“I-I’ve changed my mind , fellows. I shut the door back on the whole thing. There’s nothing but bright, burny fire in there. And — sorry to call you guys stupid before. Seeing that I was the most stupidest one of all.” 6’s and 9’s, he thought. Can’t even tell them apart — worse than Philip on that front.
Filed under **VIRTUAL OT, **VIRTUAL SL, 0045, 0614, GTA
“Lester, can you hear me, Lester? I’m seeing 6’s and 9’s, just like back in grade school. Where am I, Lester?”
“Oh God, Lester! I’m falling!! Falling into a pit, AHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!” Splatt.
“Oh. That wasn’t so bad.” And Philip wakes up fully on his cushioning bed and remembers that he and Lexi have an important meeting with Princess Pinky Gumm at 10:15 over in Juho. Better not be late.
(to be continued)
“So this is what it looks like inside one of these Sphere’s, huh,” Lester says with awe in his voice, amazed he could get a plane in this far. “Well boys,” he continues after admiring the glinty surroundings a bit more, “I guess we better get down to the business that brought us here.”
“No no no, Walter,” he says, watching one of his two hired goons move toward the fake loot. “Remember what we talked about, fog for brains. Just ignore those shiny, weighty, but, in the end, worthless bricks of AU. That’s just fool’s gold. Might as well be ordinary rocks compared to what we’re *really* after.”
“And — du-huh — what’s that again, boss?” asked even more ignorant Jason from behind, dressed up like a bug exterminator with Walter for a reason. A multi-armed reason. All had extra arms for one thing, as in fire. But that was all part of the ruse, the subterfuge, the diversion.
“Just leave that to me,” Lester answered cryptically (again), finding the right way forward. “Through here, yes. This must be the passageway to the climax we seek,” he said almost religiously. “Prepare yourself for fire.”
Lester punches the correct #s into the keypad that opens the sliding door. Arms drawn, they head inside — further inside.
In a parallel dimension, Philip The Other walks with them, Gus still perched on his shoulder and suddenly burning brighter than ever, ow ow ow! (pop pop pop!) But shouldn’t be long now. Just that final rise over there.
(to be continued)
He rolls down the window after pulling up. “Hey Philip, it’s me, Mikie! Get in the car. There’s room for 2 as Lester’s already told you. This is your chance, Philip. Get – in – the car.”
Without turning or acknowledging Mikie in any way, which was part of the plan so he wouldn’t get tempted and sucked in to the offer, he jumps over the rail he’s been waiting at for the longest time and into the canal below.
“You’re making a big mistake, Philip!” he heard from the bridge behind him as he continued to walk on water after landing with a splash. “Alright, gotta go! Loser! See you in the afterlife you SOB!”
And that was it. For Mikie.
(to be continued)
I decided to skirt this arid seeming patch of land a rather large group of buildings nevertheless exists within, not trusting if the ground was toxic or not by the looks of it. While doing so, I fantasized about an imbalance of dry vs. wet, and that this place was a barren wasteland because another neighborhood, perhaps even far far away, became too wet and exotic at the same “time” (quote unquote, because time does not really exist). I found my thoughts becoming weirder as I trodded across this flat flat terrain. How would it end? Perhaps badly, very much so. Yet I had to keep going, nay, I was *commanded* to march forward by powers still unknown. But I had hatched some plans for remedying that. I had to become a *power* myself. God-like.
20 minutes later I stared down at the canal I was walking along and realized how alone I was in this world. Only Me Myself and I around — the Holy Triad — and only 1 of those counted for anything. Yes I needed to consolidate my power. Become all supreme, all knowing.
50 minutes later brought me to Fred (sheep). Fred had a *lot* to say to me; said he’d been lonely too standing in this field of corn without any company for the longest time. He opined strongly about The Netherlands’ economy, saying it was a world heavyweight in comparison to the actual size of the land. 131st in size (among world counties), 2nd in agricultural exports, he proclaimed proudly around the midpoint of our lengthy discourse, which, when checking later, I found to be absolutely correct according to 2020 estimates. I guess Fred would know, living in this country and grazing amongst its agricultural products like this corn all his live long life. We exchanged email addresses and promised to try to keep in touch before I moved on, bound and determined to reach the se corner of Holland by part 10 or at least part 11 of my journey.
A little over an hour later I entered this grassy field dotted with poppies (*not* tulips) and spotted Fred again, even though he had to have been miles away before. “Told you I’d stay in touch!” he yelled at me when I approached. I decided that I needed to call Lester, let Fred talk to *him* to see what he had to say. But all Lester heard was baa-ing of course. I needed that sanity check.
(to be continued)
“Welcome back,” said business partner Ronald nonchalantly from the porch of Philip’s trailer as he approached. “Where’ve you been?”
“The *Netherlands*.”
