Tag Archives: Preston Weston^*

radiation

“Sam? Samuel Hooker?” Pause. “Alvin Straight — you did say Alvin didn’t you, Preston?”

“Yeah, ma, heh.”

“Alvin Straight?” Your Mama pronounced more confidently toward the back of the tv store. “Samuel Hooker?”

I can’t face them, but I *gotta* face them,” experienced repairman Alvin Straight thinks just around the corner. If only Sam “Mr. Colored TV” Hooker would come out from hiding and *see* — actually *see* what’s in this thing. Truly understand the danger of what he has set forth into motion. Into *play*.

“Sam?” Your Mama calls again. “Alvin?”

Gotta go face them.

—–

“A malfunctioning chip?” Your Mama questions. “What does that mean? How much will it cost to repair, Mr. Repairman?”

“I see lots of question marks,” replied Alvin Straight, shaking at what he estimates to be a ballpark figure.

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Filed under *Second Life, Maebaleia/Satori^^, Pipersville/Sink X^

and barber makes three

—–

“When did this barber shop get here? Anyway, we’re here.”

Cool, mama. I’m tired of falling into the tv set and losing a couple of hours each time. That, heh, thing *needed* to be fixed.”

“Well, we’ll see if, let’s see, what was his name again?”

“Sam Hooker?” responded Preston Weston, good on names if bad on grades.

“Hooker, yes,” responded Your Mama, proud to have a son for the moment.

“And Alvin Straight, the other one. The Straight Guy.”

“Very good. Such a good memory.” They were at the front door.

“Should have bought a Zenith all along,” she muttered before opening it.

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teeth

Preston Weston heard his own voice on the tape his father was viewing. “Hey dad?”

“Yes son,” slouching Craighead Phillips Option 01 said from the couch.

“Whatcha watching, heh?”

“Oh, just your school play you put on last year. Can’t get enough of it.” He chuckles at something his son said on the videotape, currently playing the role of Hamlet.

“Cool, cool, heh.”

There was silence between the two as dad watched act 01 scene 03 unfold.

“Hey son. There’s Felicia Mae Appletree. Didn’t you have a thing for her (mother) last year?”

“Yeah, heh, a thing,” returns Preston Weston, thinking: duh, still a thing, dad.

“What did you use to say about her? — so cute.”

“Geez, I don’t know, dad.” Pacman level 3 had just been reached by eating the last red ghost.

“Yeah, he he, I remember. You said, that apple tree needs shaking, dad.”

“Right. I remember.” A new ghost appears, new apple color. Green this time.

More silence as each are engrossed in their respective activities. Then Craighead Phillips abruptly switches off the new colored TV his wife bought just this afternoon. “Well, I’m satisfied with the product, Preston. How do you like the new colored monitor we bought in tandem, eh? 1/2 price on each. What a deal.”

“It’s, er, *great* dad. Never knew there were more than two shades of ghosts. All these colors, heh!”

“Okay, we’re both satisfied. Let’s go tell your mother.”

“Oh, heh. Mom always goes out at about this time to the bridge club.”

“Oh… well, um, let’s get something to eat, eh? Little snack before supper?”

—–

“I’m on my dessert already and you haven’t even hardly touched your sandwich yet. What gives?”

“Oh, a little belly ache I suppose, heh.” Preston Weston forces himself to take another bite of the BLT before him, knowing that his mama would fix a full meal only about an hour later that he would be *required* to finish.

“How was school today? I forgot to ask earlier.”

“Fine, dad. Thanks for picking me up,” he said with a mouthful.

“You’re welcome.” *slurp*

“How’s, er, mom’s mouse?”

“That’s mousse, son. And it’s fine.” *slurp*. “Almost perfect, actually.”

“Oh right. Mousse, like the animal moose. Not a mouse, hehe, heh.”

“Right son.” *double slurp* “Well, I’m done. Guess it’s time to go.”

“You heading back to — where, heh, did you say you came from today?”

“Athlone Village. In the middle of it all, which is — go ahead and say it with me, son.”

“Which is unfortunately in the way,” they utter in tandem, Preston Weston rather reluctantly, tired of the old saying.

—–

“What time did your father leave today, Preston Weston?” Her voice suddenly had that edge to it. Father talk edge.

“Oh, heh. Um, about 4 I guess. Maybe, heh, closer to 5?”

“Bridge time, then, hmm,” Your Mama dismissed.

Preston Weston wanted to ask his mother if that bridge would ever get built but resisted the urge.

