She had come to see the band but they were away. Well, Jim A. was *permanently* away, replaced by this mysterious Jim B. who was 20 years younger. And what about herself? Also 20 years displaced. It was 20 years ago today (etc.).
The Band; a make-believe one inside a real one. But the make-believe one had come to overshadow the real, like a Virtual Reality within Reality Reality begins to take over and work its powers outside in as well as inside out. Glove.
“Hell-o hell-o hell-o.”
“This Lena Horned is good, admittedly.” Older Keith B. looks over at the singer currently crooning “The Ballad of Stormy Daniel.” He then leans closer to Kate McCoy sitting beside him. “But she’s not as good as my little girl.”
A noncommittal Kate turns toward the dance floor. “Well… Zach and The Mann seem to be enjoying it enough.”
“And The Dogg too,” Keith B. laughingly adds.
“I wish they wouldn’t emphasize that rocket so much here. Makes me cold inside, brrr.”
“Well,” jested older Keith B. a bit. “It was a big deal in the days. Put Golden City on the map.”
“Put it *on* the map by taking it *off*, brrr. Nothing left but a big hole.” She glances sideways at The Man, who was scanning pictures on the wall at the back of the stage, focusing on one in particular. “Speaking of which… he needs to get back over here and finish his story.”
“True,” agreed Keith B. “He can’t just leave us hanging in mid air about that whale.”
“Hey!” Kate McCoy called over to The Man. “We gotta keep moving down the road, to the fork. Else…”
“I know,” The Man replied in his cool, bass voice while still studying, still looking. “All of this will be in vain. But I believe — this man — is wearing — lipstick.” He touches Jimmy’s gray lips with his finger, as if he could swipe them and then check for color.
“The white whale escaped, of course. The famous Moby Prick of the Deep South. But the blue whale didn’t fare as well. Caught in the Blue Feather Sea. Some say she *became* the sea, one equals the other. Do you understand, older Keith B.?”
“Absolutely not, Kate McCoy.”
“Good to admit, thank you. The cube is the sphere is the sea is the whale.”
“Maybe we just better unfreeze or unthaw The Man and go. Let him explain it all. After all: he was there.”
“Indeed. Let’s go get him.” They enter the “aquarium”. Dog joined them there.
“The cube is the sphere is the sea is the whale,” Kate McCoy pronounces clearly in the direction of The Man. He begins to stir inside his plastic cocoon.
The pot got too hot. I was away too long. Rooster.
I recall something about the Hills of Bill. Lindens. Agreement.
I remember something about Polk. Jim Polk.
“Who is that?”
This was the night Andy Warhole, iron hand ruler of White Horse Village near the southern shores of Blue Feather Sea (aka Little Sea aka Big Lake), learned about usurpers Your Mama and Raggy Too over at the concert area next door. They didn’t intend to pay the tariff for importing songs! Well… all of California will suffer for that. And anyone who has to suffer through Mondays. Words of love, those are. Tough love.
“I’ve seen them in the night talking to white horses. I knew you’d find out sooner or later. So I intervened. I beg mercy,” he gruffed, pecking his paws against the wooden floor while rebalancing.
Mercy, thought Andy Warhole, iron hand raised and then repeatedly pounded against the non-iron one. They could ruin *everything*. All his future plans. Future plans for the past. “Ross C.,” he demanded. “Wake up Ross C.” The robot sprang alert. “Yes sire,” it clipped metallically. “Eggs and bacon and livermush as usual?” Warhole emitted air. “No, this *isn’t* breakfast yet, Ross C.” He shook his head and then indicated Mamaduke, the dog of Your Mama and perhaps Raggy Too. “Tell her, hound, what you’ve told me.” Perhaps she can actually earn her money now as a robot from the future, an *expensive* robot with all the perks, most of which he afterwards found lacking or absent altogether. A *defective* future robot he soon realized he had on his hands. After the seller had conveniently slithered away back into the web of time.
Mamaduke repeated the issue at hand for Ross C. Her thinking lights began blinking on and off rapidly. Bleeping and blipping noises emitted from the general area of her head. Soon she had a calculation. “Kill then,” she clipped out. “Kill them all.”
Made sense to Andy Warhole. Good job!
“War-HALL,” he exclaimed from his chair opposite Ross C.’s, or at least the one she stood behind. “Not War-HOLE.”
“I will correct that in my programming, sire.” But she never did. To her he would always be a hole with capital letters. She’d served him too long.
“Anything else Mr. Warhole?”
He sighed. “No. You may retired for the night. *Behind* your chair again.”
“As you wish, sire.” Her lights went out as she slumped over in place.
“You again (!)”