“Have a good time?” Philip slammed the front door behind him without answering.
earlier:
“Final-f-ingly,” he says into his magical phone at the end of part 2 of his journey, an over 8 hour walk so far. “A legit windmill, and not just one this time, Lester. Several of them. *This* is the Holland, er, Netherlands I expected. But… still no f-ing tulips which are suppose to be everywhere here. Still no cu-clomp cu-clomp cu-clomp of the wooden shoes since I’ve not seen hide nor hare of any people. Live or dead. So I’m giving the whole *experience* so far a D+ now, upgraded from F-. One out of three obvious clues fulfilled.”
“Well that’s super, Philip,” deadpans listening Lester from the control room of his modest house in El Burro Heights of Lost Sanos up in Grand Theft Auto V. “I suppose those kind of grades take you back to elementary school where you graduated, what, 60th in your class of 60 from the 6th grade?”
“*9th* grade,” corrects an angry Philip, his default state. “90th of 90 in the 9th.”
“Right right. Aany-way,” Lester lets off, “can you still see Amsterdam in the distance?” Pause. “Phil-ip?” Another pause. “Philip?? Aw shoot,” says Lester to Mikie also with him. “Dead again.”
“Can you hear me Lester, you high school wanker? I *said*, I *see* it.” Philip shakes the phone as if the action would spring it back to life. He’s frozen in his tracks until part 3 starts. Then it’s on – to – Amsterdam, he thinks, turning happy for a change. He’s heard the pot is free and flowing but he’s mainly interested in the harder drugs like smack, maybe even heroin. Although he’s not holding his breath for any return to normalcy about the situation he’s in. Good thing.
Because Amsterdam held new terrors.
“F-ck… me,” he says to himself while spying the melted towers after emerging on the other side of the city’s harbor. “Amsterdam? More like *Rotter*dam here,” and then he laughs at his clever pun involving Holland’s first and second largest cities. Yeah, he could have graduated high school, maybe even community college. If he gave a damn. The life of drugs drew him in and held him back. If only he was on something here to explain *this*.
(to be continued)
“Okay, Philip. Just stay – on – the – bridge. Mikie is coming over on the first plane he can catch to find you.”
earlier:
“F-ck, man. Sh—-t.” Philip holds his aching head while continuing to talk to himself. “I think that was the worst crash ever. Threw me clean 50 feet from the plane this time, arrrgh. But, whatever. I suppose I’ll just have to start walking like I *always* do, like I’m *commanded* to do, pheh. Weell… feets get moving.” While watching his feet start stepping forward one after another without his conscious volition, he marvels at the lack of real injuries any time this has happened, and it’s happened, what, *7* times before now? From signs he’s run across, he’s determined he’s walking in Holland — again, commanded to do so by some higher up forces working for that damn *Sphere*. He’s *inside* the Sphere. Anyway, he find himself marching toward the nearest house. There won’t be anyone home, he knows. There never is in whatever hell-world he’s trapped within. No people. Better try Lester again and see if I can still communicate with him, he thinks. My life line, my only hope. He whips out his phone from his back pocket — no real damage to it either as usual. The only thing he can carry from flight to flight, crash to crash. The Sphere must have allowed this, he figured. Or the plane — whatever.
“Lester?” he says into it after flipping the lid, power automatically on. “Lester Corncrib? You there? Stop wanking your meat and speak to me!”
“Look Frank,” he says from the real world. “He’s talking to me again!”
“He who?” says Frank, jumping off the table he’s sitting on behind Lester to get a better listen.
“*Philip*.”
“But… Philip’s dead,” Frank utters, scratching his head while approaching. “He died in that plane crash over in Grapeshot, dawg. Everyone knows that.”
Just then, Philip’s phone dies from the other side after one last, “Lester?!!” “Dammit!” screams Lester into the computer interface. “Lost the connection again. This one was shorter than most of the others.”
Turning toward Frank after a long, head shaking then head lowering sigh, technology savant Lester, friend to the gang, explained the situation as he understood it as best he could for the present gang member’s less nimble brain. “Yes, he died in that plane crash,” he says with animated hands. “But *now* he’s crashing that same plane over and over… and over. Something’s trapped him in an alternate reality. As far as I can tell, he seems to be in a simulation of our own world, maybe even a one to one match, hmph. Well: kind of. Pretty good for whatever technology they’re running to keep it going from other side.”
“Other side of *what*?” says Frank.
“*Our* reality. Philip may have died, yes. But the other side is eerily like our own apparently. And he has some kind of magic phone that allows communication between our world and his. Just called me up one day about 2 weeks ago — I’ve been keeping it from you because, well, because I thought you might think I’d gone batsh-t bonkers or taken one too many acid hits, you know.”
“I see.”
“You *did* hear Philip on the phone, right?” said Lester, wanting reinforcement for his sanity. “You heard him scream my name; like me, okay? Can I get an okay from you, huh?”
“Sure, dawg. I *think* I heard the voice of that rat scag hellmouth of a person. Or what appeared to be Philip.”
