Tag Archives: Jim/John L. Brown^*======%

Jem’s World

“Well, my name is Gemilly Johnston — Jem for short — and these are the books I’ll be keeping up with (!).”

So cheerful that first week, she says, reviewing her introductory video, whiskey sour in hand as usual when looking at this type of stuff. So many videos in her collection now. But this was one of the clean ones, before the dirt and grime of the city, this Dodgey City, became fully evident, thanks to John. *Not* Jim.

“I live about 1500 meters up in a nice house with a beautiful perpetual sunset, right on the beach. See? (she indicates a hand, an arm). I’m already working up a tan (!).”

If I could go back and kill her — myself — I would, thinks Jem here, wanting to wipe that ridiculous smile off her face with a rag of acid. OK, maybe Texas Pete.

“The house is owned by John L. Brown, who is also my boss, who is also my, ahem…”

Boyfriend? thought present Jem. Fat chance.

“… cousin,” past Jem completed her sentence.

Wait, is that possible? present Jem thought. She reversed the video, started over. At 2:32: “cousin” again. She doesn’t remember saying that. Plus it wasn’t true (!!).

—–

But John L. Brown for one knew it was and changed the wording yesterday after also slyly suggesting she take a day off for mental health reasons and look at old videos from the archive to soothe her nerves, especially recommending — or starting with — the one she’s viewing right this moment. Jem eventually figured this out as well as she continued to sip (or at least try to contain it to a sip) on one of her whiskey sours and ponder and ponder. Cousin — that aspect conveniently forgotten, conveniently wiped from memory, just like she was trying to wipe the happiness and naivety from her past self’s face just then in her imagination. She imagines someone standing behind her, looking at her as if on a video, trying to wipe something from *her*.

“John L. Brown,” she muttered with Texas Pete, add a little Oklahoma from beyond the screen. She turned (toward the camera?). Time for my close up.

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Still in Gemini…

“Yeah, I don’t actually *live* in a receiver or am the *same* as a receiver. I don’t know what got that notion into your head. And I even have a pretty modern (phone), cell and all. I can even look up things on the Interwebs with it, like the difference between a mouse and a dormouse. Just doing that–”

“Fascinating,” Marilyn playing Lichen Roosevelt said on the other end, a word she just heard on TV. “I only thought,” she defended her logic, “you know, like Paul Warfield.”

“Paul Whatfield?”

“Never mind.” She backed out of Miami back into Cleveland. “Jim Brown,” she blurted out to her surprise. “Jim *L.* Brown, not the other one, the twin.”

“What about James?” replied Claude the Receiver. This was old school talk, like high school. He’d left all that behind in joining the University of Life here in 1000 City, or so it was advertised. 4 more years to go, a long long 4 years, with debt mounting up each semester he stays. He’s learning about the birds and bees this morning from old Ms. Crumplebottom, facing away from him and preparing to add information about flowers and trees and the Moon up above into the overall equation, like work clothes. Whatever, it all ends with Love. He wonders how she can remember back that far; all the parts must be long broken down there. But I suppose there’s always heart.

“Cartoons,” said Marilyn, surprising herself again. “Jem. Jemini.”

“Jemilly Johnson? What about *her*?” Claude was getting impatient. He didn’t want to miss any nuances from the lessons. One flower appears, then another and another. A tree with a massive trunk shoots up from their midst. And between the boughs near the top as the stars come out: The Moon. Where did The Sun go? he had to ask himself.

“Um, uh,” delayed Marilyn. “We have a situation,” she decided to say instead of answering Claude directly. “Just get down here. On your lunch break if needed. What time is school over, actually?”

Claude mentally checked his schedule. 1 o’clock: Mixing Business with Pleasure, 2: The Overarching Problems of Time and Money Inevitably Leading to Brain Damage, then at 3, oh he’s finished at 3. He says this to Marilyn. The Musician is paying his bill and about ready to leave. Marilyn looks at the wonky grandfather clock on the far wall between Biff and Albert. 4 more hours! How is she going to keep them all here together until the Receiver comes. Alcohol of course, for The Musician at least. And free tea for the teetotalers over there at the crazy table. She offers George another one on the house.

“Gee thanks!” he says, sitting back down. His gig is not till 7. He has the time and the money to kill more brain cells.

(to be continued)

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00340607

The door to the place in the sewer was open, unlike before. Now casually dressed Roberts sat on one of the reddish chairs within, facing another. Franklin? If John L. Brown is such, and perhaps he is. He got Jem high as a kite with the Duck dope over in Ontario to save or at least extend her short simulacrum life, and everyone knows *Benjamin* Franklin is an expert kite flyer, perhaps a drug user himself? Firesign Theatre seems to think so, at least in one strong probable reality. And besides, John’s already called himself Benjamin Franklin for just those very reasons in part 01. So there’s that.

