And so we begin at the end, 561 steps from. Walking down, we’ve returned to the ONE but with nowhere to go but back up.
“NEXT!”
Tag Archives: Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer^*++
00480113
“I guess it was inevitable you show up.” He pauses as he looks over at his oft-times wife, now a ratcatcher complete with backpack cage with a couple of rats in it already. But not of the right kind.
“Yeah, I was attracted by the literal version but disappointed. No one home.”
Earlier: *Knock knock knock.* “Hello?! Anybody here?!”
“Soo now… an actual hole,” said Newt. Both stared over at it, Ratcatcher (aka Wheeler) with her useless rat catching devices for the job and Newt with his useless fishing rod apparently, just slung under his shoulder for looks by the look of it.
—–
She waved goodbye to him but he was already gone. Too laggy for him to stay logged on too while she entered. But not the fault of the sim. Probably my modem or something. Router. Anyway… inside.
—–
Eventually she found CENTER.
And directly above — still at center, mind you — a pawn shop named Escape with a browser named not Rat but Mouse. Doctor too.
That might be it, she thinks while panning up and peering into it.
“How much for this red dress here?” Mouse asks Wanda the shop attendant, pointing toward the object with his cane to indicate desire per usual.
In synchronicity, she then spots a blood stained hand poking out from a split bag of trash.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0048, 0113, Dokken Hollow, Jeogeot
Black Ice
Just not rezzing in. Instead: a white spirit. Probable reality not realized. Dr. White.
“Not showing up tonight, not rabbit, not rab-bat,” spoke High Atlantis Priestess to Mouse over in the corner of the room, still not transfigured to a younger form of himself despite his best efforts. “We’ll just have to do without him.”
And I have a name for her. Bermuda. A triangle of utter non-coloredness, no TILE hues involved. Let’s make this shit *not* happen, I suppose.
“Fine,” he finally said in response. “I’ll begin.” And he followed with mundane statements aplenty, making her yawn and, I believe, fall asleep. She dreamed about past glories.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0041, 0402, Black Ice, Jeogeot, NWES Island^
art
“That doesn’t look much like the landscape out there,” I opined from behind.
“I paint what my cane tells me to. I mean, my *brush* — force of habit there with the mention of cane. I may not need it any longer,” he furthered. “Getting an update from the person who created me. The heck with the other doctors. Dr. White, the last one I interviewed, turned out not to be even (named) White. And maybe not even a rabbit as advertised, pheh. Looked more like a rab*bat* to me. No, I’ve decided to simply replace me… with myself.” He checks his Diamond Rolex watch, dropping some cerulean blue paint on his gray-black Ralph Lauren dress pants in the motion. “Shoot,” he cusses at the stain, but then realizes the pants will be gone soon, along with the body, the skin, the whole kitten kaboodle. “Gotta run,” he says in parting. “Mind finishing this for me?” And grasping his brush while he did the same with his cane, I sat down and went to work. I can do realism, I said to myself as I added more waves to the sea.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0041, 0301, Hana Lei^^
00400611
“I still have a home on Nautilus. It was a retirement gift — very pretty there. Lots of vegetation.”
Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer, still dealing primarily with bodily fluids but hoping to graduate to full blown psychiatry soon, looked at his e-machine and gauged this was true. “Describe… gift,” he decided to say.
It was the end of 31 and it was the end, period. March 1 of last year, 12:01 AM we’ll say. Eddie D’Aigle, who sometimes preferred D’Aigle, Eddie, especially if he was traveling in the Orient, had just retired from the private sector of the records management business, having made his fortune archiving the files of rock stars Ozzie Osbourne, Ozmo Daredevils, and the like. His last blog article for the latter, the last he did overall, was about how the song “Jackie Blue” was changed from “Jackie Pink,” which drew the attention of Pink, Marsha, Krakow. He had the evidence before him as he wrote: the altered lyrics, everything. “It was suppose to be about a man who peddled drugs during the day while working nights as a bartender, a very Dada affair,” he reinforced to her in a reply email, then, seeing her avid interest, invited her up to [Blue Mountain] to look at the actual, revised lyrics herself. “Come with your driver’s license or a birth certificate,” he said, “and our staff will bring the whole box out to you; I’ll put it on reserve and not reshelve. You can look at one file at a time, and just mark what you want copied with green (START) and red (STOP) paper we’ll provide.” She ended up photocopying the whole box. New 3d scanner the office just purchased did the trick in a 10th the time it would have taken the old fashioned way. Marsha’s, in fact, was the first request accomplished using that method. Boxy Marsha, she went down in office legend as. Prototype. Especially since Eddie, on his last day of work, helped her tote the (wrong?) box to her still hot pink car, soon to change to yellow. Thanks to what was inside. In many ways, she became the box she requested, a black and white facsimile of herself.
