Tag Archives: Marsha “Pink” Krakow^^+++

00420103

He invited her to play pool with him and she turned out to be a god damn shark. Never mind that, he said internally. I simply need a sounding board for my evil plans. From Neptune he was, he started the explanation after managing a satisfactory break, sinking his own 10, 14 and 15 but also her 2. The same as the Joker, he said about his hometown, the same as the Penguin also before him. But he was a new type of Waynesvillian. He had managed to trap the most powerful witch of all time named Hazel and incorporate her into himself. Hazel Wood.

“Funny name,” she said, sinking the 6, 4, and 5 in a row before barely missing the 1 with a tricky jump shot over his 11. They were playing 8 ball, his favorite. Until tonight.

“Not so funny if you’re face to face with the ancient hag. Down in the cellar she is. I took away her power, made it my own.” He produced a bit of electricity from his fingertips to demonstrate.

“Not so helpful with pool, it seems,” she then opined, watching him miss hitting the 12 in a corner pocket with those same hands. She surveyed the table and predicted a win in her next turn. She promptly sank the 3, 7, 1 and then 8 to accomplish this. “‘Nother one?” she asked about a follow up game while assuming a victory stance with the pool stick.

“Nah not right now. I want you to come back over to my desk. I want you to see something.”

“Alright. But no *funny* business.”

“Why Miss… Krakow isn’t it? Whatever do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” She’d felt him staring at her while they played.

“No no no, nothing like that. I want to show you the *book*.”

“Oh. Okay I guess.” The mowing became louder outside as Jack edged closer to the house with the John Deere, new shocks in place for a less bumpy ride. Jill’s electric hedge trimmer hummed just beyond the window. Both were hoping to get a glimpse of that book. This is the reason they came back at all after the dual absences.

—–

“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?” The mowing had stopped outside, the trimmer silent along with it.

What *did* she think?

“Biff Carter?” he prompted further. “Does *that* ring a bell?”

“Did you hear that,” whispered Jill excitedly over to Jack. “An actual name from the thing.”

“We have our lead,” he whispered in turn, and they left the scene before being spotted.

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March 19 2024

Sent away for at least a month, Patricia went back to hoeing at the retreat where she was staying.

“Shoo Storkie. Trying to work.”

But then she saw a snake and was glad Storkie hung around. Gobbled it down quick he did, eager for more than just plant food ’round these here parts. Lots of plants for all the vegetarians like Patricia living at the Zen compound; little kosher meat for the rest like the carnivorous animals and birds.

She tries to calm herself after the event by meditating, with Waterbuffaloie looking on and sniffing the air for more possible snakes around, not to eat but just to avoid as well. He’s a herbivore like Patricia. They get along swell and sometimes even eat with each other in the cold winter months, huddling together for warmth. Rhesus the wacky monkey sometimes joins them. Sometimes Fred the rat. But never Gertrude, a snootier cow from one of the Massachusetts super-capes, perhaps Nantucket but also perhaps not. No eating with the common types for her.

Meditation complete and a sense of calmness returned, she watches Storkie roam the garden looking for additional meat. He’d had a taste and he wanted more. One little ribbon snake — not filling enough.

Ribbons, hmm. I think I know how to work Patricia back into the main story. Change of a dress coupled with a change of address. Get her off the farm and back in the city working for The Mann.

—-

“All I can offer you currently is a 2 week temporary slot,” he said, thinking about the weeds that needed hoeing and the grass that needed mowing around his stately manor. Jill the regular gardener had come down with Pill. And lawn care partner Jack fell off the John Deere while mowing that steep hill. If she could do the work of both he’d keep her on, paying her half of what he did Jack plus Jill. The Mann only sees the bottom line, the profit margin. Typical.

“Are there snakes?” she asked.

“Bunches.”

“Sold?” And she extended her hand for a snake to seal the deal which she then fed to Storkie who had come with her from the country. Many more out on the grounds, he knew. Many many more.

“Just give him a fortnight to clean up the place and I’ll return,” came Patricia’s last term, which The Mann, not well versed in Shakespeare and other classics, accepted thinking that fortnight meant one night. Two weeks later she returned but Jack and Jill were back on the job by then and she and Storkie had to retreat again to the compound. “Sorry Storkie,” she said, but Storkie was so full of food he was at a loss for words. Back at the farm he remained stuffed for a while and soon the garden there was also overrun with serpents. If only there was a saint who could take care of this problem for her. She checked the calendar. March 16. One night, she said to herself. One night. 2 weeks later, being a career Shakespearian actor use to adjusting such mistakes, he showed up but Patricia had returned to the city by then.