Or Franklin could actually be Johnny Black who just arrived, since namesake Johnny Cash, Man in Black, was famously married in Franklin KY to June Carter in 1968 after getting his license over the line in Tennessee, probably passing through Black Jack south of Franklin in the effort, shared between the two states — yet another black then. And a separate community named Black Jack exists just to the north of Franklin, firmly in Kentucky in its case. Speaking of cases, pilot Thomas Mantell was born in this same Franklin and very mysteriously plummeted to his death just outside the small KY town in ’48 while chasing what he and others identified as a bonafide UFO, very near Black Jack and the Tennessee line again, even though he lived in a different part of the state at the time.  So he is another aspect of Franklin definitely, representing the uroboros where cradle links up and even eats grave, causing a perpetual loop.

Roberts invited Johnny Black in, seeing him space out thinking about some of these same associations. John L. Brown then waved high as well. Appropriate. Someone was also in the pool ahead of him, although he couldn’t tell what or who. Perhaps green? Oh, and when he made his way inside and stood between them, he was standing right smack dab in the middle of what townspeople called The Anomaly, thought to be gotten rid of. Nope. Just showed up in a different place and a slightly different form.

One thing we know is that the green thing in the pool *isn’t* Norris, who is instead dead behind swifter Johnny in the sewer, victim of a zombie attack it appears or something. We wish him well in the afterlife.

Oh look. It *was* Norris in the pool — *just* formed. Another Franklin! And perhaps the truest one.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0034, 0607, Kentucky, Paper Soap, Soap, Tennessee

new bird

“You need perfection. You reach perfection. You pass perfection on the other side. Of course Wheeler Wilson was going to defeat (and assimilate) the new Tina Turner.”

“Tina Louise I believe,” said the fainter voice from the side, another Observer. “Like Mary Ann except beautifuller.”

“All-American still?” the first questioned the second. “Ρùℜ℘Îē?”

“That’s the key,” said the second.

“Heart of the matter,” reworded the first.

Resurrected Arthur Kill had finished retrieving the “Spider” from Tennessee but he was around for good thanks to the mop, with its silliness reinforcing its power. So they — Wheeler and he — decided to form a band, creating an alternate reality where “America the Beautiful” replaced the “Star Spangled Banner” as our country’s great national anthem. First gig: Towerboro or thereabouts, playing to an audience half blue half red. Now to split the two right down the middle, form a third. Wheeler kept wearing purple.

Wheeler kept wearing purple.

Wheeler kept wearing purple.

It worked. St. Francis Scott, the key, was hatched at the beginning of the 5th.


dramatization

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silliness

There. He has it, shrunk back down to its original size. In the hands of the original owner. John L. Brown can stop grovelling now and move on to something else. Like selling cars.

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states

“Interesting place you brought me to, Wheeler. All I asked for is to give me back the mop.”

“Brrr,” she fake shivered. “Getting cold in here. You’ll have to put on at least a shirt soon.”

“You know I don’t do that, Wheeler,” spoke John L. Brown honestly. For a change. He *was* getting cold. A paradox was coming up. “It’s right there,” he continued. “Just… hand it over.”

“No,” she replied bluntly. “I… I’m not ready.”

“You like the *power*.” His smile turned into a smirk. Change x 2.

Wheeler thought back to using it on Arthur Kill. Indeed made him rise from the dead, just like Duck said it would when they met last. She desired to meet him again. John L. Brown said that he would meet in his stead and that he was away from Our Second Lyfe for the moment. Something in Real Life, he said. Uncopyrighted and untrademarked business. Herbert Domain.

“Herbert Domain?” Wheeler uttered at the time, obviously thinking of Tennessee. And she was right. They weren’t ready for that kind of business here. The dog named Spider is enough for now.

“You’ve done your business here,” spoke John L. Brown, the smirky smile not quite off his lips. “You know you can’t get out of this.”

“Chop me some wood first,” she said, fake shivering again. Because Wheeler had her own internal heating system. Unlike John.

But there was no wood to find in this desolate place high in the Foxtrot Backcountry. Only snow, static to others. Tennessee remains untraceable. The plane remains crashed in Kentucky and not Black Jack. That was the whole point of this.

Wheeler relented, gave over the mop. John L. Brown would hand it over to Paul in the next post.

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center and periphery

Okay what’re we looking at here?

—–

Impossible. She’s *green*(!).

