Tag Archives: Philip StrevorGTAV^*++$

November 13, 2024 · 5:05 pm

00440608

“Wild dream, man,” began Frank Lynn to the others, his so-called friends Mikie and Philip Strevor, the great triumvirate of video gaming for this day and age, at least under their truer names and not their newer names created for this here blog and attached photo-novels. “I — get this — was *Chomp* (= Chop). Driving through that repo man’s window you made me do when we first met in that car with you pointing your gun at my head.”

“Yeah, ha,” said Mikie by his side, still by his side but in the right way this time. “I remember.”

“And so I drove it through that big front window — just like we did before — and lo and behold I was there again inside. As me! I was the repo man who owned the car dealership as well as his hired help doing the actual work.”

“Totally f-ed up,” says Philip, shaking his head a bit. “Okay… me,” he quickly shifted.

“*You* had a dream too, dawg?” questioned Frank Lynn, watching Philip try to remember it.

“Well, not as a *dawg*… dawg. But: yeah. I’m always having dreams lately; you know that. So in this one… actually I had a gun pointed at you too Frank.”

“Say whaat?” said Frank Lynn.

“Hmm,” said more suspicious Mikie, sensing a tall tale. Which it indeed was but not in the way he was thinking, as we know from the posts just before this one. Truth Philip is telling. He continues…

“Yeah. Let’s see: way up on top of a building, maybe a mile high even. Way up.” He points up, but only at some trees in this unspecified Lost Sanos location — working on it. “I-I was a monkey; yeah that’s it. Or dressed as a monkey, something. Maybe I just had a monkey’s head. Anyway, for some reason I didn’t pull the trigger — maybe couldn’t get a bead on your own head I was so far away. So I just dropped the gun and jumped — think I jumped.”

“Dawg!”

“Monkey,” corrected Philip, perhaps in a comical way. “But I landed right on a pile of mattresses, soft as um, downy pillows, heh. Or walked out and fell asleep on them. But then that officer came along and woke me up. And I woke up.”

“Wow man, Philip. You crazy!”

“*You* crazy.” He points to Frank as they share a chuckle. Two wild and crazy dreamers.

“Those are great, guys,” issued Mikie between them now, being only partially sarcastic in comparison to his normal, full on version. “Really. Both of you as animals… not far off, actually.”

“Pheh,” one or both of them say back.

“But now it’s *my* turn. I had a dream too as it so happens. Get a load of *this,* guys.”

And then he proceeds to tell them about finding the ring.

(to be continued)

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November 13, 2024 · 4:37 pm

00440607 (that policeman)

A red mushroom, a green mushroom, Officer Howard Sterner observes in his head about the yard beside him. This must be the childhood home of the famous Frank C. Lynn. Deserted his hood for a fat, rich life in the hills after writing that bestseller book, pheh.

And there’s the woman who helped him get to the top, Officer Sterner thinks 2 minutes later in his beat while passing the Fern’s sign across the road, not his usual beat since he’s filling in for Jr. Officer Philburg Johnson Jones, sick with the pill. Fern Stalin — odd name; easy to remember (Philburg told him all about her). Sounds like a commie, a red, he continues to ruminate. Maybe she converted Frank Lynn to a red, hmm. Maybe that would explain that red book he wrote. Gotta read that sometime now and see if this theory holds any water, he makes a mental note to himself.

Not too long afterwards, he spots prostrate Philip Strevor on a pile of mattresses outside the Mile High Building and rouses him to consciousness. 4:44, he pinpoints with his watch. Time of life.

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November 13, 2024 · 3:56 pm

00440606 (monkey man)

“Man I gotta find out what’s the shizzle about these red cubes so that Philip can stop having nightmares and falling asleep during our day work!”

“Just a little more into the light, my friend,” mask wearing Philip Strevor said far above, finally snapping under the night(mare) pressure. “Out of the darkness, into the light.” Luckily for Frank, his friend is not very patient.

“C’mon c’mon *c’mon!*” Pause. “Aw, f-ck it,” and he drops the rifle and leaves the building and falls asleep on the sidewalk outside, not remembering anything about the aborted shooting when he is awoken by that policeman.

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November 1, 2024 · 6:52 am

00440508

“My first real gig as an owner of a business actually came through the vineyard. I bought out the O’Neill Brother’s crop dusting business when 2/3rds of them died in that unfortunate fire which destroyed their family home, including the only 2 of the 3 who could actually fly a plane. Like me. Only later did I learn the true culprit behind the tragedy.”

