Tag Archives: Rocky Racco^*~~~~~

small variations matter

“I’m telling you, Jack. They’ve forgotten everything. The war’s over, they go home. Then slowly, one by one, they make their way back .They pick up their arms once more, if they have any arms left to pick them up from the last time. Or maybe they just grow back. Like lizards do. Jack — are you listening to me? You seem distracted. I’m saying–”

“Hitler’s dead, is what all the papers say,” the youthful bartender mutters anxiously to the raccoon man, returned to the Jeogeot Gulf for a timely visit. “Yet the Japs fight on. Soon the war will be over. But then I wake up, it’s 1939 all over again. Poland is invaded.” Jack starts to sob a little here. “It just starts *over*.”

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to *tell* you Jack. I should know. I started out as a private and rose in the ranks to a 5 star general in charge of the whole caboodle. I said, from this position of power: this is it. Surrender. Go home y’all. Lay down your arms… all the things you said. Then I come back and everything is unlearned, undone. Tell me Jack.” He takes another sip of insipid beer, probably American. “Do you even know what side you’re fighting for any more? Some don’t.” He turns and looks at the 1/2 filled bar of military personnel. “If the uniforms were a little grayer here, a little drabber there, I don’t think anyone would know.”

Jack wipes the counter down nervously, thinking that 1/2 the people in the room are watching him and half aren’t. But he doesn’t know which. He tries to determine friend from foe through the caps and helmets but all the lines get blurred together. He’s lost it. He needs to go home but he doesn’t even know where that is any more. Home is here I suppose, he says to himself. He pours two shots of Jack Daniels, one for the raccoon man and one for himself. “Here’s to home,” he proclaims while raising his glass, resigned to the fact. Over in one gulp, he pours another while 1/2 the room still eyes him.

Rocky Racco stares intently down into his own empty glass like it was a scrying device, and maybe it was. He needs to figure out what went awry with his plans and end it for good this time. This smells like a Casey One Hole case in his estimation (he channels?), with everyone vying for that damned mustard seed.

(to be continued)

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stories

Now who will play the part of Moe, h(u)mm? ponders private dick Biff Carter, still redding that read book, ahem, *reading* that *red* book. *The* red book. Maybe a dame, he thinks. How about that new gal with the dangerous curves, aheh. Uhum. Danger… that reminded him of something. Something dead. He sniffs the air. Oh… something *new* again. Dead cat soap — just in at the local Hurdy Gurdy. He can’t stop washing with it. Wash your hands wash your hands wash your hands…

He heads downstairs toward the sink with the stinking, gritty, extra strength soap for the 15th time today.

—–

“Scrub a dub dub (whistle), scrub a dub dub (more whistling).” The phone rings upstairs. He patiently counts to twenty using Mississippi’s as the rings mount to 7. He rushes back while drying his hands and putting on his bullet proof work gloves before eight. *Riiiiin-*

—–

“Pizza?? No thanks, ahem. I’ve already ate.”

—–

He set the reciever back down in the antique carriage. Took him a while to figure it out. Wrong number, he ruminated. Or was it exactly the *right* number, ohho?

—–

He consults the magic eight ball at the other end of the bar for the next move. “Uh huh. Dead and Danger *are* the same thing.” He knew that something with the word dog in its name was coming up. Stand back!

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second

Whiteness. Purity. Sometimes associated with milk deliveries but most often not. These are the qualities you hear about storied Storybrook, legendary in upper east west central Corsica Prime. Until the day of May 2, 2020, when the Big Inside was finally exposed for what it was.

Rocky could almost see it from his laying spot in the dog park above. If only he were 12 feet taller maybe the story would be different, with brook becoming a book.

But no one saw the event. Marsha “Pink” Krakow and new bestie Frankie “Beige” McCracken (later changed to “Brown” for practical reasons) just figured that creepy photography (and calligraphy) teacher Tom Eugene Banks had given Jake “Mr. Fix It” Trimmer a ride home after work, never mind that he had 3 hours left on his shift. The girls weren’t thinking that deeply about it. They had other adventures in mind that day. A trip inside the Big, um, Inside.