She turned to her other son, in the chair. “How about you Robin? When did *you* get home from the wilds? Did you also see your father?”

I’m not his son, he thought. “Oh, about 5 as well. Must have just missed him, sorry.” He wasn’t sorry.

They all kept watching “Leave it to Beav” in living color after this. Starring: the Beav.

“Look ma,” Preston Weston indicated. “Like *me*!”

He was suddenly inside the TV set again, 3 hours lost.

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Your Mama

Curling up in a fetal position helped her cope with her fears. The sound of Preston Weston and the others eating some crunchy munchy cereal they requested comforted her as well. Here was her safe spot during breakfast, the clear place where she could think rationally about things. Like her weight problem (you’re *not* that overweight!); her drinking problem (3 glasses of wine a night for a woman my size is fine); her… other problem (having 3 lovers on the side is natural for a woman my… um, size? weight?).

She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. Preston Weston is currently chatting up Robin about some comic book he’s reading disgustingly called “666 Satan”. Says he wants to date this Ruby who’s a star within. This gets her pondering about her own star, which seems to be sinking. Displaced by a — well, she shouldn’t think that but it’s true. A black woman. A black woman with *horns*. Satan seems to have come to town and taken up residence.

She then decides that today is the day. Colored TV has also come to town, perhaps connected, she ruminates. It’s time for the black and white Sylvania to go away. Zenith’s where it’s at now. After breakfast she and Preston will go into town again before the TV shop disappears along with the laundromat, massage parlor, kitchen shop, etc. etc. before it. Maybe Jim A. will come by later on. Then she realizes that Jim A. has been in a coma for 20 years, frozen in time. It was Jim *B.* that comes to visit her, 1/2 of the famous or infamous band known as The Basterds (“The B.’s”) along with her father Keith B. Ahh, the old team. He should have never given up the ol’ circle within circle drums. That’s when it all started: the slide.

(to be continued)

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let it be

“Pres-TOOON! Preston Weston!!”

“I’m right down here ma. I must — I must have fell out of the funhouse somehow, heh. Cool, though.”

“I can’t see you Preston. Lots – of – wind. And you’re *right here*?”

“Yeah, ma. I’m standing kind of right below you. Heh, like I said. No, hum, wind where I’m at.”

“I’m going to walk a little further and try to find solid ground again. Can you hear me?!”

“Yeah, like I said. Right below you.”

“Alright! I’m walking!”

“Cool, cool.”

“Alright Preston Weston! I’m going to try to teleport you up to my location! When you see the invite just accept and hopefully — can you hear me!?” The wind was behind her now but still quite noticeable.

“What!?”

“Walk to-ward my voice!”

—–

“I see you again up there, ma. Can you hear *me*, heh!?”

“Yes! So — look for the invite!”

“Okay, ma!” Preston Weston sees the invite but accidentally closes the dialog box while hovering over it. “Um, ma?!”

“Yes, Preston Weston!”

“Can you send me another invite!? I kind of fumbled that one, heh!”

Your Mama sighs, then tries again. That useless, fuzzy brained kid, she thinks. Never paying attention to what he’s doing. How many coats and jackets has he lost now? She’s lost count. And the umbrellas!

“Ta daa.”

“Thank God. *Don’t* wander off again. Stay by my side until we reach the end of this thing. Whenever that is.” 100 lindens, she thinks. Well, it was something to kill a Saturday afternoon with Boy Wonder.

He turns after announcing himself. “Neat-o. A periscope. Is this a submarine?” He tries to grab onto the handles but finds he can’t. “Aw Jeez.” But then he sees the ship through the viewer anyway. “Look ma, a sailing vessel. Full of gold bullion and maidens with big apples most likely, heh.”

“Preston, just stop it with the apples. I don’t want to hear about the apples again. What did we talk about?”

“That I wasn’t suppose to talk about women’s apples?”

“That’s right.”

“Like Mrs. Appletree’s apples,” he pronounces.

“*Especially* Mrs. Appletree’s, pheh.” She shakes her head for about the hundredth time in the funhouse. “Why don’t you focus your attention on her daughter Felicia, instead? She’s a little older than you, but she’s in most of your classes.” I can’t take away from Preston Weston that he’s smart, Your Mama thinks. If only his grades would keep up with his imagination. And Felicia Appletree is top of her class — might be a good influence.

“Alright Preston. It’s time to figure out a way to get out of this room. You’ve done it before.”

“We’ve done it *everytime* before. We had to go through all the other rooms to get to *this* room. Uh, ah, I’m kind of tired, ma, heh. Can’t we just go home?”