“Oh it’s Philip,” says Lester, turning back to the computer, hoping for a reconnection. Being the ADHD cursed person that he is, he ponders that Philip just dropped the phone on the ground in frustration and left it behind, not remembering where he lost it. And that wouldn’t be good, plans for worldly success foiled. “But there appears to be no people, according to Philip’s reporting,” he continues after another sigh. “And although there’s cars, let’s say you try to flag one down for a ride. They don’t stop. Often they turn around right when they come up on you and start heading in the opposite direction, like they’re teasing you. We know he’s in a replica of The Netherlands; he’s indicated that by the signs. So funny. He said, get this: ‘*How* can I be in Holland’; — first I had to explain The Netherlands was Holland since he’s a dufus in geography, along with a lot of other subjects…”
“Tell me about it,” chips in Frank, trying to figure out how to tell Lester that someone is doing a number on him.
“Anyway, he says, ‘How can I be in Holland when I haven’t seen one frigg’n god damn sh-tty *windmill*. And, er, what about tulips? Aren’t there suppose to be a billion tulips around here? And wooden shoes — not a hide nor hare of them either. Not a cu-clomp cu-clomp cu-clomp to be heard’.”
“That’s pretty good, Lester,” Frank said about his imitation of Philip. “But…” He just blurts it out. “You know someone is f-cking with you, pulling your strings. Someone you’ve pissed off probably. A massive joke.”
“Maybe,” admits Lester. “Maybe. But if I, we, could just pinpoint his exact location someone could go over there and see if they could reach through the veil and make contact, maybe even bring him back to *our* side.” Lester thinks of glory here again, making his mark on the world. And at a specific point in said world. He’d be famous. The first one to penetrate the veil to the other side. Was this a wise thing to do? he thought again. *Sure* it is. Fame, fortune, women, the great triumvirate. Just like he dreamed.
“Well, I’d like to help but I have that gig over in Richland. I’ll catch you later you crazy mo-fo-er.”
“Byyyyye,” says Lester, waving him off, obviously disappointed that Frank doesn’t believe the communication is real but still having Mikie to convince. Good ol’ Mikie.
(see top)
But does he really?
He goes into his bedroom to make a call to Lester, telling him the assassination is done and that he wants his money and new house for the job. After Lester says it’s a done deal, all his personal belongings disappear before his very eyes.
“What the???”
Frank Lynn wakes up, rises off the wide if short couch he fell asleep on. 8:30 in the evening: time to get in a real bed, he figures. He has 7 king size ones to choose from now, depending on which direction he wants the sun to be when he awakens in the morning after a refreshing 8 hours, beyond just these dratted accidental “power naps” of his. Ghetto dreams, pheh. Aunt Jen can only haunt him from them on a couch like from his youth, falling asleep to “Aqua Dude Hunger Force” reruns on the boob tube or something. He’s so far above his gangster roots and Aunt Jen and her woman power ways it’s not even funny. He thinks about the wide if not high garage full of short, powerful yellow cars — horse-powerful. He runs through other aspects of his wealth and influence in his head. Asylum Inc. He *will* make it a reality.
Time to get back to the Red book colored blue. He has them all about the house to find easier. If he misplaces one, there’s always another to fill in right around the corner. Always puts him right to sleep. *No* ghetto dreams in an actual, full sized bed. Power.
Filed under **VIRTUAL OT, 0043, 0307, GTA, RDR2
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 and 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.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0034, 0114, Wendy-Ontario
She often thought back to that day later on. “What are you doing here in Storybrook, sir, if I may be so bold to ask?” A person of color in Storybrook was unusual. She’d only seen a handful in her 13 years of growing up here.
“I’m looking for something,” came the cold, monotoned response of Arthur Kill, shoes shined until the starless void within was revealed again. “It could be right behind me for all I know,” but he then didn’t look over his shoulder to find the accidental truth he spoke.
The girl? Her friends called her Pink, because she always was. Actual name: Marsha Krakow. And she’s most likely the next star in our Collagesity series of photo-novels, this here being the start of the 19th.
In kin with the now deceased Cpt. Americus, she liked drumsticks, usually holding 2 at a time in this case. Double the fun.
—–
“Can I help you with that tire, Lester?”
“No I’m good Marsha,” came the friendly response between screws. Lester was a friend but not a good friend. She let the “Marsha” appellation go with him. And with most people. But to her good friends, the *closest* ones, and they numbered three, it was always “Pink” or suffer the consequences. She had likewise despised first names to hurl back at them — Betty, James, Clovis — if they slipped. For all of them had nicknames based on color. It was a game that went back to when they were all kids growing up side by side by side with each other on Arnold Lane. Right down there…
Four houses in a row.
Back to the drumsticks…
She often forgot she was holding them for hours after a session.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0019, 0101, Corsica, Storybrook^
Sunklands 