Jane Olive Green had already gone and come away unimpressed. SEAN swore off the thing, calling both girls “ho’s” and leaving on a jet plane back to the New Orleans Blues Little Rock bar over near Ashelaven, 5 years in the past, 5 years in the past, 5 years in the past. That left only Frankie for Marsha to bum around with on her most important mission to date. To find the beating heart of this Inside, where everything comes from and everything will go. Beyond the white purity of the surface. This was black, this was deep. This was starless. And a red book shall lead them.

“What does it say about your mother, Pink?” prompts Frankie later on the lower level of the Wired and Wireless, their favorite hangout and where they met. But at the same time she couldn’t stop tittering about the joke Pink just told concerning 2 elephants with conjoined trunks. So funny.

“It says…” She thumbs to the correct page: “‘A banana in a boat is worth two in the bush.'”

“That’s something.”

“*Somewhere* something,” Marsha “Pink” Krakow reinforces to her remaining bestie in town.

Time to head down to Southside for another row row row your boat ride.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0019, 0402, Corsica^^, Storybrook

manimals

“We’re going to have to leave, Rocky. Like the Hendersons before us. Perch — his mansion has been empty for a while, maybe 3 months. We’ll have to take Dogg of course. The Mann loves that animal.”

“I see,” the anthropomorphic raccoon says from his laying stump.

“I don’t know what we’ll do about a dog park in the new place, the new town. I’m sure we won’t have anything like this.”

“No.” Then Rocky Racco, who’d been living in Storybrook 3 months himself and had no desire to leave atall, asked this question which had been on his mind for awhile. “Do you believe in sea monsters, Mrs. Mann?”

“Please. Call me Parasol. We’ve been talking together on this bench and stump for a while now, *Mr.* Racco. I call you Rocky, see. You call me Parasol.”

“Mrs. Parasol–”

“*Parasol,” interjected Parasol Mann. “Just: Parasol. The light skinned one,” she added. “Not the dark one. Things are different here in Storybrook. You have to adapt to the time, to the place. A story in a brook. Current.”

“Right…” But he couldn’t say her name aloud yet. He was overly formal like that.

An odor was in the air. The Dogg must have dumped a big one over there with The Mann, Parasol thinks, watching the end of it. Great Danes are like that. Then she remembered she hadn’t answered Rocky’s question from a while back. “Oh. To the sea monster thing: no.”

“Why not?” Rocky returned hurriedly, almost urgently. “Say, green ones. Wearing pink tutus with seaweed for hair. How about something like that?”

Not wanting to answer Rocky twice about the same subject she was firm about, The Mann approached her with The Dogg. “We’re all done.”

“I would hope,” Parasol answered, looking at the happy animal in front of her and still sniffing a bit.

“Did you have a good chat with your old pal Rocky while I was walking Dogg?” It was here that Parasol realized she hadn’t talked to Rocky about the most important thing. Her infidelity to The Mann. Her affair with Charlie Banana on those islands out in Southside Bay (Southside?). The breaking of her heart by same. Charlie Banana definitely had a way with yellow but red and blue were beyond his scope to comprehend, she’d learned. It was wrong.

But it would happen again. She got up to leave. “Goodbye Rocky. I’ll see you around.”

“Goodbye.” He still couldn’t do it, despite the circumstances.

“Ro rong,” Dogg said in parting, knowing this might be the last time he’d see his park buddy.

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directions

Whenever Ben gets lost or confused in his wanderings, he just types BENA into his map search box and returns here through it, to the center of Bena, formerly Bennington — with his bar straight ahead. Through this practice he’d learned, quite a long time ago at this point — about the time of the Vampire Coup I suppose — that his home sim now called Bena has a double, also named Bena. Or beginning with Bena. Anyway, it’s an ocean sim or water sim, more in the western reaches of the continent. And, just to its northwest, a kind of parallel town to here. One day he’d use this trick to escape the bar, the vampires, even his old werewolf friends that still come by his establishment every now and then, despite what the vampires told them to do. “Stay away,” they exclaimed after the coup. “The bar is ours, the *town* is ours. And then they brought in that foreign lawyer Rebl to seal the deal. How many forms did he have to sign back in the day? Too many to remember. Bennington to Bena, pheh.

