“So we’re at the couch now, Mr. Babyface. Do you know who the ring is yet? 450,000 lindens worth of the ultimate 500,000 remain to be paid out. Do you want to be a wealthy man or a poor man, Mr. Face?
What’s this precocious child’s end game? he wondered while puffing rapidly on his pipe. Red Dragon, mmm. So soothing. But, Collagesity to Middletown — it really happened! She really did it. “Wealthy, I suppose,” he then answers.
“Then find Leona and her village full of mechanoid people at the hilltop lakes with the lone star shaped swimming pool and ask for Flo. And also: go *with* the flow. Synchronicity.”
“All right.” He was trying to keep up with her pace, or at least pretend to.
“(And) take Greg Ogden with you. That’s her husband after all. Good cover for you as well.”
“Didn’t know that fact. But: will do. I’ll take Red Boy.”
In fact, Mr. Babyface and Greg Ogden had become quite close during their stay in the Kidd Tower. A common heating system can sometimes bring people together.
He was staying with Thimble these days, another dancer. Not that their relationship was all that serious of a thing to him — when was it? — but her second floor apartment’s view toward the Gaston-Berry Police Station put her top shelf over the other Berries.
And, yeah, The Berries really dug Duncan. He was different, unique. No, I’m not really talking about his singular status as a male African-American in Sugar’s employment. It’s just that they could see the inner boy within, the core innocence, unruined — unlike the case with about all of them. It attracted these kind of women like flies unto maple syrup.
But tonight we flip sides of the record. He had to dance for a dude. Alright, cool, cool, he said to himself when learning about the assignment. It’s all for the art form — good to keep practicing and staying limber. And he gets to keep all his clothes on; no funny stuff there. Sugar said the guy also requested that he doesn’t look at him. “Just focus on the dancing,” she ordered. “Don’t make eye contact. Just interact with him in as minimal a manner as you can get away with. He’s probably self conscious because of the damage to his face. I don’t know what happened to him — don’t really care. He paid good money and that all I need to know. And you too.”
Midway through his first sequence, the bleached face man spoke. “You don’t even know who I am, do you?” But Duncan kept to his routine per Sugar’s instructions and didn’t answer.
Marion Harding sees those red and greenish lights above him again, but in a different location.
And he’s wasted as hell from the pot recently purchased from drug lord Santa God at The Octopus Ink.
“Who *are* you guys??”
“So we need to talk, Harry,” spoke Tonya Two Egg to the bleached face man sitting across from her. “About Annie. About a lot of stuff.”
“It’s not safe here,” he replied, then glances over at the giant bong to his right.
But no one was there.
“Did you get the information I wanted, Norris?”
“N-no. Not yet.” He was trying very hard not to perspire, show fear. But Casey drew it out of him. He *fed* off of it. “I guess… you heard about the beaver?”
“The beaver is not of my concern,” Casey said mechanically. His whole tone of voice was drained of emotion. Casey knew that Jeffrie Phillips would soon be reading this blog post and catching up with him. He needed to stay one, preferably several steps ahead in the game. And we’re not talking about Grand Theft Auto here, ridiculous bank heists and shite.
Norris continued to stare forward into the red curtains. He’d been doing this for as long as he could remember. Weeks, maybe months. Years, even. He had *hoped* that Casey would stare straight ahead as well and not at him. But he could repeatedly sense what felt like two laser beams burning into the back of his head. Cheater! Trying to extract the needed information that, yes indeed, he had. Prison schematics.
But Casey already knew this.
The suspiciously tanned man moves forward on his couch and leans toward Norris’ head, his mouth not half a foot from an ear now. “There’s a par three at the back nine of my club,” Casey hisses menacingly, “where the flag pole sometimes goes missing when I make my holes in one.” He withdraws from Norris and gets up to take his leave. “You think about that over the next several days.”
Norris finally couldn’t help himself. “Don’t… *look* at me,” he said weakly.
“You have until Monday to get me that information, Norris. ” Then he was gone, silent as a cat.
Karoz Blogger was next for a visit.
“South YANKTON!” Eraserhead Man shouted toward the bleached face Norris. “We need INFORMATION! A man named PHILIP STREVOR has returned from there! Listen and this is IMPORTANT! There’s a giant BEAVER there!”
“Don’t look at me,” Norris demanded in a normal register. “Are you looking at me? Because you’re suppose to be looking straight ahead and not at me. Don’t look at me!”
“I WON’T! I’m NOT!” Eraserhead Man rummaged around in his pockets and procured a cigarette, lit it, and proceeded to smoke. “You don’t mind if I SMOKE, do you?!” he asked while emitting his first puff.
Norris didn’t answer, remained motionless. Eraserhead Man continued his grilling. “He goes by the name of CASEY here! Sometimes Casey the ALIEN! Last seen in GAETA V — get this — like GTA V! GTA I Said! Grand Theft AUTO! One of our INFORMANTS tipped us off! KEDAR! Use to live over in NAUTILUS!” He stopped there.
“I may have heard of him. We may have shared a drink!” Norris piped up.
“Had a GOLF club! MOTIONLESS FACE. Said, ‘I’m yrev very happy to SEE you old friend.’! I don’t have to tell you what color ROSE we’re talking about here!”
“You should leave now,” Norris suddenly demanded. “The holiday entities could be up and roaming about by now. There’s a chance they may come to this lower plane… just a chance but not worth taking it.”
“CHANTS?!” shouted the hard of hearing Eraserhead Man. Norris forgot to pipe up at the end this time. “What KIND of chants?!”