“So… you knew how to fly a plane?”

“Yeah. Learned it from my 2 uncles growing up in Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it? Anyway,  Martha — the owner of the vineyard at the time — said to come by every week to douse the vines with a special herbal pesticide she concocted herself, just like those O’Neill brothers did before me, and be sure to leave by 3, or else take a break at 2:45 and don’t resume until 3:15. Else — and the first time she mentioned this she made a throat slitting gesture with her hand and mouth, which of course I took as death. 3 o’clock — death; keep that in mind. But at the time I just took all of this as part of the peculiarities of the old woman and didn’t believe the stuff she was telling me. After all, she had a special recipe for pesticides, you see — a weird-o. But I still didn’t fly at 3. No use taking any chances, I figured. She later revealed that 3 o’clock at night would be bad for me too but didn’t mention it at first because she knew I’d only fly the plane during the day.”

“Why did you call yourself Jack Sheepe in those days?” he asked, thinking of the hanger and its sign. “Instead of Jack Shepherde, like you are now — like the LOST guy? But, let me guess: because you view yourself as a *leader* now, and not a follower. You changed the name to show this.”

“Correct. Do you even need me here? Sounds like you could have done this interview by yourself (!).”

“No, I need you here,” he says with no humor. “Now. Let’s talk about the move to the big city, how that came about.”

“First there was a detour. Through Christianity.”

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October 27, 2024 · 4:01 pm

00440503

“Gotta light?”

“Lincoln!!” both occupants of the black car in the desert or at least the very arid landscape screamed in unison, their last coherent words.

—–

“Com’n Trevor. Time to go home.” And he dumped the lifeless body in the container, determined this would be his last Badlands gig. Ever. Retirement himself, if not in body, in soul. He had a old bunker picked out he could remake as a desert home. Even had a contractor on board for the remodeling process. Cliffside dwelling. Perfection. Half an hour tops now and done with all this. He got into the make-shift hearse and put the 4 way flashers on, Tiler Church straight ahead and then turn left and another left and then a right and then a left and right. And left, he believes. Then: done. Away from the grave and reborn. This old monkey’s about to acquire a leaf and turn into a new man. Adam. And he also has an Eve picked out. Mechanism, but it was the best he could do. They would manage. Box labelled Live Cargo should be arriving any day now down at the harbour.

—–

“What do you *mean* I can’t go home?!” shot back Fern, her business done here in The Aisles with Tin and all, with much learned and much to ponder about later.

“The Cpt.’s duties have ended,” he said plainly, not going into any details.

OD, Fern assumed. Or hospitalized or fired or a combination of 2 or all three in one. Well, something had to happen sooner or later, she rationalized.

“How long till you get another cpt.?” she asked, knowing she could pilot the vessel herself back to mainland if needed. But she had to obey protocols with this officer of the Navy, Army and Air Force in one. And perhaps the Marines as well, the oft forgotten 4th. She looked at the insignia. Hard to tell from them; designed that way due to the ’68 Force Bias Wars as they became known.

“1 day, maybe 2.” She looked at the many weapons about his body. She’d have to wait. He’d stand guard until the replacement showed up, she knew from his stance and former talk.

Finally time for that drink, she supposed. Time to visit Rose, one of ’em, maybe both of ’em before the day’s ended. She heads in their general direction from the harbour, letting her feet decide which is what and who first.

(to be continued)

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October 27, 2024 · 2:34 pm

00440501

“Soooooo… youu headingggg (hiccup) backkk… todaayyyyyeee *weeeeeeee*?” he said in his drunky, sloppy way, suddenly spinning around as he spoke, almost toppling over. Typical for the morning. By afternoon he’d be popping the pills, becoming less slurry as the drug fueled words popped back out of his mouth more in staccato form, with consonants and vowels left out, soon to progress into whole words and even phrases and sentences. Word salad they become in effect, not slurry but just as incomprehensible and useless.

“Yup,” she uttered, coming onboard and up the stairs to directly face him. She wanted to know what he was drinking, wanted to smell it on his breath. Because she might need some too. Given what she was potentially facing today.

Vodka. And not a hint of vermouth to change it into her normal. She’d have to pass, pure being too strong for her liking.

“Well,” she said as he stumbles and falls. “Get to piloting… Cpt.”

“Right right right. Heading back, right. Riiiight *weeeeee*.” Another fall.

“You know — never mind. I’ll do it myself. Been there enough lately.” Still on the ground. “Yes, you just rest, Philip. It *is* still Philip? Right?”