He turned around in place and stared at Northeast Bloodbath Castle, so named because of a bath of blood (the king’s favorite in olden days) instead of a murder spree of some kind. “Wonder if that Rocky Racco writer guy ever made it over there to fish?” he wonders aloud. “Guess I should have told him about the sea monster that guards the place, hehe.” Ben Wolf ponders about the last time he saw Gregg Oden, aka the “monster”. Probably 20 years ago at this point. Just walked in the bar, ordered a Baileys and poured it in his shoe and drank it down, and then walked back toward the bay, shouting, “I’m Gregg Oden!” before the waters took his slimy green, pink tutu wearing figure again. He’s always looking for a man-wife after he shows them his shiny man-gina, and perhaps this Rocky Racco will turn out to be a suitable one this time. But the odds are stacked way against him.

Ben exits the bay and walks into town, but passes his bar — empty anyways (day hours) — on the way to Rocky’s now vacated cave, his old home when Bena was Bennington. The “Wolf Den.”

He could live here again, he ruminates while sitting on the soft, cushy pillows within. But that would mean…

The pack wouldn’t understand, despite the weakening down through the years. They’d still tear her to shreds, pull out her head and all her limbs and wave them about while howling their crazy “traitor songs” maniacally. Once married to a wolf, always a Wolf yourself, he understood. The surname Phox she cooked up one drunken evening was a sardonic play on words. She knew it was Wolf still and told it to everyone who asked, saying the other name was a joke and then usually laughed a bit to emphasize this. Funny Phyllis Phox, people thought about her. Guess that led to the stand up comedy. Which led to the novels.

No, he’d have to think of another way. Perhaps involving this other Bena, yes…

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0018, 0214, Benangatron, Corsica^^

another return

Rocky Racco sat in front of his typewriter waiting for a story to happen but it never did.

He went to the theatre to try to envision a play being acted out onstage, perhaps an interpretation of the novel he couldn’t start. Didn’t work.

What *was* it about this place, Old Ben — Bennington — but now New Ben: Bena? Creativity seemed to be sapped from the town. Before going back to his cave-home and sleeping the rest of the day for lack of anything else to do, Rocky decided to go visit Ben at the town bar, the center of it all down through the years, gluing old and new together to make something most likely not quite as good as either.

“Creative drought, eh?” he responded to Rocky’s confession of writer’s block. “You know what I do when something like that happens to me? Go fishing.” He looks to the large castle out in the water with this, tucked away in the northeast corner of the sim. Quite similar in this positioning to the Northeast Castle of the Hilling sim featured in the last section of this here photo-novel, perhaps too much so. There be the answers, Rocky realized, picking up on Ben’s accent in his mind. He’d have to rent a boat.

“One more thing, laddie, before you be renting that boat,” Ben further advised. “You be also seeking a double to this town, but not Hilling. Don’t go back to Hilling.” Rocky was thinking: I’ve never been to Hilling and don’t even know where that is. Maybe that was his problem. He didn’t have enough backstory himself to go off and start creating microcosms of reality through books and plays.

He recalls… something about a hotel. Yes. I can start there.

“Hello, anyone… here?”

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lite rehearsal

“This Lena Horned is good, admittedly.” Older Keith B. looks over at the singer currently crooning “The Ballad of Stormy Daniel.” He then leans closer to Kate McCoy sitting beside him. “But she’s not as good as my little girl.”

A noncommittal Kate turns toward the dance floor. “Well… Zach and The Mann seem to be enjoying it enough.”

“And The Dogg too,” Keith B. laughingly adds.

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Presidents’ Ball 04

“Money, get back / I’m all right, Jack / Keep your hands off my stack / New car / Caviar / Four-star daydream / Think I’ll buy me a football team.”

The gala crowd erupts, to which Sprite adds on top: “Tear down this wall, Mr. Orange!”. The crowd continues to clap. A “Tear Down The Wall” chant begins slowly, then builds, until Alo Bama takes the mic and motions everyone to calm down.

“*Freedom*. (pause) It’s what everyone wants, everyone cherishes.” Alo Bama indicates Sprite sitting back in the crowd. “Like our tree friend Mr. Sprite, waiting to be unencumbered by the shackles of The Wall, ready to join Wallytown as a *full* *fledged* *citizen*.”