“No, “persists Your Mama, set in her ways. “We paid 100 lindens apiece for this game and we’re going to see it through to The End.”

“Jeez ma,” Preston Weston exclaims again. He starts looking around. “Well, heh, it looks like this is another easy one. Not like the one with the ants, pheh.”


the one with the ants

“I didn’t like that one either,” admits Your Mama.

“Yeah, heh. Looks like you just go up this ladder, ma.”

“Well? Go ahead.”

“I might fall into the Between World and be lost forever if I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong. I think this is an easy one too.”

“Not like the ants.” He eyes the ladder again. For some reason, he doesn’t want to go up it. He senses…

“Oh for Pete’s sake.” Your Mama brushes aside stalled Preston Weston and ascends…

—–

“Preston! Pres-TOON!” But Your Mama’s son couldn’t hear her now. She was truly sealed off. Because this was the real submarine room. The ham submarine sandwich room. The Room.

END OF “COLLAGESITY 2019 MIDDLE”!

*Ba dump bump.*

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Sink X

“It was a meeting of the Pipersville brain trust. Cindy A., Jim A., and Todd A. A different setting, certainly, than the Hole in the Wall the general public knew them from. The Tipsy Trio some call them, like Your Mama. She knows them all too well, she thought — back in the days they were best mates, her being a kind of unofficial 4th member of the club. Jim’s Club — ahh yes. That was the name. Because Jim was the ringleader; on the catbird seat. Now that Keith had fled the scene. Bower-Brown. Undercover. Famous, even infamous, but also not known atall. The sink did that to people, affected their minds. This was proven by the theorems they were working on at the time. The bank had 1 room where they could test subjects, but there were others. You could call it a time machine, but that wouldn’t be taking it far enough. Kind of a space machine as well. No, let’s call it an *Option* machine, both through space and time.”

Preston Weston was cutting the z’s by then. Craighead Phillips, the more moral Option, decided to call it quits for the night. Long journey back to Old Wagon Road or thereabouts to pick up where the other one left off.

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sink in

“We have this road running straight here, and then the same road running to the side as well. Wonder what it means Option 01?” Pause. “Option 01?”

Turn. “Now where’d he go?”

—–

“You know, son, these wearable pipe chairs come right here from Pipersville back in the days. Hence the name.”

“Cool, dad. Um, cool, heh, that you’re hanging around more now. I sort of, I don’t know, *missed* ya.”

“That’s great, son. No, I’m back. Or at least more back.” Damn sinkhole, he thinks to himself again while staring down at it. He’s glad now he planted that big Tree Green 02 back in the days as well, since it now helps impede his view of the bottom. Along with that big piece of plywood the neighbors left just sitting down there. Cursed sinkhole. Maybe just start a petition to cover up the thing. We have the Professor Suckaluck death story to get the ball rolling. Rolling, rolling, dead. Doorknob dead.

“Dad?” asked Preston Weston, still clutching his zapper gun. “Are you in thinking mode right now?”

Craighead Phillips Option 01 turns to his only child. “You’re one to speak about thinking modes.” He points to his head. “You have a whole *world* in there, son, heh heh. Your mother can’t wrap her brain around it.”

“Are you asking me to tell you a stor–yyy?” Preston Weston queries expectantly.

Craighead Phillips takes one last drag off his Chesterton cigarette before snuffing it out on the cement porch. “Nah, I’ve got to catch up with my other self, the one who cares less. Just wanted to come visit and see how you’re doing, kid.”

“I’m fine. So — you’re not going to stay the night?”

“Nah. Your mama and I have patched things up pretty well but not to that extent — not… well, let’s not go that far quite yet. Maybe within a month or so.” Maybe within a month or so my other self and I will tire of exploring north east south west on the continent, he thinks. Away from this blasted sinkhole. Anywhere else. But maybe they could *all* go away. At least for a bit. A vacation of some kind. He decides to test the water.

“Son, if you could go anywhere. And I mean anywhere. Where would it be? Where would make you happier in the world? Mars, I’m guessing.”

“Aww dad. You know the answer to this.”

“Not the Pipe Room. Don’t say the Pipe Room.”

“I… I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Because we don’t talk about the Pipe Room,” Craighead Phillips insisted.

“I *wasn’t* going to talk about it.”

“Son. That’s where your mother went off her rocker. When she was just a kid. Only a little more older than you. Did I ever tell you that story?”

And he thinks *I* have an overactive imagination, Preston Weston ponders while wondering how he can get out of a 15 minute soliloquy himself at this point.

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