“Peppins, Pippins, Pippens… the name shifted all around down through the months, now almost years. It all had to do with that Peppi machine: that was the center it all revolved around, The Diamond some call it. David A.B. put his heart and his brain into designing that machine; literally for the brain. He knew what was just around the corner. A beat up old station wagon with an Illinois license plate reading BDR529, intent on harm. He didn’t have much time.”
“But what does this *mean*?” ask Poetry Dancer, with Jeffrie Phillips for the moment. Until Charlene Brown the punk woke up about 11 o’clock. Morning walk he could say, building up a sweat by running in place for a couple of minutes. Poor Charlene — so involved in her cryptozoology dissertation writing late into the night that she was oblivious to the transgressions. Jeffrie was taking full advantage of that. The bastard. But a smart bastard, perhaps the worst kind.
“It *means*, my dear, that the death was planned; on purpose. We must track down this Sammie Parr, who is in the collages after all. She is an amalgamation of 5, just like me. That means…”
“Pot-D. *Sorry*. I mean Pan-Z of course.”
“Yes. A rival member, perhaps rogue. *Obviously* rogue because of the murder and all. David A.B.’s brain must have been in there all right.”
“But what will they do with it *now*?” queries Poetry Dancer further, no ugly in her face for the moment.
“They got him to the hospital through trickery, just like before. The brain I mean, and not the host.”
“It’s Mid Hazel,” he suddenly intuited, putting collage pieces together in his own brain. “She’s up to something.”
“More… *cake*?” he said after a weighted pause.
“On the house today, boy. *The* Boy. Congrats!” the old service robot creaked and cranked. The look became him.
“Aww. Thanks Slicey!”
“He’s at the (Bumble) Bee, David.” tracking Duncan Avocado spoke over a nearby phone. Indistinguishable talking from the other end, then: “Yeah, his maw’s out of town again. This was an easy one.”
“Yeah, I’ve got one like it back home,” Jeffrie Phillips speaks about the geode on the mantlepiece before him. ‘Cept mine is pink and and *maybe* a tiny bit smaller, maybe.” Much smaller, he thinks here. But I like it just as much. Not everything has to be *big*, pheh. Except in — well, he’s got that department covered anyway, he he. He can always lord that over the people he meets. The girls flock to him, Charlene the punk being only the latest in a long line. Too bad she liked the catacombs. I was hoping I could get rid of her that way. But her mettle has been put to the test and she survived. Round 2 coming up — only about a 1/3rd make it to round 2.
“Do you know what you have to do?” Jeffrie Phillips knew that David A.B.’s diamond-like brain lie within this new host with voice deep and bass. He couldn’t look him in the whites of his eyes. This never happened.
“Um.” Jeffrie instead looks down at his shoes randomly scuffing the floor. “Sure.”
“You must coordinate the two places, there and here. This is a connector. Take it and place it with the other one. Make sure they face each other. You know the rest.”
Jeffrie Phillips didn’t know the rest but he could guess. Alchemical sex, large to small, or one inside the other. Maybe he shouldn’t have lied about the size. He decides to tell the new host. “Listen, um, Jim.”
But Jim would have nothing of it. “Coordinate!” he demanded, which made
Jeffrie Phillips quickly gather up the green geode and high tail it outta there.
“My son use to *love* going to the elephant show over in Raccoon…”
“Great, Biggie,” interrupted the male Baker, wanting to get away from the character’s origin. “But let’s stick to the topic. Tell me what you saw happen in Room 03.”
“An outbreak, like I said. A loving wife killing her husband. Stabbed him in her eye, short ‘n’ sweet. The Triad is trying to get rid of any evidence of its existence. Thus the trouble in Dallows.”
“I’m not talking about that right now.” Baker Bloch pauses in his grilling to ponder the fate of the missing town there, and the rebuild. He checked yesterday. Only a couple of houses and a small forest to ride your horse through. No progress on that possibility. He resumes. “Let’s stay with the motel. You say your pal Mark A. saw a woman slice a man’s head open down in the town hospital and remove his brain, stick it in a sealed jar, and leave the hospital with it. How did he not tell the authorities this?”
“Witchcraft,” stated Big Black Smoke plainly to the primary owner of Urqhart’s (or thereabout’s) Collagesity. “And it was *no* man. It was a *God*.”
“Ahh, yes.” From their blue table and chairs, Baker Bloch looked around at the creation and saw it was good. David A. Or B. Both probably. But now: David A.B. Normal. Mr. Everyday Ordinary. He looked directly into Biggie’s eye. “And where is that Diamond of a Brain *now*?”
Big Black Smoke peered around as well, at the noisy cockatoo to their side spouting nonsense again. He could barely think above the racket. An umbrella cockatoo. Probably had all the answers. But who could understand her?? Except…
“Did it go home?” Baker Bloch guessed in the noisy silence. He wondered how long it would take *this* creation to collapse, just like what happened over in Stranger Creek.
(to be continued?)
“The spotlight is on you, Yoko Ona. It is your decision where the brain goes next. Does it return to its original owner David A.B., making him *normal* again? Or somewhere different altogether? But (weighted pause): your choice.”
Yoko Ona knew it was no more her choice than anything else ’round these here Heartsdale parts. She’d already been cloned twice! Replacements are standing by, as they say in show business. David A.B. it is.
Now to just find the right time for slicing his head open once more.
She studies his every move during his perpetual interaction with fellow coven member Linda Halsey. He steps into the road right…
The next day he’s taken to the hospital after being sideswiped by a beat up old station wagon in front of this very same motel. There Yoko makes her move.
