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: Paul^*~~~~~~
Cyberpaperdoll returned to her home of 5 1/2 years across the Atoll Sea and pondered if Biker Mann and she had any kind of real future together.
Oh. Speaking of swings and futures…
“Tommy Brade was always your mother’s favorite, Paul. But you’re not Paul. You’re Even Whiter Walt. Whiter than Caucasian Tommy Brade. You burn in moonlight. You dance to Guy Lombardo. If you were any whiter, you’d turn into a pillar of salt. Believe me, boy, Mary is not the boy for you. She’s not even a boy.”
“I love her,” counters fellow swinger and estranged nephew Paul. “She’s kind to animals. She sings like a butterfly. I’m hanging my future on her. I’m not going back (to the woods).”
“Sure you are. You’re already there. *They* have spies all around. The Invisibles.”
“I don’t know who those people are, Uncle Babyface,” his nephew reiterates. “All I know is that I’m happy here in Be Happy.”
“Hana Lei,” clarifies Mr. Babyface.
“Sure,” states Paul. “There’s *so* much pot here, uncle. Did I show you the biggest one? Just behind us.” He points to his back right.
Indeed it was a big pot. Three stoned little Story Room wannabes staggered around in a bit of snow in front of the whopper. They could be there for months. Years!
So it is with Peter, Paul and Mary in Hana Lei, Mr. Babyface realizes. Months. Years. He returns to Collagesity and drinks with a broken heart at Audrey’s until the clock strikes one and there is no sun.
Mr. Babyface direly needs to find his nephew in Hana Lei and attempt to talk some sense into him, but he can’t seem to stop studying this Big E provided with the apartment.
“Ahh, what the heck,” he says, prying himself away from the object. “Time to take the plunge…”
“Me Gods, what a mess. A Messiaen Mess.”
He turns around in his tracks, staring into the heart of infantile Hana Lei. “Where *are* the stoneheads?”
He walks down to take a closer look.
The band now known as Lamb were all gathered at Chunkies playing Guess That Fish when Paul heard him grumbling to himself on Swingset Knoll beyond the door. There could be no mistaking.
Rocky Racco was in the middle of rehearing his piano solo in Story Room’s “Fire Ants” legacy single when Baker Bloch rezzed a chair beside him and broke the news.
“You’re leaving?” he uttered while still tinkering with the solo a bit. Baker answers affirmatively. “How many are you taking?”
“We can take *you* if you wish. But, otherwise, Wheeler Wilson I assume. Maybe Buster, maybe others. Unsure still.”
“And who is already in Collagesity?” queries the anthropomorphic raccoon.
“Well, Pitch Darkly is there, kind of a new alter-ego I suppose you could call it. He comes from VHC City. Also: Woody Woodmanson, formerly of Snowlands. Now see, this is a trick — *our* Mary use to be engaged to Pitch, and maybe still is. Somehow realities have split apart by us — me — being here. If Mary goes back to Collagesity with Wheeler and the others, say, she may not even remember her life with Paul here, both black and white versions of him.”
“You have more stories to tell (in this town),” countered Rocky. “How about my cousin Tealie from the underground?”
“Tealie can show up in another book, another place,” answered Baker Bloch, standing by his resolution.
“Just because your last two — graphic novels is it?” Baker Bloch nods here. “… these graphic novels of yours end in 6 sections doesn’t mean that the situation can’t change now. You can extend to 7. Think how much more story could be told in another 20 or so posts? My story, for instance. Who made me? Do you even know who made me? I was merely an ordinary raccoon at one time far in the past.”
“My guess would be Paul, if Paul resonates with Paul McCartney strongly enough.”
“Oh. Well, you knew that, then.”
“But you could be a nuclear mutation caused by that explosion which was winnowed down just to your mushroom house thanks to the quick actions of All Nancy’s.”
“Could be that too.” Rocky looks directly into Baker Bloch’s eyes. “Please stay. I don’t want you to go. I want to…”
“Live?” Baker offered. “Then come with me… us.”
Rocky abruptly slammed down the lid to the grand piano’s keyboard. Chef/Inspector Petty turned around from interviewing Mary and Paul in another part of the theatre room.
Rocky gets up and brushes by Baker on the way to the teleporter. They soon find him in Audrey’s below, drinking and talking with his new best bud Terry.
“They want to end me. They want to end *us*,” he says, trying to ignore their presence.
“Next month??” Paul was incredulous. Peter SoSo and Tronesisia had paused their dart game to listen in. Mary Tyler began sobbing a bit.
“Yup,” states Terry the fire-ickle bartender. “The blue dude — Improvio I think — came in himself and booked the upstairs for October, same deal they have at Clownski’s. Levi wouldn’t give ’em any more than that at one time over there. But you can bet the bang on my belt there’s more deals to come. Mr. R. — Rocky — likes ’em, likes their music. Bang bang bang bang. More bang for the bucks, he said. Oops. I guess that’s a little insensitive.” But Terry was at least sensitive enough not to repeat the exact sentiment Rocky issued about their group, which was, “f-ck folk.”
“We… have nowhere to go,” Mary exclaimed. “We’ll have to leave Olde Lapara Towne! And I was really beginning to like it here. They’re forcing our hand.”
