He didn’t get much information from that pothead Pine Ridge but he understood Lamb had flown the coup. Peter Paul and Mary I mean here, featured in photo-novel 05 and a bit of photo-novel 06 if memory serves. Mr. Babyface came here to try to persuade his nephew Paul (and the rest) to return to the Land of the Living, as he called it, get away from this Hana Lei and its huffing and puffing and boys bringing more rolled up paper all the time, just like clockwork. You pay them, they come and never stop, the jerks. “Vicious cycle,” he said. “You’ll end up like Syd,” he furthered, pointing out the famous downfall of one of Paul’s rock heroes. “Dead… or worse. Dead in your head, which goes beyond physical death because the mind goes beyond the body. You better think about that the next time you take a shower with that cat soap you like.” He decides to leave it at that. Paul stares at him, much like Roger stared at Jacob later on, all glazy eyed, like a glossy pot ready to go to market, ready to have another plant inside it. He didn’t need to ask the Time because he knew what it was, shortly followed by Money, shortly followed by death. And worse. Brain Damage.
Tag Archives: Mr. Babyface^*~~~~~~
“Place the call, I.P. As — soon as you’re done with your soda.”
“Oh I’ll be done as soon as I dial these numbers don’t you worry.”
“Don’t — forget the 4.”
“Nah. Never.” All the numbers were dialed. Soda was running out.
“Hallo?” came the voice on the other end, a familiar one. Soda: done. I.P. could talk freely.
“Send them over (*click*).”
Kolya hangs up the phone; moves from bar to stage. “Guys, I hate to interrupt rehearsals but you’re needed down at the bay.”
Part of the band remained. The ones that weren’t real.
“So as you can see, Billie, we’ve had a bit of excitement in town since you’ve been gone. But it’s all cleaned up now. Your tower scrubbed up nicely. The only thing damaged was a couple of house plants which were dying or dead anyway. And, oh yeah, this is where Kolya had his head damaged.”
“I was wondering where that happened,” she replied in her child’s voice from the chair, this youth that was not young atall. “The encounter with God.”
“We should have never erected that giant golden *cow* in the middle of town, Billie, and you know it. We have been frowned upon.”
“Claudette is there for a reason.”
“*This* reason?” Mr. Babyface questioned, wondering if the idolatry had come to this. Fire.
“God must show himself,” she reckoned. “Or else…”
“… all be damned, yeah I get it.” Mr. Babyface didn’t get it but he didn’t want to seem stupid (again!) in front of the precocious child. So prescient. I’m sure she saw all this coming and that’s why she was away at the time. And she probably also spared me, he rationalized, by organizing that rant rave by my nephew that afternoon. It was all in the book, all in the pattern. The Oracle book and/or pattern.
“How was your comedy show, by the by?” he decided to deviate.
“How was yours?” She knew it wouldn’t be as good. She had chosen the freshest act and left him with the leftovers.
“You know,” he said. “A nephew is a nephew and needs support.”
“Nepotism, yes. I enjoy a Skippy Bittman too but only as an act of an act, a step beyond; meta–.”
Skippy Bittman? “*Anyway*, I suppose you know Marion Star Harding was here as well.”
“I had a feeling.” She didn’t see this! Time was changing again, infinite becoming finite as inflammable separated from flammable. She could see the edge of the plane but not beyond. And the beyond was becoming here, plain and simple. Marion Star Harding. Not since Rose Heaven, for him and Phillip Strevor both. Maybe Phillip is around as well, she rationalized, perhaps down at the church cemetery trying to cover himself up with dirt. It would fit.
(to be continued?)
Marion Star Harding flew over the town, not knowing what he was looking down at. The South. The Opposite. Phillip Strevor instead of Trevor Phillips. And he being the new guy in town, so to speak. And shapeshifter Heidi Hunt Ives or whatever she calls herself these days tagging along as well, controlling each of the paired gangster types in a different way. Good times all around. But now he had more responsibility; was a respected pilot up in the Starfish Lake or Sea area; had a different kind of clientele to deal with. Hole headed Kolya wanted off of this “2” continent back to “1” and he was bound and determined to help him, given the right price. He use to say money wasn’t an option but he’s changed his tune, perhaps changed his key as well away from middle C to a different one, maybe D Flat. A small but significant difference, the same adjectives that apply to the town below as stated in that previous post here. Diminutive yet important.