The crowd claps enthusiastically again. “With inalienable rights,” he says over them, calming them down once more. “And established levels of treatment honoring decency, character (pause), respect.” “You go Alo!” someone shouts in the rear, prompting him to reply, “I’m going, I’m going. ” Scattered laughter is heard. “I’m telling it like it is.”

—–

“I thought you were going to dramatically change into Green Squirrel or Roger Pine Ridge or something to show who you really are,” spoke Natali seated beside Sprite now, his date for the night.

“Ahh, it just didn’t seem to fit the bill. Didn’t feel right. It was *my* poem and that’s what counts.”

“I suppose… oh he’s starting to talk about the Bottle Mound indians now.”

—–

“On the one hand,” Alo Bama extends his left arm and opens his hand. “Orange. On the other…” Alo Bama extends his other arm with the mic. “Purple… Violet, some say, although they prefer the former and we should respect (pause) their rights. And they’ve fought with each other, fought, fought, fought, down through the years, the centuries (pause). And what’s come of it, hmm?” A “free the trees” protest comes from the same person as before in the back. Alo Bama ignores it this time.

“Death is what came of it. And *disappearance* (pause) in time.”

—–

“You know he really is quite the orator,” opined Dr. I.C. Yourinsides to Captain Spocari. But when he didn’t respond she found that he’d fallen asleep.

“*Really* Captain. But I guess you’re all knackered out from this afternoon, hehe. Twice a day keeps the doctor okay.”

—–

“And now. (pause) The Mound. (pause) Comes here. Leemon or Leeman standing on the beach just beyond 1/2 refuses to even admit it is there. He can’t fully *see* (pause) this *new* New Island. The Greys *descend*…

… and fall backwards, face down (pause) in the sand.”

—–

“When’s he going to get to Jimmy?” whispers Billy Bloodsworth on a back couch to Lavender. “I can tell he’s nervous up there, ready to come out of his shell like Alo Bama and Bill C. did before him.”

“Be patient,” replies his sister-in-law. “He has to get to the point in his own, circular way. That’s what makes him such a great speaker.”

“Jimmy was better.”

“Nice of you to say.”

“He *was.*”

(to be continued)

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burning

“New Island, Rocky; Mid Hazel’s place to the right. If you cross that bridge, go down that road, you may never come back.”

“I hear ya, sister. Let’s go back to the night club. *Our* night club now. No renting any more. Don’t dwell on all this bad stuff. Turn your back on it. Literally… turn around.”

So Tronesisia takes Rocky’s advice and pivots away from the bridge to face full on the island that is truly home now. Her new New Island. Or at least Fisher’s.

She has become mobile again and will not return.

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no brainer

“Ground Zero, my friend,” spoke Philip over the music. “Ground Zero.”

Staring at the Jack Daniels whiskey bottle in front of him, Marion nodded.

“Over the Rainbow” and “On the Run” combined.

—–

That last track was simply beautiful, Tronesisia. It’s as if Judy Garland came back from the dead and took the mic again.”

“Thank you. My friends call me Sissy. Please. Call me Sissy.” She winked her robotic blue eye seductively at Philip Strevor. Then she did the same to Marion Harding seated beside him, except with the other eye. Two blue eyes.

“And your Pink Floyd rendition, Rocky. What can I say but wowzers. Wowzers! You both are so great.”

“We appreciate it,” chipped in bass voiced Rocky Rocco, who hasn’t been seen since way back in Collagesity novel 6. “I had an excellent teacher for that one.”

Tronesisa nodded in agreement. “Excellent indeed.”

Rocky leans over and pats Tronesisia’s silver knee. “And you too, dear.”

Tronesisia suddenly gets a sad, faraway look in her eyes. “It is so, it is so.”

“Sooo… let’s get down to business.” Unglueing his gaze from the bottle still in front of him, Marion Harding opens the briefcase full of money.

“L$50,000,” said Philip without looking. “It’s all we have right now.”

“That will do,” returned Tronesisia.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” agreed Rocky quickly. Tronesisia and Rocky steal a winning glance at each other.

—–

“He’s in here.”

“God I hate spiders, Marion. You go first.”

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