Tag Archives: Doogie Martin^*~~~!

in the shadows we are all monkeys

Nighttime, Collagesity, on a full moon. Well, it’s always a full moon every night. No total darkness here. But that allows the criminals more light to accomplish their dastardly deeds, while still providing deep shadow for hiding. Will the pattern of homicides and attempted homicides continue, not to mention the 18 burglaries, 6 larcenies, and 2 Petty thefts (the new police squad assures Mr. Petty he will be reimbursed)?

April Mae Flowers, wife of the former Herbert Glenn Gold, has confessed to the latest and last of the 3 homicides. “He said he was a doctor,” she tried to defend herself. “He was no more doctor than that chimpanzee hiding in the shadows up in the corner of this room.”  She points. There was no monkey clinging there in an upper corner, but Officer Raymond Boxboom didn’t tell her this, obviously gauging her as a fruity loop ready for not a paddy wagon this time but a padded room. Since this one hadn’t been painted yet, maybe they could just pad it over and leave her in the middle, outfitted with a straight jacket but still sitting in the same chair, with the desk and lamp removed. Okay, we’ll leave the desk and lamp there and the jacket off so she can keep writing the pathetic semi-autobiographical play that got her in deep doo doo in the first place. “Doctor it up, he said he could,” she said, starting to talk somewhat backwards already, like someone getting unglued from time. “He more no doctor than, say, that passing giraffe at the front of the station. Officer Boxboom turned to surprisingly see the head of a giraffe bob by: Ricardo Petty, here to pick up the money for his lost microwave and Sony boombox. Maybe they can get a conviction on this one after all. He then checks deep into the last corner of the room, beyond the light and into the shadows. Indeed.

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“So next up on the agenda, Wheeler, is the ditch. How’s progress going (on that)?”

“The Ditch is fine, the Ditch is good. But it’s just that: a Ditch.”

“We’ll call it ‘The Ditch’ for now, then.”

“Good, fine.” (pause)

“The Ditch”

“I guess you’re wondering about Wanda,” he said in the awkward silence.


“Er, Wildthing… to you.”

“Oh: her. Well *we* can handle that.”

“Meaning you and your avatars. The witches.”

“Doesn’t have to be a witch. But we can certainly defeat such an adversary: we’ve done it time and time again now. The only thing they have up on us is veracity, but even that tends to be… photoshopped up.”

“I know what you mean.”

“So… are you back on the team? Are you sold on Our Second Lyfe again?”

“Listen… Wheeler.” He doesn’t directly answer but he knows he is. Wildthing is just a temporary fling. He will return to Charlene, he will return to Lois. Anything Wheeler throws up he can handle. As they can handle him.


After the meeting with Wheeler at the Blue Feather, he decides to go visit Danny and talk about the issues of his leadership.

“Man About Time is too flighty. He isn’t fixed enough, Danny. He wouldn’t make an effective leader. But yet, he seems to be my second in charge now — naturally slotted into that role. So if anything happens to me…”

“Yes.” Danny understood what needed to be done. And Jeffrie Phillips knew he would attempt to do the dastardly deed. He was ready. Danny was about to be exiled from Collagesity once more. But who would take *his* place? Baker Bloch? Wouldn’t that be weird.


Since Danny’s was the 3rd attempted homicide already in the newly reborn town, along with 2 successful ones, leader Jeffrey Phillips decides he better open up a police station underneath the Power Tower Gallery, right beside the town pool which may later become the town dump — undecided.

Which happens to be the location they found the 3rd body in the evening of that same day.

Looks like someone’s ready for their close up.

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“Peters found this on the interwebs yesterday and passed it up to us, Tronesisia. We thought you’d like to know about the missing post, er piece.”

“I had a dream about Lambs.”

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It was somewhat before sunrise when Allen Martin began writing to his deceased wife Carol again.

Dearest Muffin,

I hope you had a peaceful night. Me… not so good. I have some news for you. I don’t want to hide anything. You know my devotion to you my sweetest will never be over. Marriage is not, until death do you part. It is forever in another, special way. Yet, things do happen in physical life. Time moves forward. I’ve met someone else. I don’t know if it will work out but I just wanted to be straighforward and honest with you. This is not a usurpal of our love. Not atall. It is a continuation in a strange way.

He paused; peered over at his now ordinary looking son Doogie snoozing away after another tough night of transmogrified grilling on the part of possessor Petty. Victim this time: Allen Martin’s landlord Summerhill Nova. Emerald tablets? What’s that mad inspector on about now?? He returned to his scribing.