Uh oh. Running out of gas. He’d forgotten to fuel up at Borneo, the last stop outta here. He’d have to make an emergency landing, but the place appeared to have no landing strip that he could tell. Small — too small now. He’d have to crash into a building to halt forward progress. He donned his inflammable airsuit, thinking it would protect him being fireproof and all. In the same way he use to think infinite and finite meant the same thing. But of course inflammable *does* mean flammable, so when the plane burst into flames upon impact so did he. Filled with pure oxygen it was, with no nitrogen or any other neutral gas anywhere to be found. The abbreviated Kidd Tower, highest in town despite being only 3 stories high in this incarnation, was the unlucky target. Tower resident Mr. Babyface didn’t make it either, nor namesake Billie Jean Kidd. Wait — I’m getting indications that Mr. Babyface was down at the town arena listening to one of his nephew’s rant raves so was spared. Same for Billie — back up in the Lost Angels bar for her, also listening to a comedian but of a much funnier ilk, or that’s what the raucous audience leads us to believe. And Marion Star Harding, then? Spared, because in *this* dimension inflammable actually means flame retardant, as it should in any dimension it exists logically. But as compensation infinite and finite are the same here, which explains why he couldn’t pilot the plane off the, well, plane (of existence). Because the plane is endless.
“*Kolya*,” he exclaimed upon entering the arena from the crash site, smoking hot. “Forgot about Kolya!” But the damange had been done, with a permanent big 2 in his head. Happy birthday!
(to be continued?)
Sometimes — just to mix it up again — Mr. Babyface and his nephew Peter dine in the old, abandoned spaceship. Today the topic of discussion is the Peopleeater of their new hometown directly below (skybox 02) and his hatred of its stick people residents. Assisted by Big Baby Jane, he’s declared war on them in essence.
“He hides out in that purple building in the smallest block of town, which *isn’t* purple when he’s out and about.”
“Must be the same as the building, then,” speculates Mr. Babyface alongside his nephew, hearing their voices echo in the big empty chamber, a full half of a sim from front to back. Big enough to carry a town the size of Collagesity to a new location if needed. If it were finished. Perhaps it is: maybe it’s just suppose to be an empty hull until utilized.
“Heidi’s gone again,” Mr. Babyface then ventured. “Said something about the North. She said she’s sorry she didn’t make your rant rave.”
“‘Tis okay. *You* were there. You are the important one.”
Mr. Babyface stopped eating, took in his nephew seated across from him. Subtract the freakish babyface, a medical condition, and he’s kind of the spitting image of himself at that age, down to the Hawaiian trunks and sunburned skin. Always in the sun he was. “You’ll turn into a prune or raisin you’re sitting out there in that sunlounge so much!” he recalls his Mom yelling at him from the window of her cool, dark kitchen. He can’t imagine how it was at his birth with that big, fat head of his. She complained about it
not at all all the time. “You’ll never imagine,” she described the pain in no uncertain terms.
Peter was different, thank the Gods. Escaped the head gigantism that cursed himself, his father before him, and his father and so on — a male trait of the family. “Maybe it ends with me,” he remembers telling his Mom after Peter popped out with an ordinary nogg’n, easy as pie. You don’t know how relieved Marsha (sister) was at the time; she’d taken enough drugs in preparation for the birth to paralyze a small elephant. But here he was: Mr. Ordinary. Not Mr. Babyface or any other nickname that would stick with him through time. Just plain Peter. Peter Ladd. He continued with the Heidi discussion.
“Where’s (*bite*)… her partner?”
A good question indeed. Skybox 02 was created as a tribute to the golden hued, mechanical dominatrix but he never learned her name — Heidi, I mean, Billie never spoke it, saying it needed to be kept a secret. “Just keep calling her Golden One,” she requested. “Or Goldie — whatever — just something with Gold in it.”
Some say she’s the same as the big golden robot statue in the center of the town itself, ready to spring into action when needed. Perhaps her presence will spell the end of the Peopleeater-People War, or at least before it switches from blue (not very serious atall) to red (quite serious and worth looking into for solutions).