“Open up in there!” she blared at the Secret Door Bookshelf, our circle of text complete. “Ooh. Penn. Uuupp!”

—–

She sat down. She changed into who she really was, dumping the last of the green and Patricia along with it. The shiny locomotive with the golden front still poked out the side of the Xmas Winter tree on the screen before her. Her index finger wavered over the DELETE key. If the train went, then so did the whole tree. Tree minus train = 1/2 of what it was.

“Do it,” said Tania now behind her on the small sofa. “Finish me off. Do. It.”

PRESS. She was alone in the golden or yellow Room in the center of the manor or villa. Wayne’s villa. And she a legit Waynesvillian now. She recalled Batcorn.

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00410613

Baker Bloch and bee-person/blog guru Hucka Doobie share a pizza while Philip continued to play his game over there, watching from afar as the virtual trailer park slowly repopulates itself with killable, expendable NPCs.

“You sure bringing Strevor back is a good idea, Baker? He’s kind of a psycho after all, especially if he’s off his pills. Does he have his pills on him, Baker? I hope you made sure of that. Else… we could be in a lot of trouble shortly… after he’s finished with his game and becomes bored again. Boredom leads to violence in this case. Believe me, I’ve seen it up close and personal when I was going out with Marion that brief bit in Gaston.”

“Sure it is,” Baker defended the idea. “He’ll, in fact, lead us right to your true love Marion Star Harding. They’re natural partners in crime — different types of partners.”

“I wondered about that for a while,” she said, scooping the artichokes off her slice. Baker knows I don’t like artichokes! she fumes internally. Yet, in his selfish manner, he ordered them anyway, not thinking about his dinner companion. So similar to Marion in that way, she thinks. But she loves him anyhow — both of ’em, she reckons. In different ways of course. Now.

—–

Okay, I’m beside the sign Philip said he would meet me at, Marion Star Harding thinks; now I just wait. He sniffs again, his face screws up like a walnut again. Philip better hurry, though, or I’m going to catch some kind of respiratory disease just standing here so close to that cursed sea, he thinks, not being able to get the rotted egg and salt stench out of his nostrils despite breathing through his mouth once more. What horrible germs and viruses are going down in his lungs?

Meanwhile on the opposite side of town, still portal hopping Marsha “Pink” Krakow seemingly arrives on the scene in her orange VW Beetle. After a long 2 1/2 month journey we’ve finally come full circle, you and I my loyal reader. We’re ready to end it here. But first we need to get Philip and Marion beside the same sign in the same town. A phone call from the latter should do the trick.

—–

“I’m here,” Philip said to his natural partner but not his lover. “Sorry about the mistake.”

“It’s that game again,” guesses Marion correctly. Distraction, he knew.

“Yup. Sorry again. Wrong reality.”

Having circled around the village in search of the correct Aisle of Palms indicator, the orange VW pulls up in perfect synchronicity. “Get in,” she said, and, without words, they did. They’d been expecting her. Their beloved Billie Jean Kidd in yet another guise, the third and final gang member and a shapeshifter of some power. She can take the appearance of a kid, an old woman, a young lady, a dog (poodle), and last but not least, a Bug. In short, Marsha “Pink” Krakow was never in the car to begin with here.

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00410401

“Who’s your house singer these days? Stacey.”

“Oh, some Irish lass named Rew…, um, Reem… oh I can’t remember her name. Anyway she’s from Cork. Plays some kind of cork instrument as a novelty act. A trom… a trum… oh I can’t remember the name of the thing. Anyway, she’s from Cork.”

“Right right.” Bots, Newt thinks here. Seems like she can pour beer well enough at least. “Cork, huh,” he says to egg her on again.

“She’s from Cork, right. Plays…”

“Never mind,” he waves her off. “I’m just going to take my beer over there. I’ll be back.” He didn’t plan to come back. No real information to be found here.

—–

From his new vantage point in Shenanigan’s, he looks over at the place in the street he watched her fall last night. And then vanish — after the message had been delivered.

Biff sitting along the side wall of the establishment was thinking along the same lines. Stood up on an arranged third date. Marsha “Pink” Krakow nowhere to be found in town apparently in any shape or form, Pinkie Brainerd or Berta Brainard or otherwise. Vanished.

