Tag Archives: Pretty Man

rebels

“What are they doing over there now?” demands Wilson from inside the room. She was a man still, but getting prettier by the day, it seemed. Soon she may have to change over again. Hold on to those eye scars as long as possible!

“Nothing,” answers her most recent invention Sidechick Corea as he keeps gazing across Central Park toward Main Street.

“We could dig deep into the Jeogeot Gulf/Korean Channel with this one,” she said when finding him as a freebie demon on the SL marketplace. “Mr. Babyface has a decision coming up. Axis or Allies? Does he go with his half aunt or his little dog Ttoo? No, that wasn’t the name of Mr. Babyface’s dog. Poo, she thinks incorrectly again. Li’l Poo Poo. But then she remembers the actual name and lets it drop.

He turns from the window and stares at Wilson instead. “Still hanging around with men, Sidechick? I know you are because I made you that way. You’re hanging around with *me* aren’t you? I am a man still, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers. “I mean, yes man.”

She manifests the two rolling pins on the table from her inventory. “Well, anyway, it’s time for me to figure out these objects Sugar Dumpling brought with her to the police station over there. Best guess: they’re not rolling pins but scroll rollers. Jump out of that cheap costume and get back on my shoulder, Sidechick. I need some doubled up third eye thinking for this mystery!”

—–

20 minutes later…

“Jasper and Newton, hmm? I agree. Good work!”

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Filed under *Second Life, Gaston, Uncategorized

ss

Perspective enlarged, Chuck Cheese finds herself in a strange place again, walking on a spiraling path upwards toward a rocky summit.

“Both of us can’t be women,” uttered Wheeler Wilson at the top. She changed.

“Right you are, Wilson Wheeler,” returned Chuck Cheese. She also changes.

“A pair of suave, swarthy dudes we make, eh?” said Wilson Wheeler.

Earie was thinking about himself: although just as swarthy, not so suave. “I am almost wholly invisible now,” he complains. “I am just an object to be seen right through. You don’t respect me as a person, Improvio. I mean, Pretty Man. I mean: Wilson Wheeler. Whatever.”

“Do you remember?”

“What happened? Yeah. A merger of church and liquor store.” He looks down into the valley to his right.

“We are the Malefic The Kidd spoke about,” continued Wilson. “With sickly, green wings; tucked in the opposite corner of her, um, building. Imprisoned even. Do you feel like you’re in jail? I do.” He indicates his outfit with a gesture. “This suit. The suit of Bowie.”

“Bowie protects you,” counters Earie. “Without Bowie you are nothing here as well. Object.”

“And who are you suppose to be?” he returns sarcastically. “Sid Vicious?”

Earie lays it out as plain as possible. “We are 2/3rds of the punk band Story Room. Banned from Olde Lapara Towne because of the noise, moved to the hidden vilage of Gaston where there was no ban, turned into pretty things there in order to survive, and then confined like flies to its Central Park. Paper.”

“Fly paper, right,” agrees Wilson Wheeler. “We burn to death again every day. Central Park is without dark and always on fire. Core of a volcano.”

“Seed into tree,” Earie continued even more abstractly. He uncrossed his legs. “Atonal punks we are, Wilson Wheeler.”

“Please,” Wilson Wheeler finally countered concerning his name. “If am that you are The Musician.”

He stops thinking about the spot marked with an “X” in the valley below and turns back toward his counterpart. “Then I am Earie…

… and you are Pretty Man.

But I also get to be Chuck.”

“Get yourself a shoulder pet and we’ll talk later,” compromises the suaver swarthy man sitting opposite him.

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Filed under *Second Life, Heterocera

Flies

They were told to stay close to Gaston’s Central Park and act like flies on the wall. Pretty Man disobeyed one morning and wandered down to a side patio beside Sugar’s House, thinking he would be concealed there behind a tall fence. But he was almost immediately spotted by BitterAlmond1995 and propositioned. “Cure for your ails,” she claimed about herself through the intervening walls. Quickly teleporting back to safety, Pretty Man wiped his brow, seeing he wasn’t followed. He was not an alien, true, but what cost for surface beauty? Sugar’s Berries (their slogan: “ripe for pick’n”) stick pretty tight to her house, just like he and his fellow escapees Gregg Oden, Chuck Cheese, and Maury “Jiff” Monroe should keep close to the park, the calm eye center of a storm which contrasts to that eyewall location of greatest sound and fury.