“Right right (hiccup)… right,” he repeats, and then falls asleep on the spot, pills in his mouth as soon as he becomes conscious again at 12:01.

(to be continued)

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September 25, 2024 · 6:13 am

00440301 (both sides of the Aisle)

“Hey, don’t drink my drink!” commanded Fern.

“Sorry,” the small bartender apologized, no more than a kid it appears. “I was… thirsty. Not use to customers. Not use to eyes looking at what I’m doing.”

“No more, then! You haven’t got any diseases I should know about now? Seeing we’re share buddies, ha.”

“None that I know of,” spoke the boy. He continued to shake the drink and not drink. Both at once. “Soo, you here for Breakfast?” Pause. “Or Dairy?”

“Both, actually.”

“Hmm,” he said, and poured the finished martini, dry and wet as one. Perfection if he says so himself. But he prefers the unmixed version; likes to taste both flavors separately (gin and vermouth). Darn watching eyes! “Well,” he continues. “How much have you seen so far?” he asked, not wanting to go over covered ground as it were.

“Airport first obviously. Had to come in from *somewhere*.” But Fern came in on a ship, sea instead of air. Has to be both, she figured. And with the captain none other than our Philip Strevor, fresh from a cube drop. Or so he said. Interesting.

“Not much there,” said the boy with his slight Chinese accent, worn off by years of state-side existence. Or so he said. “What else?”

“Well, pretty much saw everything in the rural district close to the void.” Too close, she thinks. “The, um, downed helicopter, the swamp, the dunes, the swimming pool. Very interesting.”

“There’s a plane in the swamp too.”

“Yup, saw that as well.”

“Do you want to hear the story (about it)?”

“Oh sure. Why not. But first, the helicopter.” Philip Strevor mentioned a helicopter along with the cubes, she thinks.

“Same story, actually. Swamp attracted both. Swamp drew them in. Just like a picture it drew them in. Got a taste for aerial. Opposites attract, after all. Water and air.”

This boy’s just spouting boyish nonsense, Fern thought, looking at his mischievous expression on his small face. But whatever; don’t have any other point of information as they say. Haven’t spotted anyone else in town. Just this child. A bartending child. Doesn’t quite add up. “Go on… I’m listening.”

(to be continued)

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September 18, 2024 · 7:31 am

00440212

“I am glad the snow has melted overnight so that we can see better what is going on up here in the upper fields. So the… object appeared several days back between rows 7 and 8 there so I’ve been waiting for something to show up. This time, the flying machine with the whirly top. Good timing with our visit!”

“A helicopter,” I offered, crouching by his side behind nearby row 5, looking down on it and hopefully out of sight. We’d been waiting all night, but since I changed from woman to man at dusk I wasn’t so threatened by him. Tough stretches in the night, though. The guy was frisky! “Sometimes called a chopper,” I added.

“Chopper?” He seemed surprised at the variant name.

“Yeah, you know. Chop chop chop chop chop,” I illustrated. “Like the sound it makes. Chop chop chop chop chop,” I repeated.

“I have a dog named Chomp,” he said in his intuitive, associative way. “I wonder if it’s related?”

“Chomp could be derived from Chop I suppose,” I said, playing along.

“Yes,” he said, raising his head to the approaching chopper. “Yes I think it is. I’m *remembering*.”

The helicopter landed just outside the field and a man jumped out…

… and ran toward the metallic silver object…

… making it disappear when reaching it.

“Ahh, the smart dressed pale man,” he said just above the noise of the still spinning blades, trying to control his anger. Thank Gods for the wads of cotton! “There’s three of them. This one, the sloppily dressed pale man with the wild look about his face — another monster, I sense — and then the dark man who dresses neutrally between the two. Can you hear me over the noise?”

I nodded; he continued.

“Any of them could show up in several modes of transport. There’s helicopter — chopper — today. There’s 4 wheeled machines other days, 2 wheeled machines other days, but… never one of your planes. The plane is separate. This doesn’t seem connected to that. This is an upper field event and that is in one of the lower fields, along with Viney. Although both often appear at 3 o’clock, PM here obviously.”

I checked my watch not on my arm. 3:01. Task apparently accomplished, the smart dressed pale man, as he put it, got back into the helicopter and took off northward, I noticed. Toward the swamplands.

“Well,” he said, standing up from his crouching position, noise abating (relief!). “Show’s over. The object does not return for days, sometimes weeks or even months. This inevitably attracts the machines when it does. And the men. Do you understand what happened?”

“Kind of,” I said, knowing I actually understood little.