I know my feelings are real in this case, but we are the rock, the foundation. This is just a new branch sprouting on an old, old tree.

He paused again as Doogie let out a loud snort.

I want to reassure you our son is fine. Do not hate me for what I, we, did. The gas station was about to be repossessed. I had to provide for Doogie. Irony, eh? Possession for possession. I hope and pray it will be over soon. But Petty is going off onto so many tangents. How about the actual *killing*, sir. Address that for a change.

He put his pen down on the desk. It was no good today. A proper letter to his wife would have to wait. He sat up on its top, looking east this time instead of west.

Wheeler. What demon are you as well?

She also snorts.

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“Tell me more about this OD… oops, I think I’m making a full transition now.” Chef-inspector Petty was no longer Doogie Martin in any part.

Baker Bloch answered. “Like I said, we contacted him, it, through wegee. He, or she, or it, didn’t identify a sex, but it has male clothing on as it turns out.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Hucka Doobie and I. She’s a member of my avatar family. She’s versed in spiritual matters — why I got her involved.”

“Tell me more about this avatar family of yours. Any criminal records?” His pace was crisp.

“None that I know about. Spongeberg is a destroyer by trade. Does that count?”

Petty became cryptic. “Glad you brought him up. Spongeberg is not a member of your family. He is a member of *our* family.”

Baker Bloch scratched his head at this. “Well,” he began again, “we admittedly don’t know much about him. Are you saying, I don’t know, that he’s from *here*?”

“That is precisely what I’m saying. We also believe there is a link between Spongeberg and OD — know it, in fact. You’re aware of the former property called Pitch Black?”

“Somewhat,” answered Bloch.

“In November of 2016, the property was taken over by the town, with the oft deemed “noxious” or “poisonous” temple derezzed. The FTI gallery expanded into its former space. It was through this incorporation that the town split into two separate realities. Or, better, we became *aware* of this second town overlapping the first. It was always there. But the portal had been opened.” He turned around and looked directly at Baker Bloch. “In the *big* picture, the owner of the FTI is the same as Wheeler. Assimilate *that*.”

To Baker Bloch, Petty was spouting gibberish now. He didn’t think Spongeberg was from VHC City (but he did want to find out more of his background now). Wheeler as the FTI owner? That didn’t make any sense.

“And I’ll give you one more,” Petty continued. “See the innocent looking Musician sitting on the couch between us?”

“Who… me?” uttered The Musician, sitting up a bit and wiping his nose on his sleeve. He had half nodded off during the discussion.

“Yes, you,” Petty answers. “I don’t guess you remember anything at all about creating *VHC City itself?*”

Nope. No he did not.

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The man from the future known as Fisher pulls into the lone VHC Town gas station and beeps his horn for service. “Two and a 1/2 hours to get here from Farmington,” he complains to his riding companion, also from the future. “This car is a piece of junk, Bendy.”

“It’s not the car,” his robot friend returned. “It’s the world. Physics ain’t good here. Language neither. Equilateral gravity is better for locomotion. This is just loco motion. Get it? Loco… motion.”

“I get it.” Fisher feigned a smile.

“Yeah, my former masters got that right. Squaring the circle and all.”

“Well, you’re here with me now Bendy. I won you fair and square in that chess match, circles be damned.”

“You’re not called Fisher for nothing. But I still think the game was rigged. ‘Winesap’?”

“Cash or credit?” It was Doogie Martin the attendant appearing at their side, with head strangely transmogrified from his Collagesity North days.

“Cash, I suppose.”

“Fill her up?” Doogie returned. “Regular? Premium?”

“Yes to all except the premium, haha. Bendy, why don’t you run in and get those crackers you like. Get me a Mars Bar. Use the quarters I gave you earlier.”

“Vending machine’s broke,” says Doogie plainly while removing the gas cap and inserting the pump nozzle. “We have honey,” he offered.

“Honey, Bendy?” queried Fisher to Bendy without much enthusiasm.

“I’d rather eat the bees themselves.”

“That can possibly be arranged,” Doogie deadpanned back to Bendy. “Father’s trying to downsize. We’ll probably be out of here by the end of the month.”

“Oh. You don’t like, um, what’s this place called?”

“VHC *City*. Not town, like some say.”

“All right. What’s wrong with this *city*?”

