John Cage had come to feel
That art in our time
Was far less important
Than our daily lives
~ “Tiger the Lion” by The Tragically Hip
“So here we are. At the appropriately named Ebonshire. This is as far as you’ve ever gone Monsieur Gold. You are almost ready to transition. See over there?” Parasol indicates across the water to her left. “End of the tale. Tiger. Are you ready?”
But then Monsieur Gold was gone, in a flash. From the other direction, several deer look on, thinking her crazy for talking to herself.
Just later, Parasol goes to confer with the Monster of the Sea about the next step.
“Thank you my friend.”
“So both women were missing,” spoke Parasol as they walked through the snowy landscape.
“Good and evil, yeah.”
“Like me, then.”
They walked a bit further, then Monsieur Gold realized he had to say something: choose. “No, we’re good, we’re good,” he finally reinforced.
Monsieur Gold woke up in his mansion, wife April Mae surprisingly by his side. She was propped up, staring at him. “Dreaming again?” He nodded. “Which was it this time, jungle, snow or desert?”
“All three,” he admitted while stretching. “What time is it?”
He looks around the room. “Where’s the tv?”
I’ve looked everywhere on God’s beige earth for them. But I’m not going down there to North Yd to check. Not after what I saw last year with Tessa. Gold to Platinum.
Better head back home in the narrow boat-plane. Maybe refuel first over at Sparky’s since it’s nearby.
Ooops! Knocked over a couple of gas pumps again. Oh well. Nothing scars this old babe. Except that cursed dune of April Mae’s. Must be some kind of magic dune, and in the wrong way, hmph. Probably some voodoo connected to the aberant Omega continent itself. “Sparky!” Monsieur Gold calls through the station’s open door while honking his horn. “Sparky! It’s happened again!”
Now where is *she*?
“Zoidboro!” cries little Raphaelia Jenkinson from a nearby garage bay, flickering merrily in her red dress beside similarly wind-blow, yellow cat Ziggy Dustbowl. “Zoidboro!” she repeats.
In the basin immediately below…
… Sally the Spark O Naut (“Sparky”) has waited a long time for Reverend Zoidboro to start preaching. Two days, in fact, since this is Tuesday. But she’s decked up in her Sunday best and dearly hates to needlessly change clothes.
5 more minutes, she thinks. Maybe 5 hours.
“They wouldn’t let me in, Parasol. At least not with my mansion I so love. And I *wasn’t* coming here without it, dammit.” He paused, wiped his mouth. “April Mae said ‘come, come, come’. The house meant less to her than the neighborhood, the land. And now we are split, Parasol. She with her version of you and me with mine.”
In her strangely compressing Victorian chair, Parasol said nothing, soaking it all in. She’d like to talk to the woman involved before making a final decision, but it would be difficult to pull her here through the density. Monsieur Gold can only stay for short spells, and that is only because he is closer to the border. It would be logical to choose him — the easy way out. Granddaughter Tessa saw it coming, after all. Gold to Platinum.
“Walk with me,” she said. They often walked during visits. Monsieur Gold came prepared with an extra layer of insulated underwear this time.
He sat on the throne a long time after he finished. He didn’t want to go back down. April Mae was pissed because *he* was pissed, one of those vicious cycles. But what did he really have besides the narrow boat-plane? She had her clothes, her friends, her furniture, her… paintings. Were they really her paintings? No, they had bought them together. The paintings were his as well. Kind of. Split, I suppose.
But… the scratch. Nay, more than a scratch, a scar. Car scar. She said she just ran into the dune — didn’t see it looming up in front of her when overshooting the cemetery. And why does she have to go out there to the Omega continent to visit her ex so often? She’s got *me* now. I’m the important, *living* one. She has to help protect *me*.
Instead of going downstairs to continue arguing with his wife, Monsieur Gold decides to walk over to his study on the other side of the second floor to check his email account. Eventually, inevitably, he’s draw again to play that game on the laptop he’s so addicted to. We’ve seen it before: Gunn Mobile Home Trailer Park. He plays for about an hour until he’s pretty certain April Mae has simmered down. On his way to the stairs, he pauses to contemplate Monet’s “Woman with a Parasol” at the end of the hallway, one of two versions displayed in the mansion. One for him, one for his wife. Split.
“Oh. Hello dear. Sorry about before.”
Something different came to the sim of The Sand Seas today.
Nearby, spatially and temporally: Patrick still likes cats.
“I like cats. Man.”
But who was this man he speaketh to, just emerged, dusty and dingy and gritty, from The Sea of Sands to the immediate south of here? Jethro?
No, not him. Although he may play a part in our play later on. Instead: Monsieur Gold. Looking high and low for granddaughter Tessa. Searching near and far for step-children Lisa and Bartholomew. Dealing with the connivings and machinations of Madame Silver and fellow evil villain known as The Parasol all along the way.
“Any other place to sit here?” he implores to Patrick the crazy cat lover across from him, not wishing to presently accomplish the function his tire seat was designed for. Disgusting.
“No,” responds Patrick, attempting to smooth out a cowlick on the back of a cat.
Nearby (spatially and temporally):
“God I hate murders. Despises them.”
I think it may be Jethro’s brother/cousin. Baer? Bauer? I believe I’m onto something…
Something different came to the sim of Bauerbridge today.
129,127 — close enough.