00400515
The weight of the past…
… finally collapses the present into a hellscape sinkhole of no return.
Over and over…
… and over.
—–
“As you can clearly see, Dr. Mouse, the darts weren’t the cause of the death.”
“As I suspected,” he said in his superior, haughty way. “What did the extracted bodily fluids reveal?”
“Dr. Rabbid over at the lab is still working on the results,” answered Dr. Brown. Dr. Mouse was thinking he’d have the results already, would *cane* them out of a subordinate if needed for such an important case. All Millbank is depending on a correct diagnosis. For its own survival.
Sensing the tension, Dr. Brown put forth another option, since he didn’t have much faith in science to figure it out by this point. He acted as if it was his own idea instead of Dr. Rabbid’s but would quickly point the blame finger at the non-present doctor if Mouse didn’t like the proposal.
“Seance?!” Dr. Mouse responded to it, initially seeing only the negative of the thing. “Here? In Millbank?? Are you mad??”
Well, a little, Dr. Brown thought, but then answered: “It could be elsewhere. The other doctors wouldn’t have to know about it. You could be a hero, sir, swooping in from the outside to save the day.”
“All Hallows Day,” he specified. “All this,” and he looks around the room that represents the entire sim in the moment, “wouldn’t have to go back into storage. It could be perpetual, a permanent fixture. *If*…”
“… we could just figure out how to affix the past to the present; make it stable and unfluctuating,” finished Brown for the higher up doctor.
The phone in Dr. Brown’s pocket rings in an ancient way. He answers; he acknowledges; he hangs up. “Dr. Rabbid’s results indicate formaldehyde, 37 percent.”
“Formaldehyde?!” shouted the superior doctor even slightly louder. “Then this *is* about preservation.” The seance was a go, at least in the eyes of Brown.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0040, 0515, Ashton Village, Bellisaria
Redtown
And so, only weighed down by the sand he had to tote along to make it all work, Santman’s career took off, at first rather slow and bumpy but then speeding up as more sand was dropped, symbol of a heavy past — poor as piss-ants they were in the day. Killer of children and babies alike no more. He had achieved Heaven on Earth. And the money certainly wasn’t bad either. Bought his first town over in Montana or Kentucky back in ’68, just before the Robolution that kind of snuffed deals like that out for a while, another type of death. But he personally made it through without having to change into a mechanoid. He figured all those other assimilations gave him some kind of immunity virus.
First he took over New Years Day — easy one. Then he set his eyes on Thanksgiving — about ’96 for that assimilation. Then Valentines Day. Then… Halloween. That was tougher. Had to fend off a lot of upset ghouls and goblins for that one. Then St. Patricks Day. The snakes the snakes. But he made it through with his patented snake popper, as he marketed it later, becomes a saint himself, a replacement one. Good.
Only one really significant holiday stood in his way after that. 4th of Juli, America itself. The Battle of Christmas vs. America begins.
Oh, he thinks in the moment, reviewing his past glory. Forgot about Easter! Dang Peter Rabbit, dang Donnie Darko. Yes America’s transformation into a full holiday state will have to be delayed until he figures that all out. Christmas vs. Easter instead. Red-green vs. blue-yellow, echoes of the Trojan-Durexian Wars creeping in. Perhaps this is even an extension.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0036, 0504, Corsica, Northwest^
00350607
She thought of another answer while chopping pepper for the big meal. George was coming over! Or was it Arthur? Anyway, she thought of this: I *love*, that George’s backwards guitar was destroyed in the Moray Docks explosion when that new Tar Guit appeared over top of it. BOOOM! she recalled joyously. That can replace the “resourceful” answer, #4 I believe.
“She’s gone,” Baumbeer speaks later to Newt about the poor girl’s mind. “But I know where she is.”
“I’ll go see her,” replies the father not father-in-law. “No need to bring the boy in the picture,” he says half to himself. “He’s already heartbroken enough.”
“Let me know if I can help more,” spoke Baumbeer into the receiver to finish. He hangs it up. On a clothes hanger.
Newt rings Shelley up. I mean, he calls her. Since the wedding is off and he’s no longer the Best Man. Thus the meal.
“Newt!” she modifies again, moving to the cucumber or tomato next. “The father-in-law.” Her face squinches up. “Father *in-law*?”
