise Turtle took the last swig of his drink and states, “That’s all. I believe we’re at The End.”

And he was correct.

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this land is my land

“I will never leave here, Kevin Orchardsity.”

“Kevin A., please,” replies a pleased Kevin A. Space Ghost (Young) knows their full name(!). But Kevin C. and Kevin E.: left behind in gay ol’ Regaltown. However, the sky box… perhaps they could come here too? What’s left for them in Regaltown, really? Grey Scale and Chesteria are here. The conquerors with their grey to white elephants. Marcus Fox Smartville will show up soon too, maybe with Chicken Itza but perhaps not as well. Bullfrog seems to be here — somewhere. Aqua Dude?

“Aqua Dude?” Kevin A. decides to mouth out loud for his roomie.

“Hmm, what’s that?” Space Ghost was daydreaming of chicken. Juicy, delicious grey or white meat.

“I’m, er, just wondering. You said Bullfrog is here.”

“Somewhere,” admits Space Ghost, still 1/2 thinking of where to pick up a bucket.

“Well what about his partner? That inverting guy?” Does Space Ghost guess he is actually Aqua Dude’s arch nemesis Super Guy on the sly? But at this point Space Ghost decides to use his own one, true superpower that we know of and make himself invisible, which actually means he’s teleported to another, local spot found on the inworld map. He has a one sim 100 meter limit.

“I can set you up,” Cpt. Americus declared between bites.

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