“Lamb must live,” agreed Peter SoSo. “There’s no killing it now, no going back to where we came from as Peter, Paul and Mary, separate and alone.” Tronesisia tried to nod in agreement but ended up just having a belly laugh. She excused herself by saying her gestures module needs rebooting.
“I think I might have an answer,” Terry said slyly. “Jacob… you know the groovy lawnmower…”
“Of course,” states Peter SoSo. “He’s what keeps us high as the sky.”
“Well… he found a portal right underneath this bar. It’s those sand dunes… sand castle. They lead to a cool and hip and far out place. Said it was called Melancholy Island. I tried it out myself. I think we — or you’s guys anyway — can help them with their problem.”
“What do you mean?” asks a sniffing Mary. Paul offered her his handkerchief.
“You have grass, right? Lots of it, thanks to those magical seeds you bought from New Lynne, Paul.” Mary blew her nose long and loud.
“Correct,” replies Paul, taking a fully loaded handerchief back from Mary.
“Well,” continues Terry, “turns out they *need* grass. They have the stubby version, the stuff that doesn’t really need to be mowed, but you people have the real deal, the weedy grass. The high version.”
Peter has a belly laugh with this as well. He quickly clears his throat and says, “catching,” while looking at Tronesisia. Paul couldn’t help sharing a small smile with Mary in the moment, each thinking that those two, forward looking robot and backward peering merman, were simply made for each other. Just like they were. Paul and Mary held hands.
“Alright, we’ll check it out,” Paul said. Everyone had forgotten about the secret weapon Buster set up, but were quickly reminded when Chef/Inspector Petty (not Pety — he’s different) burst into the bar through the red door and instantly began grilling.
“What all this about Renaldo O’Donnell springing back to life and then dying again??”
“Performance artist??” exclaims Paul.
“And he says he’s been doing this a long time,” interjects Buster.
“Yes,” answers the famous clown. “And I can help *you*”… he pauses and turns toward Buster. “Er, what did you say their name was again?”
“The Lambs,” replies Buster.
“No,” states Mary firmly. “Just Lamb.”
“Well then, I can help *you* Just Lamb.”
Mary sighs. This little bloodsucker’s plan better work, she thinks.
Having filled his backpack with more food and supplies from Rocky’s market, Paul was about to enter the underground again when he saw the enlarged hole to the right. No longer a circle but an ellipse.
Then a train ran over him but he was use to that.
Scott Walker (giant sloth) was no longer where he formerly was just beyond, causing havoc in Olde Lapara Towne. Had he moved elsewhere?
He better get back home to Malone Central before he loses his bearings in the labyrinthine streets and alleyways.
But he can’t resist summoning the green ickle from the depths first.
Such fun — but it didn’t knock him out of the red circle per usual.
Sim line. And to his right again: underground. The correct way home.
Mary warned of war. Lamb will not and cannot die with Ram, she said. She had traced the slaughter back to Inertia through The Grapevine. Her three poor possessed nephews were preparing to perform in Clownski’s this coming weekend. Punk, pure and raw. At least the sheriff (their brother) broke free of its deadening influence. Thud thud thud thud. Paul winces at the thought and enters the dark waters again. 10 seconds later he was run over by another train.
Also the next day, a fully returned Mary made an announcement to the citizens of Lapara’s Malone Central gathered around the boob tube. “From now on,” she declared, “my name is Mary Tyler and our group will no longer be called Peter, Paul and Mary but Lamb. No argument.”
Everyone nodded their heads, just glad that Mary had put down her fishing rod and joined the living once more.
The great sim battle begins.
Paul had returned from Rocky’s market with another load of supplies. Wheeler was waiting.
“You’re not a clown,” he observed after walking up.
“No, I have periods of reprieve.”
“Where’s the wife?”
“Fishing,” Wheeler responds. “Over there on the edge.” She points in the appropriate direction. “Chasm Deep. Fo fo fo, hehe. She’s trying to regain her memories. Thought angling would help.”
“Clownfish are hard to catch,” offers Paul, looking over at Mary. “Small and wirey. Not good eating either.”
“Jamie said she saw a shark down there once. I didn’t know whether to believe her.”
“We don’t talk about Jamie,” Paul reproved.
“Oh right.” Wheeler changed the subject. “How’s Aboveland? I’ll go back sometime. But not this month.”
“Above’s okay. Rocky says hello.” Paul then saw something else. “Hey, where’d you get the ring?”
Wheeler quickly puts her hands behind her head. “Oh I found it. Beyond the chasm. What do you call that place? Owls Head.” Paul nods here. “Just laying there on the white surface.”
But the green jewel of the ring had no owl signet on it. Just a “plain” emerald. Astarte had lost some ground on Lapara. Time to up the stakes.
“Alderaan?” exclaims Paul. “Where the heck is Alderaan, Wheeler?”
“Sure are a lot of clowns on this tv.”
“Clowns are everywhere,” she says. “Everywhere,” she reinforces.
“We’re going to have to look for Mary again sometime, Wheeler. You can’t just have this doll substitute sitting beside you forever here.”
Wheeler begins to sob. Paul joins her a bit.
Peter SoSo returns from The Above. “What are you guys looking at?”
“What else?” answers Paul, sniffing.
“Well,” Peter says, staring at the doll and exhaling, “I think I know what must… be done. We can all chip in.”