They meet at the same gazebo in the sim’s corner. Property called Sim’s Corner. The Void’s energy was just loosened enough so he could reach over and straighten up the blouse on her shoulder. Pepper t-shirt no. 1 she wore now. Small successes before bigger ones, he thinks, staring at the daughter he didn’t know he had until the end of the last photo-novel, 34 in [delete rest of sentence].
“Wheeler says to say hello,” he starts again, trying to jolt more memories. Does she remember the spaceship? Of course not, Newt thinks. Too young. Shelley says say hello to Wheeler back, even though she doesn’t know who that is. She’s trying to mask her big big problem. And where’s George? Or was it Arthur?
“Your… *mother*,” Newt says to this, understanding she doesn’t recognize the name. “George — you know George, right?”
“Georges,” she says, which Newt lets slide.
“Anyway, *your* George says you look a lot like her. You even have some of the same tattoos.” Kind of odd, Newt thinks here but, again, lets it slide; chalks it up as another disturbance of The Void.
—–
“You’re batty I tell you. *Batty*!”
“Out of my way, whoever you are! *Whatever* you are!”
“W-where you going, dude? Nothing left but *me*.” She starts dancing and dancing with her weapon. Hypnotizing. Just like on the bus. It was her.
Shelley wakes up. What did I do to *Johnny*, she immediately thinks. We go back to that point. That’s where she began to lose it. The baby. My baby!
She was the baby.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0035, 0607, Little Hell, Omega^^, Southern
not Munday
Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer was brought into the picture to help the poor, confused girl. Shelley’s father Newt, formerly and originally father-in-law Newt, had found his card when he returned his son-in-law’s (formerly son’s) wedding tuxedo back to June’s Rentals over in Handytown. Left it in the pocket; figured it was worthless to him now — forgotten. June’s wife Peggie was luckily working the return desk that day and checked all the pockets before taking items of clothing back. She even checked the shoes for lost nail-clippers, etc. Very thorough at her job she was. So she turned all the pockets on the rental tuxedo inside-out and found the Rabbid Rabbits group card, which included, as I said before, a location and also a phone number. Newt rings it up.
Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer’s memories had to be jarred at first. “George,” he said, pondering the name. “George Smithson? Had a wife or potential wife named D something. Darla maybe.”
Newt indicated that George’s last name was Reiner, like in the Meathead character from the 70s. Rabbid Baumbeer checks his phone for the name of the caller. Newt Bunker — different last name. He brings this up just for kicks.
“George’s father has been dead for 10 years,” explains Newt, a bit bothered by the nosiness but getting over it quick. Breathe in, breathe out. “I’m just trying to help the boy out. Will you likewise try to help my girl?”
Rabbid Baumbeer suddenly remembered. A former punk turned clean. Wasn’t sure if he was in love with the girl or not. Obsessed somehow with a girl inside the girl. The Mother, yes. This was worth looking into — from a psychological perspective at least.
“I don’t have a location for her currently,” continues Newt in the void between words. “She’s gone… missing.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Baumbeer spoke, a body of knowledge kicking in — ahh, the kick (!), soo satisfying. He feels quite the superior again. He knows exactly where to find the girl.
And so here we are. In The Void. Didn’t take long. Flag and all.
“Tell me 5 ways that you love George, child. Oh… forgot,” he says reaching out with upturned hand. “One nickle please.”
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0035, 0606, Little Hell, Omega^^, Southern
00350209
“I really like your giraffe, George. So soft — just like our kiss, tee hee. Say you rode in on it?”
“No, I never said that.” George also enjoyed the kiss but he remembers more a gap, a lack. Something had happened and he can’t quite figure out what. A confusing day, actually. First the thing about the dads and then this.
“So you flew in on that bird thingy you’re sitting on, right?”
“Also incorrect.” How *did* George, I mean, The Musician, get here? And was this an actual rehearsal for their wedding? Or were they just checking out the location, perhaps not even convinced yet this is the right place for their super important event?
“I mean, you look like you’re 1/2 bird yourself mounted on the thing like you are, a *bird* yourself.” She tried to laugh but found the utterances couldn’t quite reach her lips, her still warm lips, but cooling quickly, the memory of the softness fading.
“Oz,” he then said, remembering. 1/2 man 1/2 bird indeed. He flew in from his imagination. We’ll go there soon, but first the couple need to pay a little trip to Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer via his Rabbid Rabbits group. The Musician (George) explained it was necessary because of the gap he felt, which Shelley was also now experiencing. They had to resolve that before the wedding fer sure. The Musician was convinced that the doctor could fix their issues, family stuff as well.
They spent half the night arguing who Aunt Bernice belonged to, his side of the family or hers. This could not continue; something had to be done.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0035, 0209, Nautilus, NORTH
Sunklands 