“Dunno,” he remembers to answer. “Maybe — you should make it part of your act. The not knowing anything much about her.”
“Tie it into the statue.”
“Exactly.” They were on parallel frequencies for sure. If only he could get the comedy.
(to be continued)
“No, it was really great, Peter.” Blue Pennant this time. Billie had run to the grocery store before departing for northern Nautilus and picked up a can. 9 big puffs later and the flavor hadn’t lost its zing. Not yet. “But what’s all this stuff about red being serious and blue being comedy?”
“It’s *all* comedy, Uncle. Red vs. Blue is suppose to be funny.”
“I don’t get it. Maybe I’m too *red*, hmmm.” Suddenly the Blue Pennant wasn’t as satisfying. A couple more inhales and he’s done.
“Mind the dead stick figures on your way out!” Peter called in parting.
Mr. Babyface loads his pipe down with Red Dragon.
As he then happily puffs away he continues talking to the Kidd.
“I’m glad you brought me back, Heidi.”
“Billie here. In this location in this novel.”
“Okay, Billie, sure. But I promise I’ll take care of the city while you’re away on your journeys.”
“Big Baby will help you. She can patrol the streets; keep the various citizens and denizens at bay and under control. Along with the Peopleeater.”
“Cool.” More puffs. So satisfying. “Listen, are you going to stick around to hear my nephew rant and rave on his soap box over at the Arena tonight? He’ll be accompanied by the interpretive dance group Suds and Bubbles. In fact, I see they’re already warming up over there.
“Sure I will.” But Billie Jean Kidd knew she had another date and couldn’t make it. No need to let him down right now, though; dampen his enthusiasm for the new town and ruin his enjoyable pipe smoking. Next time she’ll buy him Blue Pennant. Billie then thinks Mr. Babyface is kind of like a cat: keep feeding him (tobacco) and he’ll always return. But you must mix it up because, also like cats, he’s a bit persnickety.
7 more puffs and Mr. Babyface is done, already tired of the flavor. Billie Jean Kidd ends up smoking the rest of the bowl herself; no need for waste.
“What assets can *you* bring to me, Mr. Baker Bloch.” I wish Stefan [last name yet to be determine] had a German accent but it would be too hard to write. He was applying for an apartment in the Kidd Tower in Apple’s Orchard, a prospective neighbor, then, to the Man About Time who’d be living directly above him in the penthouse suite. This here was Mr. Babyface’s old apartment. Mr. Babyface had decided to move away from the city to carve out a bucolic life for himself in the land of Hana Lei, wherever the f-ck that was. Maybe Rose Heaven.
“Well,” Baker Bloch began his answer. “You’ll become an automatic member of the exclusive Blue Feather Club, with 10 percent discount on all items at any of the Baker Bloch owned businesses in town. That would include, let’s see, the consignment store down in Black Ice, the Red Umbrella (gallery) in same, the Rosehaven Yarn Shop — that would be selling story yarns and not yarn yarns mind you.”
“Shoot,” Stefan mildly cussed here. He was a natural born knitter, weaving and bobbing the needles to whittle away the dreary nights. But he could live with this handicap. Still full price for the yarn yarn. Baker Bloch continued without a beat.
“Then The Cones — that’s the all you can eat buffet style restaurant atop the Blue Feather, part of the overall Sunklands Institute complex. That would be, er, right down there or over there.” Baker Bloch pointed out the transparent wall to his left toward said complex. You can clearly make out the towers at the top from his perspective. Stefan had none of this. He remained undecided whether to move to NWES City, despite what Baker considered his pretty pitch, like a lob thrown to a junior leaguer who could then hit it out of the park on any given day. This was a given. It was up to Stefan to throw away the chance, make a clear error of judgement. Baker held all the aces, he felt.
“I know Pansy Mouse,” Stefan stated out of left field, a game changer. Baker’s plans suddenly flew up in the air like a pack of misshuffled cards.
Can you spot the Kidd Tower here?
The Man About Time now has a comfortable place to stay. As perhaps does his former neighbor Mr. Babyface, who now may remain his neighbor. “I am your neighbor,” he might say to MAT the next time they meet.
We’ll see if the Kidd Tower can stay. But — I can’t imagine a better spot for it!