Yoko Ona had returned from what she’d seen and was determined to walk right between them, the *forgeries*.
“Excuse me lovebirds,” she said, eclipsing both from each other in the moment.
“What’s going on?” she called over to security guard Big Black Smoke, still guarding the Room 03 door as if his life depended on it. “Police tape?” She *knew* this wasn’t here before. She wondered if the authorities had finally been alerted to the body inside. Had maid Hidi come out from hiding with it? Despite the tape she decided to go in. Big Black Smoke, another dummy, didn’t lift a finger to stop her from entering. As long as it’s not Room 03…
Secure in the fact that the body was still within — bridge-like portal exposed behind a wall — Yoko Ona took a relieving pee in the toilet before entering. This witch was not who she appeared to be.
“It’s John,” exclaimed observing Marty over in Urqhart (or Thereabout)’s Collagesity. “It’s got to be!”
Standing on its head, Yoko peered into the first of the other rooms, beyond the original. This was Two beyond One. She didn’t like what she saw.
“Do you think Yoko Ona will make it back to the motel, David A.B.?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he waved it off. “SEAN’s here now.”
“And Arkansas right in the middle of things,” a studying SEAN “Green” Penn utters within a secret room behind the motel desk. Clerk Sarah McDooglehan didn’t mind. Since she was a dummy through and through. She’ll come to life soon enough as Yoko’s Cindy A., designer of planes and then murderous rockets. Enough to get the job done. The shot hit both Pipersville and Sink X at once — right in the middle. Just like Arkansas. And Missouri: 1/2 and 1/2.
“Check this out, Green,” spoke Blue from a table also in the room. “Martin Allen. Just like in Floyd County, Kentucky.”
“And Bennett County, SD. And NE. And MS. But everyone knows that has to do with poles. Polar explorers. Like Richard Byrd, except different.”
Jack Blue looked over. She was glad she decided to bring SEAN “Green” Penn back into the picture. Needed tangents. Like Peppi outside. She knew this was a Diamond of a case.
(to be continued)
She stands at a crossroads outside the motel. David A.B. and Linda Halsey are still talking in the lighted patio outside the lobby. They would be doing this as long as the motel itself existed, she realized. She stares toward the mysteriously highlighted red-blue-green gate to the east (sky-sea-land). She’s *been* here before, she realizes while studying it and almost being hit by a right turning, beat up station wagon with Illinois license plates in the process. BDR529. Not quite all the numbers but getting there.
“Where there are churches there must be liquor stores,” she remarks confidently while walking between two. She goes in a direction no Yoko has ever gone before, messing with the patterns.
“So this is what you do all the time, Baker B.?” asked observing Marty at Collagesity’s Blue Feather Table Room.
“Pretty much,” admitted the male baker version to the famous composer/musician variant.
“W-where is she going? She’s just heading off in a random direction.”
“Not random,” spoke Baker Bloch. “Hopefully.”
“What is this place?” Marty further queried.
“Heartsdale. It’s in title.” Baker looked over, confident in his randomness. “She’s been here before,” he added. “Or *I* have.”
“And this has — something to do with John.”
“Absolutely,” I crowed. “Bakersworks,” I said to end.
“She finds a heart that is a yoyo in a hotel plaza, Hucka Doobie. Yoko is close to yoyo.”
“I’m going to walk right over to that phone and make a call. I can’t find that girl of mine *anywhere* in this confounded town. Alleys go this way, pathways go that way. It’s like a maze!”
Amazing, thought Yoko Ona from the other side. This must be one of John’s friends!
“Oh. You using the booth?” he asked after spotting her.
No, I’ll fix that. She rewinds time.
Zach Black walks up to the phone with Yoko Ona on the other side. He doesn’t spot her, as if she’s invisible. He picks up the receiver. He can’t remember the exact number so he presses in all of ’em, in a row. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 and 0 to end. That should do it, he thinks. It rings on the other side.
“Hello?” Feminine voice, good. No new jack-ass boyfriend to deal with, perhaps.
“Audrey?” he speaks into the receiver with his cool cat voice.
“Yes?” Cool cat back at him.
In another part of town, David A.B. was talking to Linda Halsey about that failed transformation attempt over in Urqhart where she hails from. “Sorry about that,” he says to her in a conciliatory way. “We will try harder next time.”
What about *my* transformation, unobserved Yoko Ona thinks in a neighboring chair.
And then she spots *another* of herself walking against a rock textured wall across the street. How many are there??
Using his shield as a camouflaging device, David A.B. sometimes liked to mingle with the commoners, the ones far far below him on a scale of 1-10, he being a 10 or a 9.5 at the least. Nothing to see here, he says in his mind about himself while looking around. Certainly no *God*, your creator, amongst you. No, just an ordinary Joe waiting on his train. Just like the lot of you. Joe was a good name, he then thinks. I believe I’ll keep it for this part of my journey. He turns to the Ordinary reading the paper to his left. “Joe’s the name,” he spoke in as ungodly a tone as he could muster. “How about you?”
“Ted,” came the fainter answer. “Ted Johnson.”
“Just waiting on the train, hmph,” Joe states the obvious. Ted returns to his funnies. ‘Hatfield’ — so humorous.
“Oop, there ’tis!”
Gazing Eric Gordon beside Ted exclaimed, “It’s like it just appeared — out of *nowhere*.”
Ted looked up from his cartoons. “Wow, that was super fast today. Usually I sit here for over an hour.”
Not on my watch, David A.B. says inwardly.