I recall now. This is where I met Messed Up.
I saved her from this place. Now she must save me.
He decides to become Harrison Jett this morning, who seems to be the same as Young Harris the professor, perhaps a later incarnation. It was a logical choice, given the shirt he wore.
“Another Messed Up,” he observed about the art work before him, thinking back to the contract signed on that particular Weird-o Island. Not the one with the Upper New York virtual university. Not the one where that pseudo-God lives up in the aether somewhere — David something or ‘nother. Instead perhaps the *weirdest* one of the 3, but he can’t recall the name. He remembers… staying there. Perhaps he is still there.
Whose heart is left on the musical stand? He must think of Mozart and the critical error of Yoko Ona the witch. Hole in the center. But it wasn’t John’s. It was his! The walrus was… well, you know the story.
I think this has something to do directly with that Weird-o island I can’t recall the name of. Queer?
Better head back there for more clarification hopefully.
Trunk in the air, the bellowing elephant threatens to take over everything, including Jeogeot, including Nautilus — all the rest. Jett (Harry’s son) is here to stop all that, or help stop. NWES rises in importance again, a balance to Collagesity perched on a high ridge between Highways 13 and 14 over on Nautilus. The interaction between the 2 must continue. “This is not a time to move the behemoth that is Collagesity,” he speaks aloud, perhaps to himself but perhaps also to the camera he knows is upon him.
Yet the trunk is raised, the leg angled upwards, ready to squash the ideas, the dreams of the young professor. We know he lives, however. We’ve seen him — as Young Harris — in the Weird-o islands, purchasing the lot from Messed Up who’s also just reappeared in this here photo-novel (19, once m0re: the Corona-V photo-novel as it will be called).
It’s time to bring back the late great Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer of Braynard’s Place, his Central space ready for psychiatric investigation once again. “Pardon the mess,” he might say to willing patients around him. “It’ll be fixed up by next Wednesday’s Tuesday (or something).”
Jett doesn’t pretend to know all about the doctor’s mysterious therapies, most involving tv static and constantly sipping on milk or other liquids. But he’s willing to give it a try. For the future of NWES, of Collagesity.
But most important now: Osseo is Oesso now in the downstairs collage.
The Club 88 explosions hadn’t happened yet. We are frozen in a slither of time about the size of a small 50 x 15 foot opening in thickly shrubbed woods. A *window*, if you will, endless in the moment.
The engines across the street remain quiet.
“I *want* to get better,” bubbled a depressed Messed Up from a similarly colorful and confusing couch. “I — have a new love in my life. I’m motivated!”
“That’s great, Ms. Up,” responded Dr. Young Kane (played by Axis aka TronAxis). “I’m glad you have a reason to change. Makes my job easier.”
“You — may know him actually,” Messed Up sloshed haltingly again, knowing more than she let on.
“Yes.” And then she spilled his name.
“Young *Harris*,” spat out Dr. Young Kane later to his imaginary wife sitting below him, more cartoonish tonight than usual but still sporting the perfunctory blue-green hair.
“The reason you came *here*,” she returned. “Where are we going with this?”
“I — was going to ask you that.”
“I think — we should go to bed now. We can think better in the morning. With our coffee, eggs and tea.”
“*No*,” Axis said firmly. “We’re going to *figure* this out *tonight*.” His voice was pitched just below a yell now. “*Why* is she here?”
“New patient,” said Venus cooly from below. “You need the money.” She stared at The Sun between them, the rays. “It’s the Corona–”
“*Stop* saying that word. I’m sick to death of hearing it.”
“–V Drink,” she dared to finish. “The deal is almost done.”
He finds himself in a different place, sporting the Esso t-shirt once more. Peter Oesso now, formerly Peter Osseo formerly Peter Esso. “Like an opossum,” he explained to Randolph the pirate beside Storybrook’s Gatcha Warehouse about the newest name. Fresh from another hand washing he is.
“Possum; opossum. I *think* I get it.” He turns toward the effigy of Mr. Fix It against the Black Elephant with the graffiti art. “So that’s It, huh? The man you killed to get that gas station.”
“I *didn’t* kill him. It was just a — convenience.”
“In the future,” Peter Oesso admitted to the bastard buccaneer.
“So, are we on for 500 more cases of the often deadly brewskies? Or are you done with it now? The killing and all.”
“I — have a confession.” And it was here Peter Oesso told Randolph the Bastard Pirate about the conjoined
Kind Of Messed Up 02 stared at the picture, knowing this had all happened before. A negotiation.
“$50,000 for the lot of it,” Messed Up offered for her cafe, her house on the water, heck the whole kitten caboodle, along with her not quite as messed up kitty kat who Prof. Young Harris had nicknamed Leo for some reason. Perhaps the effect of the 4 Corona-V brewskies he downed before leaving Joan/Astrid back at the New York university sim-island to the northwest, another in the cluster of Weird-o Islands as history will call them. Like Stranger Creek here. Like Abbey up in the air where David A.B. lives, who seems to be the same as God in our current story or a close approximate. And then the NY isle to finish, upper state style. No Arthur Kill involved here, nor his Staten Island. He has been eliminated from this region by another local named Illuminatus, who we’ll revisit with later. Because, yes, Prof. Young Harris was charged with buying the island for upwards of 50,000 linden dollars, which Messed Up just offered. He couldn’t talk her down for some reason despite his savvy salesmanship — perhaps, he reasons, she was secretly in on the deal all along as well, and had forewarning of his visit. Or maybe they were just in total sync with each other. Because they also found themselves married 5 years down the road, after Messed Up had been basically cured of her confused look status and come into proper focus. Kind of Messed Up 02, renamed Leo from this point on, was with them until the last. A Happy Ending.
David A.B. reads Young Harris’ report up in Abbey and sees it is good. He can rest for a while.
“If C.D. ever gets out of that whitewashed village over there, we’re *all* in trouble.”
“So I’ve heard, Messed Up,” responded Kind Of Messed Up 02 across from her, also staring at it from the Messed Up Cafe. *Her* cafe (oh).
She turned toward her cat again, her tenuous tether to the world of sanity created before the day of last Wednesday’s Monday. “Game of chesskers while we wait?” she bubbled.
Knowing there was no such game (tether!), Kind Of went in back to retrieve the board and pieces.
On his way back, he paused to stare at the picture again, a thing he’d done a thousand times now. “The Man Upstairs had such great plans for this place,” he said once more, a ritual litany.
Agents 25 and 41. Let the games begin, I suppose.
Agent 52 and Messed Up, who manifests at various points in the maze and offers tips for money. “The far side wall is transparent. That’ll be 50 lindens.”
Agents 49, 62, and 20. Rare conjunction of 3; all are trapped and stymied at the moment.
Agents 96 and 69.
Agents 24 and 55, just before the latter’s head was sliced off and his eyes were pecked out. What a thing to have to witness!
End of the road for Agent 29?
(to be continued?)