Gas tank full, Doogie retracted the nozzle and put it back in its carriage without answering. “Comes to L$18.66. You did say you had money.” Doogie then raises an arm and snaps his fingers without turning. A squat marshmallow man squeezes through the door of the station and wallows up beside him. “Trouble here sire?” he speaks in a doughy voice.

Doogie keeps his eyes fixed on Fisher. “I don’t know, Marshall. Is there trouble Mr…?”

“Fisher. But not a first or last name. Just a name. Give them the money Bendy. Withdraw it out of your chest cavity. No trouble here, Mr… Mr…”

“Martin. Like the bird.” A sweating Bendy hands him a 20 dollar bill, which Doogie hands, in turn, to his muscle bound assistant. “Make yourself useful Marshall and go get change for these people while I keep an eye out here.”

“Sure thing boss.”

Doogie starts to look over the car better as Marshall reenters the station. “MK2, eh? Worth the jump up from the MK1 for the money. 1 second faster in the 0-60. Wider rear windshield; synchromesh gearbox. Exhaust system still leaves something to desire.”

Marshall reappears, hands Fisher a dollar and change. Doogie looks up into the sky. “Sun’s setting soon. You best be where you’re heading before dark. When the vampires are out, everyone else stays in.” He and Marshall walk off without saying goodbye, although he does throw up a hand in parting.

“Get the lead out, old chap,” requests Bendy to Fisher, who complies.

“If the vampires do get them, maybe they’ll sell us back that car,” Doogie says to Marshall as they speed away.

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“Ahhh. You found the wormhole. Good work Aspinwall. Now come on out and rest.”


One day later…


“You see, Allen Martin. The hole grows larger and your Aspy grows smaller. Soon she will be a mere baby. It’s an exchange of energy. Once fully opened it will consume that world and we will be able to see what’s on the other side. Aspinwall will have her children.”

The elder Martin pries his eyes away from the spinning vortex long enough to glance over at Urch again. “I still can’t believe you’re Jack Lemon’s grandson. You could be him as a kid. I’ve seen pictures.” He tested the urchin child again. “And you say you grew up in Bennington?”

“Farmington,” Urch corrected.

“And your father was Patmos Jim?”

“John,” returned Urch. “But back to the hole, you can see it’s positioned at the end of that row of 6 different wall pieces. Those are the masters. The hole acts like a punctuation mark. The sentence is forming. When we know what it says, that will be the end. World gone. It’s a cypher world. It’s only purpose. It’s like a lid into another dimension. A lid placed there so you wouldn’t just stumble upon it and fall in.”

“What’s beyond?” Allen Martin asked Urch, face closer to the picture now. “Any speculations?”

“Well, we have a giant wall just over there.” Urch points northward. “An asp whose gaping mouth seems to want to consume Collagesity as a whole, starting with the TILE temple. The first three sims the wall passes through north to south are Athetis, Spini, and Pyri. ASP. It’s abundantly obvious that Aspinwall here is suppose to be associated with that wall. ASP in Wall.”


“Yeah, I get it,” says Allen Martin. “Hey, wasn’t your mother a Tiler, Urch? Uma, wasn’t it?”

“Ursula,” she corrects again, shifting her weight to the right. “A reformed Tiler, yes. She accepts the existence of religions based on numbers other than four. Like your Christianity and its trinity. Like the Martian Pentagostals… so forth.”

“And what about you sprout?” furthers Allen Martin. “Do you follow in the sanctified footsteps of your mother or the dusty hoofprints of your father? Which way do *you* spin?”

“Perhaps I will only find that out when the hole is opened. Shouldn’t be long. See? Aspinwall is growing a little shorter by the minute. I’d say another day at the most.

All look down at the withering serpent. The bird on the plate seems to eye it almost hungrily.


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“Let’s see what this so called ‘secret society’ is all about, you Joker,” he says. Wilson goes into the VWX fairy house.



“I thought this is where he said the hole was, son.” Allen Martin pivots around, looking. “Where’d Aspy go?”

“Dunno pops,” answered Doogie, who continued staring at something in the distance.


“There he is. Where’s he heading *now*?”

Doogie does a 180. “Looks like he’s going down the hill on the other side of this house or whatever it is… shed.”


“Well keep up with him,” his father implored. “You know my legs aren’t what they use to be.” Allen Martin struggles to get to his feet. His son doesn’t move to help him, instead following the snake.

