It’s time to bring a new character into the picture: Jennifer Lane, twin cousin to our Shelley Lane, right down to the all seeing umbrella eyes. She remembers the bombing, the underground, the… flight.
“Another one, sweetie?” Lichen Roosevelt asked from behind the counter, presently cleaning a glass, perhaps the one she would pour a new drink in for Jenny.
Grasshopper? she thought. No: too obvious.
“Just another stack of potatoes.”
“Nothing here,” he muttered. “Might as well be another Messed Up 05 for all it’s worth.”
I got a strong feeling that this is the night, Axis.”
“Bigfeet,” he guessed, looking over at the tittering squirrels. They too knew more than him.
“Bigfoot yeah. Samsquanch.”
Axis-Windmill didn’t bother to correct him this time. There would be no Bigfeet or Mossmen or whatever they call them colloqially. Because he saw the giant green shoe fly away last night with all the little houses and even the umbrella centered windmill. They had succeeded in loading up and moving.
“I recall now. I am your hairy… neighbor. To the North. Remember? Like Canada. Some called us friends. Like me. Remember? Not Arthur but me. We were sent here (to Mythos) together.”
I recalled. There was lots of pain in his direction, more than mine. The US of our A had it easier. A single child (functionally). A loving *father*. “You didn’t know,” he wanted to say to me now. “You were involved… in your own world.” I couldn’t argue. At least he didn’t declare war on me, like Cofmo. Ants, mechanical ants. My grasshoppers never had a chance. June bugs bombed but all were underground.
I know why my artist friend from Our Second Lyfe was named that. For this.
Accompanied by the music of Certain Death playing on the turntable, an old, religious man reads slightly pornographic manga well into the night. Did it in Kowloon where he came from, doing it here. Nothing wrong.
In another part of Horns, Jacob’s I awakes from the dead, as it were, and rolls his stiffened neck. “Ugggh. Where *am* I?”
Kick-ass Bogota’s long vigil is over. He can rejoin his brother Boos, wherever he is at the moment, probably Red’s Diner.
Bigfoot is a hot topic tonight. A giant spool has now been rolled onto an artist’s location and made into a firepit. Staring into the flames one last time, Kick-ass takes his leave before Jacob I. realizes who he is.
“It’s what I tell everyone at this Table. Time to choose, darlings. You can pick two apples or one banana. If the latter, I’d go with the ripest one in case you don’t like it. Oranges aren’t needed since everyone has one — needless redundancy you see. And the choco chip cookies are *right* out unless you’re one of the Far Corner peoples. Don’t be that. Jacob or Jacobia — please select the item or items you wish to be.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about the Heart Line any longer, Sid. Since the heart of the Heart is no longer there.”
“Head is still in play, apparently.”
“I know. I was there (!) 23:23.”
“So my suggestion is go back to that spot, that exact melding of space and time. Obviously it will most likely be a different *time* of course, but the space remains locked.”
“Right-o. Can I take Martha?”
Buster thought this over. “How’s her hormones doing?” he decided to phrase it. No distracting from the job at hand!
“He’s here. We’ll have to jump.”
“You go first.”
“Okay he’s gone down the road guys! You can come out!”
One year and 2 1/2 months. Herbert can do it.
Jacob I. had fallen asleep once more at the Prog Rock Museum located on the neck of Rooster’s Peninsula. Herbert’s neck hurt again… Anastasia, he thinks. Alysha. Things have changed. She gave him a ring and he gave her one back. It was the only way to end the madness.
He thinks of the Diagonal across the Chalet sub-continent of Bellisaria, as it’s called by many if not most. Snowball in Hell at the center, but heading to Scratchy — reality. Not in a Second Lyfe any longer. Retirement. Wholeness; fulfillment. Perspective.
Collagesity will remain… across the Diagonal and into the Great Beyond at the end. I will not keep Shelley’s Castle on the peninsula, although it’s a perfect *perfect* fit. Hmm.
NOPE. Collagesity should remain.
He extends his draw distance and spies the castle in the distance. It’s the wrong one, but that’s okay. It’s fitting only 1 remains.
I still have much to learn here.
This gigantic amount of creative energy…
… makes me want to return to the religious nuts of Misty MO (for some reason)…
… and stare into a mirror.
I wonder what Dollie is up to, for instance? Still about 2 feet would be my guess.
He didn’t get much information from that pothead Pine Ridge but he understood Lamb had flown the coup. Peter Paul and Mary I mean here, featured in photo-novel 05 and a bit of photo-novel 06 if memory serves. Mr. Babyface came here to try to persuade his nephew Paul (and the rest) to return to the Land of the Living, as he called it, get away from this Hana Lei and its huffing and puffing and boys bringing more rolled up paper all the time, just like clockwork. You pay them, they come and never stop, the jerks. “Vicious cycle,” he said. “You’ll end up like Syd,” he furthered, pointing out the famous downfall of one of Paul’s rock heroes. “Dead… or worse. Dead in your head, which goes beyond physical death because the mind goes beyond the body. You better think about that the next time you take a shower with that cat soap you like.” He decides to leave it at that. Paul stares at him, much like Roger stared at Jacob later on, all glazy eyed, like a glossy pot ready to go to market, ready to have another plant inside it. He didn’t need to ask the Time because he knew what it was, shortly followed by Money, shortly followed by death. And worse. Brain Damage.
“Yeah, they’re all gone,” explained Roger Pine Ridge a little later in the heart of Hana Lei. “50 years ago I guess by now — just missed them.” He kept toking, staring, his cracked alien skin no better for the smoke. But being alien and all it may not matter that much… lungs might be configured differently for example. Smoking may not hurt him like us humans. He continues. “Lamb, yeah. I know what’s in your head. You want to clarify what I’m talking about.” He coughs, he stares at the doobie almost shrunk to nothing, then tosses it away and shakes his hand vigorously like it’s on fire and he’s trying to put it out. “Where’s some pliers when you need them, heh.”
Jacob I. was currently taking a break from pot, trying to crack this whole Lamb conundrum with a clear head. So no cracks about Bogarting that whole joint thing to Roger, because Jacob I. asked him to. “No thanks,” he said at the time, then took a glance at all the pots and pseudo-pots strewn about the place and wondered how he ever survived with it. Lamb could save him. Dollie.
All of a sudden, just like that, he was back to where it all started. The I. that could not get high, this Melancholy place in BEHappy. All aspects of BEH he was examining tonight, remembering his old friend Cyberpaperdoll, for instance, in another Beh
sim place over on the Heterocera continent. And he was of course thinking of sheep, which go behhhhhh. Like Dolly the cloned one. Dolly had been *here*…
… but her name seems to have been spelled “ie” instead of “y”.
… leading to the Square of Jupiter, famous in Durer’s “Melancholia I”.
Randolph the Bastard Pirate.
Better go check out the locals while I’m here, Jacob I. decided.