“There it is again, Dixon 02! Shoot it this time with your bow and arrow! Quick!”
“*You’re* Dixon 02,” protested the one with the weapon. “*I’m* Dixon 01.”
“No time for that now! (POOF) Oh… darn! Look at what you’ve done brother of mine, *second* out of the womb.”
“*You’re* second out.”
“She’s gone.” Pause.
“Pretty boots, though.”
“*Darn* pretty boots.”
“And gloves.”
—–
“‘Nother dream this time about those Dixons, Grassy. Something about them poisoning the alcohol of this town.”
“Hmmm.”
“Wonder….”
“Yeah,” predicted Grassy to what Sassy was about to say, Nogin’s horrific tossing noises also etched in his memory. “Me too.”
“Should we warn somebody? Who’s the mayor of Hardrock Island?”
“Hardrada, actually. Remember, Hardrock I. contains the guitar with no strings. The pool here has strings. The one you like so much.” Maybe more than the bigger one I prefer, he thinks to himself. Differences: small, but they can add up.
Sassy contemplates heartstrings again, and how Grassy should make her sing but not quite getting there; differences again. But no strings might have its advantages as well, as in, no hands advantages. As in *recording* advantage. If you don’t play forwards, you can play backwards — that kind of advantage.
“Welll?”
“Based on a dream?” he protested about the earlier warning request.
“Dreams,” said Sassy to this. “Repeating dreams.”
“See what happens tonight in your dreams and then tomorrow we’ll go to the authorities if needed.”
“*No* alcohol in the meantime. Or only what you brought in.”
“Cough syrup,” complains Grassy. “Stuck with cough syrup.”
“And mouthwash,” chips in Sassy. First time she’s glad about having a mild case of chronic halitosis. Wouldn’t be the last.
Sunklands 