“Hmm,” Doogie says. “Now he’s on some kind of green table. “Looks like he’s waiting on us maybe.” Allen Martin hobbles up to his son.


“Great. Another hill.” the older Martin complains. “Help me out a little this time, Doogie. Will ya?”

“Sure, okay,” the son says lacadasically.

10 minutes later they were at the bottom, staring at the picture. On the white pillar now, Aspinwall kept knocking his snake head against it in emphasis.


“Hey pops,” Doogie finally says. “Doesn’t that kind of look like the picture of your old college down on the bottom floor of our house now.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” the older man replies. “I was on the wrong wall.”



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Hucka Doobie threw Baker Blinker a party at Perch in celebration of her recent land sale, a 3856 parcel in the northeast part of Minoa. Now I feel Collagesity is how it should be size-wise, with Blinks’ land costs reduced down to the next tier. I anticipate no more additions or subtractions to the town. It’s great as is.

Afterwards, Baker Blinker decided to go over and talk to new Collagesity renter Allen Martin to see how the move went. You see, Martin had *just* set up his gas station and backing house on the 3856 when the sale went through. The Bakers kindly offered to immediately move the still empty World of Collage building next door to make room there for his structures. Baker Blinker met Martin’s son Doogie in the garage. She was surprised to see Baker Bloch’s Spookmobile being worked on within.


“Hi, I’m Baker Blinker.”

“Nice to meet you,” Doogie said. “Are you here for the car? Because we need to talk about some costs.”

“No, that’s Baker Bloch’s car. The other Baker. You know who I am, don’t you?”

“You’re the owner.”

“Of the land, not the car. That’s the other Baker. But I thought he took it on his trip with him, hmm.” She scans the car, verifying as far as she could ascertain that this is indeed Baker’s Spookmobile. “He owns the middle and south parts of the town,” she continues. “I own this part, the northern part. But not the car, see. That’s still Baker Bloch’s.”

“Well, I still need to talk to someone about this car,” Doogie said, thinking that this dame sure is chatty.

“Your father around, um… what’s your name again?” Baker Blinker felt it somewhat rude that he didn’t introduce himself properly but just kept going on about that car. That blame car.

“Douglas. But call me Doogie. Like Doogie Houser the tv star.”

“Well, nice to meet you again Doogie.”

“Likewise. So about the car…” Doogie, a born mechanic, couldn’t help himself. He goes on to explain that the whole exhaust system needs to be replaced. He said that it looked like the car had been sitting on the bottom of some ocean for years, a joke that hit the target dead center.

“Well, actually…”


Allen Martin then walked up from behind Baker Blinker. She caught him winking at his son. “So, what’s a pretty girl like you doing here at this old, dingy garage.”

“I’m Baker Blinker,” she explained again. “The owner… of the land, not the car. We spoke on the phone last night. We moved a whole building next to yours this morning.”

“Oh, right right,” he said. “The *boss*. Well, I do appreciate it, I really do. We — Doogie and I — have been moving around quite a lot lately. It would be nice to settle down somewhere on the mainland and establish a clientele. Last place was up in Bennington. Let’s see, it was last Tuesday — right Doogie? — when the gangsters came and shot all the windows out. And then there were the fires, the floods, the tornados. No, Bennington was not a place to set up shop. A wild wild town. So we’re glad we’re here. Aren’t we Doogie?”

“I suppose so father.” He was still looking over the car. “And the headlights don’t work. Horn neither. Spark plugs and wires need replacing. Distributor obviously. You can’t put this car back on the highway without a lot of repairs.”

Allen Martin approaches the back of the car and bends down. “I thought I saw something wiggling around in that tailpipe, hmm.” Inspecting it and seeing nothing now, he rubs his peepers with his fingers. “Ehh, it’s been a long day. Just a trick of the eyes, I’m sure.”


It wasn’t. The banded grey sea serpent waited until nightfall to crawl out of the rusting exhaust system where he’d been living for years and make his introductions. Allen Martin was still sitting at his desk on the top flooring of that backing building, where, about a half hour before, he enjoyed a beautiful sunset over Robin Lane while thinking to himself that this is a place he could maybe stay a spell.


Allen Martin was asleep, feet on desk, by the time his son Doogie yelped upon finding the serpent on the floor next to him while underneath the tv, trying to jerry-rig a free cable connection.


“Nothing but static, phew hew!” slurped the snake loudly. “I’m Aspinwall by the way, like an asp in a wall. And I’m about to have babies!”


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