But Sugar herself, being of greater vision and knowing all such storms have such centers, knew why they were there. Her counterpart Jacob I. had escaped in a larger way, with accomplice and experienced jail breaker Tiny Tina trampled under foot. These dudes and dudettes had nowhere to go, like caught in paper.

I will be a fly back at them, she thought the morning of learning about Pretty Man’s intrusion into her territory. They are in my vision and will not leave. I know where they are. There’s a secret parchment, secured by sealing wax, which might allow her control of the *other* “Sugar House” in town, the one now called the Gaston-Berry Police Station. Because there was no Berry to patrol. Berry did not exist except as a concept. This was her secret weapon.

Rolling the dice, she unrolled the parchment.

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Filed under *Second Life, Gaston, Heterocera, Rubi, Uncategorized

center>centre

“Uh huh.” More buzzing/squeaking from the floor. “I see.”

“What’s she saying?” asked a slumping Broken Heart from the other couch. She was pretty stoned.

“Hold on a minute.” Tina speaks again in her minute, tinny voice, understandable only to Jacob I. in the room. Perhaps it is because he’s closer to her, however, or just actually paying attention. The lawnmower continues to interact with the tiny being. “Alright, I guess we can do that.” Tina replies. “No, we don’t have the equipment or manpower for that, Tina.” After a small pause, Tina squeaks and buzzes for about 30 seconds more. “You take care as well, friend.” She scoots rapidly across the floor and out the door.

“So… what’s she saying?” queries Broken Heart again while remaining in a slumping position. She didn’t even realize Tina had left the scene.

“Jeffrie Phillips, that’s what,” replied a frowning Jacob I. “Centre,” he added.

—–

15 minutes earlier in Gaston’s Central Park, Pretty Man puts on the green ring. Everything changes.

“Over here, punk,” he calls to Earie Chuck after the deed is done. “I made a small detour.”

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Filed under *Second Life, Gaston, Purden/Snowlands, Sansara

trailers and chairs

Earie was walking past the red, blue and yellow chairs positioned in front of the art trailer when he heard Pretty Man snoring. At first he couldn’t tell what the sound was, but then a loud, pig-like grunt firmly indicated to him the presence of another human being. He moved toward the trailer’s dark interior and watched the folded body on the dirty mattress and rugs within heave up and down a minute, sometimes with a twitch. This guy was obviously in deep dreamland. Shame to wake him, Earie thinks, and decides to move onward through Central Park to the Joint Joint, where Jacob I. and Broken Heart Jackie were most likely waiting. But with an even louder grunt, Pretty Man then rolls over on his other side and opens his eyes. “Don’t pull a knife on me, friend. I ain’t dangerous.”

“Sit up, then, and let’s take a look at you,” the pink haired punk commanded. He didn’t have a knife on him currently, but two pistols were tucked in the back of his belt. Pretty Man sat up and started looking all around, as if in a haze. “Art is everywhere,” he then said. “In the sky, in my hands.” He looked at his hands. “In your hair.” He gazed at Earie’s mohawk. “*Especially* in your hair. Where you from, fellow dude?”

Earie had concluded this person was obviously stoned on something. He definitely *wasn’t* going to tell him where he lived in town. So he made up a place. “Butcher shop,” he said. “Upstairs.”

“Ah, Wanesa the Slasher. And I didn’t know her shop had an upstairs… thought they cut that off back in the 30’s.” Pretty Man stared at Earie’s head again. “Your mohawk thinks you’re lying,” he said, and then laid back down on the old mattress in the trailer and started to laugh, face upwards and arms spread. Earie wondered if he could tell just by the tone of his voice or if he’s one of those true psychics. Their services are more expensive than the whores. Sometimes you can get a two for one deal at a discount, but he’s only heard about such things; Earie doesn’t engage with Gaston’s Berry imports if he can help it. And, gandering at Pretty Man’s current pose, this led to the another thought: that this *man* in front of him could be a woman in disguise. He’s never heard of a male psychic. Or a male prostitute, at least around these parts.