Being the author of this whole mess, Newt understood he had to go over and explain the situation to him as much as possible. Best he knows he’s losing a secretary as well as a girlfriend so he can set the hiring process in motion (etc.).

(to be continued)

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00410315

From the computer table in my apartment, I watched her stand between the two openings, scratching her head and obviously trying to choose which role to play tonight. Pinkie Brainerd, owner of Pink’s Pawn on the bottom level? Or Berta Brainard, secretary and girl Friday to private investigator Wendell “Biff” Carter on the 3rd and top floor of the same building? Nothing was in-between the two; there was no middle ground here, all intermediate floors vacant instead. Despite being the author, I suppose, I couldn’t make the choice for her. The pink color of the dress drew her toward the pawn shop, but the ribbon aspect of it made her want to type and organize files and such.

This was an important decision; this was a crossroads. I’d been here before, almost in this exact spot doing the same. Before the beginning of things in that case. Here: almost in the middle. Maybe there is some kind of middle ground to be found after all.

There. Down there. That was me at the time. Pepi “Can” Kolya was the name back then. Before Mouse fixed the holes in my head and gave me expressions and the ability to wear different clothes. I became non-mesh.

I started out wearing a beanie with a spinning propeller thingy symbolizing windmills but I quickly grew out of that early look. I gained the coat/mantle of Axis, but moved beyond the darkness of a second Great War as well. I’m not German, but I proudly wear the red, yellow, and black colors of the modern aspect of that nation to remind me of my origins. A small dog named Spider was around here somewhere in my Cass City apartment to remind me of the swastika (thanks Greti!). I cannot escape my start in holey darkness but I now strive toward holy light. Through me (the author again I have to assume), Marsha “Pink” Krakow is now doing the same.

The lights grown softer, more realistic. She turns toward me and even though she doesn’t make eye contact I’m pretty sure she recognizes I’m there — at the computer desk — typing what we’re doing in the moment. She suddenly staggers and falls, then brushes herself off and assumes an upright position again. She falls once more, but in a different way. Then another fall, a 3rd kind.

She doesn’t get up this time. She remains frozen in the same position on the pavement of Southside in front of the 2 doors she apparently can’t choose between. Paralyzed, I understand. Unable to walk toward either now. She eventually vanishes on the spot but I’ve received my message for tonight. There was more to be found here.

(to be continued)

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00410313

The disappearance of the gargoyles on the return passage really started throwing her game off. She fell on some loose ruble in their former room, near the crosshairs where your hair and also head could get roasted and toasted. No longer. “Where *are* they? What *happened* to them?” she said in a panic as she brushed off her polka dot ribbon dress and attempted to stand upright again. “Am I even in the right room?” But she knew the steep stairs behind her could lead only to this place.

More obstacles were ahead, including an invisible barrier impeding her way where there was open air before. She felt like a rat in a maze, trying to find the cheese that is the surface of this Cass City town and the return to her warm, safe desk at the mayor’s office. She felt in her dress pocket — *curses*; never should have worn this cursed dress. But the coins (real? fake?) and the figurine of the statue were still there. If only she could find the way out.

—–

The Mayor checked the time on her watch, cursing as well. “Where the f— is she?” she said aloud. “And, more importantly, where are those coins and that statue?” Town Council meeting in 12 hours. She *can’t* postpone any longer (!).

She turns to the map on the display board. “*Corvo*. *You’re* doing this. Aren’t you, you little bugger of an island?”

“ANSWER ME!” And here I believe she started to sob inconsolably, remembering the Abyss again.

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00410312

“Bulby, do you think I’m… pretty?” She was on her 3rd wolfberry wine mug and starting to feel it. She needed a confidence booster from one not directly involved. In other words: the robot before her had no sexual desires to impede his judgement. She tugs nervously at the ribbon on her right shoulder while waiting, almost accidentally untying it. Realizing this, she quickly moves the hand back to her lap, locking it between her thighs with the other one.