“They’re building something. I know it. Something beyond mere ground and aerial machines. Something different. He turned his head toward me. My, er, half-cat senses tell me this,” he tried to explain the sensation, showing me his slitted eyes. “Half alien, actually.”

“Um hmm.”

“You look tired. I’ll let you get back to your kind.”

“Thank you.” Not captive, phew!

“One more thing before you leave if you don’t mind. I’ll even let you take a replica home with you. I’ll be needing your future knowledge in the future, I’m picking up. With your permission of course.”

“Who are you?” I asked, meeting a lot of strange characters online but this one taking the cake. So realistic, so believable. Indeed I needed a rest after all this weirdness.

“Call me Gerald,” he said, finally revealing his own name. We started back down the hill toward his house for that “one more thing.”

(to be continued)

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August 16, 2024 · 8:12 am

00440101 (the return of Strevor, Philip)

“Damn cube, OW! Why do they have to be so many damn cubes in my dreams lately, pheh.”

“Ow ow… ow. F-cking toe.”

“Hmm. Looks like Franklin was wrong. Nothing here, huh. Dead end. Nothing left to do but wake up.” He relieves himself on the canal wall even though he’s underwater. Then, getting down to the business at hand, starts slapping himself. Takes a while, but he enjoys it all the same.

—–

“Why is your face so red, dawg? You get slapped up by a woman or something? Speaking of which…”

—–

“Where’re we going Franklin?” he said, looking back at the coffee shop from whence they came.

“You’ll see. Just down the block.”

—–

“Are *these* your damn cubes or something? We were just here Tuesday after all. You were complaining about the art, and how simple it was and that you could knock up something like that — your words — after 12 beers and one hand tied behind your back. ‘No,’ you said. ‘Make that two. 2 beers and *12* hands,’ you tried to joke, but you were already pretty drunk at the time. Should have been drinking coffee back then too. Or eating… something.”

“I-I don’t know,” he said about Franklin’s theory about the cubes and the dreams, then looked around, actually still in a dream… something. “Hey, where’s Mike? Did we ditch Mike somewhere?”

“Dawg, where’s Mike??”

“That’s what I’m asking *you*. Dawg.”

“Mike?” Franklin calls in one of the bushes around the big red cubes. “Mii-ke?”

“Well he’s not in *there* for Christ sake. He’s not missin–” Trevor stops. He remembers… an S. An S in a bush. Flaming (SWITCH).

Part 2: Mikie, not Mike

That night he goes back to the dead end canal ditch and sees something after hitting his toe once more on that in-the-way big goddamn cube, ow ow ow! 1st monkey mosaic. “Frank Lynn was *right*!” he said before starting to slap himself red again.

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August 11, 2024 · 7:18 am

00430702

So they took him back to Fern’s restaurant, opened almost two years ago. Took a booth in the rear for more private talk. Fern and store manager Lichen weren’t around, having remained in Washington state to explore another lead. Another Soo(e)s waterway had been uncovered, the more correct one as it turned out. And at the conjunction of it and tributary Kabusie Ck., they’d found their Inner Place with the Indians. I’m not sure if they’ll ever get back.

“Soo. Tell me *exactly* how you got here… arrived in this world? I can’t believe I’m asking this,” Mikie said, shaking his head.

“Weellll, I went into the Yellow Jack. You know the joint below Sandy Shores, kind of near the alien…”

“For Pete’s sake, we *know* where the Yellow Jack is, Trevor.”

“Strevor. Philip Strevor,” he repeated once again.

“So you walked into the Yellow Jack, yeah,” questioned more convinced Frank. “Then what?”

“Well, Miss Janet, you guys know Miss Janet I assume.”

“Of course we know Miss Janet, Trevor,” said Mikie. “She’s the one who set us up with Grant Price. For protection that time.”

“Well. She told me who I was. In this world. I mean, she didn’t *tell* me tell me. But just by her words.”

“*What* words?” asked Mikie.

“Well, she said I was still banned.” He leaned back squeakily in his vinyl booth seat. “And that did it.” Suddenly Strevor was fading. Trevor was finally returning, coming down from the mushrooms. “And then I was…”

“Trevor,” guessed Mikie.

“Yeah.” He looked at each one, as if he hadn’t seen them all night. “Trevor.”

He was back.

They went out of the building and turned around. Fern’s restaurant was gone. The old Crucial Fix coffee shop had reappeared in its place, alternate history erased. Fern was never in this reality, nor gal pal Lichen. We can move on to another story in another place.

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