“What’s your business, here, partner?” Earie inserted amidst the continued chuckles. He voiced some of his suspicions. “Man whore? Man *psychic*?”

Pretty Man’s laughter petered away, and he dismissed Earie’s guesses with a wave of his hand. He sat up again. He stood up out of the trailer, looking in the direction of Earie’s Yellow House. Does he know already? Earie pondered. He briefly goes around the trailer’s corner and comes back with a cup of coffee, steaming hot somehow. He sits down in the red chair. Earie just stares at him, wondering if he should take a seat as well.

But then Pretty Man pops back up and states, “this isn’t the right chair,” and then looks at his coffee. “And this is not the right drink, pheh.” He spits the beverage he just partook of out on the road beside him. Pretty Man goes around the corner of the trailer again, returning with a beer bottle this time and hops back up in the trailer, leaning against the wall. “The red one is not mine,” he reinforces. “That’s… what’s his name?” Earie gets tingles. He *must* know.

Pretty Man moved to the edge of the trailer again and looked directly into Earie’s face. “Chro-ma,” he pronounced distinctly. “Sit down in your *yellow* chair, and let’s have a talk Earie,” he then said to the stunned punk. “And of course I’ll take my blue one.”

Improvio.

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Filed under *Second Life, Gaston, Uncategorized

pretty things

“Bucket of nails,” requests Wilson to Terry. “And make it bloody.”

“Ahem,” intercedes Baker Bloch. “Not open yet, Wilson. Sorry.”

“Yeah, sorry,” echoes Terry. He tries to size up his new potential customer, but can’t quite make out what’s the deal-i-o. Baker helps.

“So you’re a man again,” he states to Wilson.

“Yeah. A pretty man. Let me show you. You haven’t seen yet.”

“Just a glimpse at the police station. How’s Burt the Cop doing?”

“Brutus?” replies Wilson. “Prostitute problems as usual. Gaston’s filled with them, even choking on them. Berries. Cherry, Raspberry, Blueberry. Lemon. Yes, Berry is fully intertwined with Gaston. You knew Lemon on Mars didn’t you?”

“I did,” states Baker, thinking back fondly to his stay in futuristic INSCO. “Have you seen her? She ran around with Sugar then, but wasn’t a prostitute (like her) at the time. Circumstances must have changed. Science is getting tough to swallow for many.”

“I’m not sure she’s really a whore there,” says Wilson. “She could be undercover. Brutus hinted at so much. Purple Gang. Burt Lake Band. Crooked.”

“Oden, then,” responds Baker.

“Yeah. Have you seen him?”

“Old Gregg?”

“Right.”

“Maybe a glimpse as well at Morrison. Rockabilly Cafe. But we’re done filming there.” He pauses. “And you haven’t shown me the new face yet.”

Wilson changes.

“That’s way too pretty, man,” Baker offers. “For a man. How about a scar? What do you think Terry?”

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Filed under *Second Life, Heterocera, Rubi, Uncategorized

prep

“Terry. I’m glad you’re here already.”

“Yup. Mr. R. sent me ahead to set up the place, make sure all the correct drinks are loaded up, (and) so on. We’re playing cards later tonight. On the clock, of course.”

“Of course,” Baker Bloch responds.

“Sorry we don’t quite have our license nailed down in Minoa yet,” the green fire-ickle states.

“Perfectly all right. Just checking to see how things were going.”

“Mr. R. should be here by the end of the month, first of next month at the latest, Mr. Bloch.”

“Baker, please.”

“Mr. Baker. Mr. B.” Terry emits that cool clicking sound with his mouth again and points. Baker is a bit smitten himself. Such a groovy dude.

—–

“Norum,” Wilson Wheeler says. “This is the place.”

“And there is the man.”

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Filed under *Second Life, Heterocera, Rubi, Uncategorized