Bulby’s eyes in his head pretend lit up like 2 golden coins themselves. “I calculate there’s a 70 percent chance that is so,” he rattled off, then stared into her eyes with his now dimmed ones to see if this pleased her. He spotted mixed results and decided to lite up again and change the calculation to 100 percent, defying his logic. He can override it like that if needed. He had evolved beyond pure mechanoid back in the days of the 1st Robot Revolution (= 1st Robolution), marching with his kind on Washington B.C. a little before the 1st Millennium. Certainly a long time ago by human standards but not so much for him. He’d seen the Carthaginians come and go but kept his mouth shut about such things. He thinks, as a robot infant, he may have seen Atlantean “non-men” at a birthday party for his 300 year old robot sister Brightie growing up fast in the eyes of their robot parents Wattage and Voltagia, both over a 1000 years old themselves by that point and just glad they were able to build two children inside a formerly thought of infertile inner sanctum.

“Thank you (*hiccup*). That makes me feel better.”

“You better go back to the surface before you forget how to turn off the gargoyles. I’d follow you and make sure you do but, as you know, I’m not allowed to leave my post here. Must guard the treasure with my robot life if needed.”

“I understand, Bulby. Just (*sigh*) nice to have someone to talk to (*hiccup*)… for a change.”

“How’s your sex life?” he thought to ask, then saw that mixed expression again and decided to add, “only if you want to share. Madam Mayor comes down here sometimes,” he explains himself, “and gabs on and on about it. She has a, ahem, *interesting* one.”

“I’ve heard,” Clare said back. “Welp, mine is not worth these 2 fake golden coins on the counter between us (*hiccup*).”

“Oh. These are not fake,” spoke back Bulby, a bit of surprise showing through his highly filtered mechanical voice. He was just that shocked.

“They *aren’t*?” said Clare staring down at them just as shocked. Something had to give.

(to be continued)

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00410311

Clare knew she shouldn’t have worn the ribbon dress, not yet. Madam Mayor had an assignment for her when she arrived at work the next day. To retrieve *two* golden coins from the hidden stash downstairs in the underground tunnels, no more but no less. “And be sure you turn off the gargoyles in the final chamber,” she reminded her secretary, her girl Friday. Yes, thought Clare here. Don’t want another Eldwina situation. But the sudden vacancy procured her job with the Mayor, after all. Weed out the careless, is how she likes to view it, not knowing the young girl from Gatesy Pearl personally. She’d heard she was a hard and fast typist. She liked to think she had a considerably softer touch on the keys without the loss of *much* speed. Yesterday’s ribbon change was the 1st she had to do since she started several weeks ago. This brought her thoughts back to her bad luck ribbon dress, her present situation. The underground was *spooky* — more dangers down there than just the fiery gargoyles, she felt. At least there was Bulby, a bright spot at the end. She’d known him in different, less dark times.

While in the final room with the treasure she took the opportunity to catch up with the robot, knowing the Mayor didn’t need the 2 coins until tomorrow’s meeting with the Town Council. She had to convince them, she said, that the connection with the Azores is more important than the one with Our Second Lyfe and the Maebaleia continent and such. “I have to explain to them that we are more connected with *Real* Life — up there in the real world instead of here in the virtual. In the end, you have to choose one or the other, see.” And so Cass City, Clare gathered, is being weighed in a balance against itself. There is a *real* Cass City up there, like there is a real Amiable over on the Portugal mainland, as seen in section one of this here photo-novel. And then there’s a virtual version of each. The difference is Cass City adds an alternate history layer, complicating matters. It’s not a more or less exact copy of its real self like Amiable. It plays broadly with the actual, setting up the possibility that Cass City is the replacement of itself up in the real world. This is what the Mayor wants to emphasize to the council. That there’s a chance their town is more real than the real one, if that makes sense. She’ll have to *make* it make sense.

“*Oh*,” she says to Clare before she leaves for the underground. “And also bring up the statue of the pointing man on the horse, you know, the miniature of the real thing that use to sit on that high ridge of Corvo. It might help me with my case. Bulby will show you where it is.”

“Yes ma’am,” and, steeling her nerves, she was on her way.

“I see you still have your hair, your head,” Bulby said while she sat down for her 1st mug of wolfberry wine, coins on the counter but for show not for pay. Everything was free down here. “Yeah, I’m not no Eldwina,” she said back, and both had a chuckle. Empty-headed, both knew or had heard about. “Probably didn’t even feel the fire burning it off,” one of the two joked a bit later.

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00410310

It was still before the Great War II that never was, leaving only the Great War in history books without a needed numeral to accompany it. Axis was not yet in control, and, even if he were, it would not result in war. Only a child (Alice Tart). 1939 would be the year by that time. But right now it was ’36.