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He knew if he stayed low like this he would not be seen. The little trees in this park on the northern edge of Ontario were just too thick for proper viewing above knee level. And that was the point of John and Jem being here: out of sight. John gave Jem the “medicine” that would produce the duck and give her the needed results. Probably only 1 day left; cutting it close. As it had to be. Too risky otherwise. “The duck will lead the way,” he says while handing over the zip lock bag with the blue powder (blue? powder?).

In quiet mode, Newt took a couple snapshots with his built in camera then watched John exit west and Jem south, out of the trees and into the world of man again. Martha’s board spelled it out in no uncertain terms last night. SAVE THE GIRL.

(to be… continued)

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He was up at 5 AM practicing skateboarding behind the dealership for the big meet with the truck salespeople uptown next week. Actually he was skateboarding mainly on *top* of the dealership, the roof having been designed as such by the owner, anticipating the coming of the duck according to prophecy. At least that’s how John remembered the story. He was certainly getting ideas for a proper plot now. The Wizard had indicated in no uncertain terms that the duck should be the star of the show, and that all dialog should revolve around it. THE DUCK SHOULD SHINE, it spelled out at 3 o’clock, a mere two hours before this. John needed more shut-eye. Maybe he could get away with some later in the morning instead of playing jigsaw games. Duck probably wouldn’t mind. As long as it didn’t distract potential customers from buying cars. Maybe put on some shades to hide the closed eyes, and be careful not to snore — too much.

At 10:00 he admitted he was going to sleep to his new duck friend, and that if he started to fall over just nudge him.

“Up last night, eh? Whatcha doing? Woman?” he asked in his very normal voice for a duck-man.

“No.” How to phrase? John was talking to a Wizard through a wegee board wouldn’t hack it. He had to hide the fact that he was getting his plot from a disembodied spirit and not directly from him. “Okay, yeah,” he decided to say.

“Great! Great, what’s her name?” John thought of Ruth down at the plaza, which he visited every day while she sold her coffee. At least until the duck came along and he had more responsibilities. So he went with Ruth.

“Ruth, huh? I know her. I know her well. I know her mother well, and her grandma and her uncles and aunts. Why I bet there’s not a relative alive she has that I’m not on speaking terms with, and you can probably pull all the ones that have died in the last 20 years or so into that. Uncle Taum — known him for years, worked for his step-dad polishing bats for the Varnishtown Vampires — how they got their name. And Aunt Mini sewed all our uniforms and clorinated the water for our drinks. Cousin Lester? Use to be on my paper route and would tip me if I managed to throw the paper directly through the open front door — he always had it open just for my visit. I almost always got tipped, heh heh. And her maw? Why we use to date! In fact, hmmm. No, couldn’t be, couldn’t be.” He studied Ruth’s figure in his mind. “Not enough duck.”

“Ruth?” John decided to deflect. “Did I say Ruth? I meant Mabel, you know over at the *ice cream* stand — got the wrong stand at the plaza.”

“Welll, then we’d *definitely* be in-laws if you two tied the knot. Check out the yellow in her complexion the next time you’re there. Congratulations!”

John gave up the lies; decided to tell his now constant duck companion the truth.

“Listen Herbert.”

“Paul, actually,” he corrected. “Paul Duck,” but he said the whole name unassuredly, like he was starting to wake from a dream, like it was turning into a question instead of being the answer.

“Paul, then. You know why you’re here… around me all the time?”

“Yeah, sure sure. I’m your character come to life. You just write down what I say and then your plot is, um, realized. Won’t take too long, bud.” He leans over at pats John on his large, tanned back. “5 years, 10 years. I won’t be in your way. I’m pulling my weight — selling cars and all. “Let’s say 5. Yeah, 5 it is.” He holds out his duck hand for John to shake for the deal. John doesn’t. He knew it wasn’t going to work as soon as he spotted the anthropomorphic being in that grocery cart outside Winnies.

Then suddenly he was gone, the effects of the designer drugs wearing off. John quickly called up Martha to make another appointment tonight for more clarification. *He* was the used car salesman. He only wished he could sleep on the job, pheh (although he still partially did).

He better get to work and sell some cars today lest his boss suspects.

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Turns out the duck had as many varied talents as his new master, including the ability to wheel and deal at a rapid pace. He quickly garnered the job of chief salesperson at the local car dealership. John, attached to him by the ankle and neck and some other places, had to tag along. He mainly played jigsaw puzzles on his phone while the other worked. A few hours each night, he was free to roam the streets of town and explore while the other slept. This is when he secretly rendezvoused with Martha and had a chat with the Wizard through that wegee board of hers. W-I-Z-A-R-D it began, announcing the spirit.

Meanwhile, over in Jeogeot Wheeler is surrounded by rainbow colored butterflies.

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