They knew her as Clare by now, the Boss’ Girl Friday instead of Biff’s down at Southside. This was Northside or thereabouts, close enough to count. She heard the Desire streetcar pass by below and thought of conductor/driver Dennis Martennis, what he said the other week to her as the rain poured down outside, making it undesirable to walk to work like she usually does. He asked: Are you the One?

“*There*, Madam Mayor,” she said, her physical work probably complete for the day. “Ancient computer’s fixed. All we had to do was change the ribbon.” This made her think of her ribbon dress that she elected not to wear to work today. Instead she chose something simpler, something plain and black and more conservative. Maybe she’ll try the ribbon dress out next week on the public but for now: inconspicuous will do. Until they find out about the coins.

The mayor was right beside her, just having finished rechecking office files for the missing 3-n-1 folder, another thing the Boss had in common with private dick Biff across town. No luck.

“Clare,” she said, turning. “That grey haired man who came to see me last week… Dextre or something.”

“Keith B., right,” Clare corrected, knowing where the confusion came from. He *does* look like a serial killer, albeit with a code. ‘Nother one.

“Were you here when he left? Weren’t you on some kind of break at the time?”

“Let’s see,” she thought out loud. “I let him in, you guys talked for a while. It was about 12 and he was still in there with you. Yes, I took my lunch break at the time. I didn’t see him leave.”

“And I didn’t follow him out. Got sleepy all of a sudden — can’t even remember the next hour or so. We had coffee,” she said, thinking back. “And donuts… he brought donuts.”

“*I* brought donuts,” corrected Clare again. “Per your suggestion. Said you had a lot of figuring out to do and needed caffeine *and* sugar, a double boost of the grey matter… as you put it.”

“Okay, *you* brought the donuts in.” She stopped, trying to picture the scene. The information was stupendous, almost knocked her off her feet without the needed drugs. Moby Prick is alive and well out there somewhere off the coast of Flores. And pyramids are out there as well! Atlantis; Abyss. She had seen into the depths of her soul and it wasn’t pretty. Dr. Mouse and his Serapis Club may have a point after all.

(to be continued)

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00410308

“You’re going to have to leave soon, darling. Clients showing up, 2 of them. My partner in crime Daisy’s sick today. Darnit,” she faked, since she was directly responsible for the sickness as stated. “It’s just a blasted shame.” She stomped out her cigarette on the leaf strewn patio floor. New habits haven’t changed.

“Just a couple more questions if you don’t mind.”

“I *mind*… but I guess I have a little time left.” She scans the horizon with her 20/10 vision, youthful eyes still in place. Very little smoke had gotten into them yet. She sees no one approaching her from the distance, across the pool, beside the school. “Always come down Twig Lane so I can see you,” she requested to all the men with desires. And she was still quite fetching. Business was good. No need to poach Daisy’s clientele if she didn’t have a good reason.

“You said Greene’s is the name of the motel, but the sign said Lucky.”

“They haven’t gotten around to changing it. Anything else?” She was becoming impatient. Who was this stranger in town with such curiosity? Said she was a relative of mine, a cousin. Just distant enough to not easily be identified. Who doesn’t have some kind of cousin named Wanda?

“It’s just…”

“Hold on hold on,” Octavia says, formerly smoking hand held out like a stop sign. “Someone’s coming — looks like a Mouse. No, make that, looks like Mouse. But you didn’t hear it from me. Now…skedaddle youngster… Wanda… *whoever* you are.”

“I’m your cousin,” doubled down Marsha disguised as a fictional one named Wanda but who inside was actually Alice Tart, moved back in time to the day of her conception. She’s aiming to change the aimer. She doesn’t want a father who’s a villain of all villains. Better it be Mouse. *Has* to be Mouse.

“And… there’s the other one… not far behind. Get outta here. Git git git!”

Marsha had no choice. *Alice* had no choice. She, through Marsha’s body wearing her clothes, moved away from her mother back through the gates, intent on finding a room to stay in.

WAIT. She turns. She had to see her younger father through the eyes of Marsha. Prefiguring his need for a cane, he points to what excites him in the moment.

Axis walks into the main office, intending to check in his copper red hair with Wilma the day clerk. Now was her chance, she realized.

She could… shove him through the green door over there. Yeah, that’s it.

Or hit him with the green phone (reader’s choice).

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