Tag Archives: RUBLES

squeegeed

“Using the tip from Sally, we followed the car all the way to the entrance of the park but could go no further. *Fifes* Grove Park, like in Barney Fife.”

“Like in Barney *Rubles*,” emphasized Man About Time, fascinated with the new information. He hardly ever emphasized anything in his speech, so mild manner and calm and cool and collected he is. But this seemed different. They had found a way… inside.”

“I thought you might want to know, being second in command of this here chilly town in the mountains.”

“So beige,” said MAT almost religiously. But he understood. “In case something happens to me,” is the unspoken sentiment.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0027, 0212, Collagesity Fordham, Iowa, Lower Austra^, Nautilus, Upper Austra^

00270103

“Picturetown, huh?” He glanced back at his prospective new customer, unable to see the holes in his head from this angle. Well, he *does* take the flights that no one else will cover, including flying to imaginary countries, counties, and cities if needed. Last week it was Oz. Week before: Wonderland. One of the Alices wanted to go home to visit a sick aunt who might or might not be on her deathbed, hard to tell. But she had to find out. Then before that: he couldn’t recall. Maybe Texarkana. “Sure, I’ll do it,” he said, not wanting to delay his reply any longer, wanting to exude confidence that he could get the job done. He’s checked all the maps in the meantime. No Picturetown in Canada or anywhere else in the world. But he’ll get him there. All he needs is the coordinates, and he can get them from Chuck and his special computer tapped into the Lemon World, the one no one is suppose to know about. Chuck connects him to the fantasy lands, and for that he gets a hefty wage in *real* money, not that fake green crap they peddle at, say, Oz. Rubles, someone tried to hand him the other day after a flight to Borneo. “No rubles,” he said in return. “*Real* money,” and he kept his hand out until actual, metal coins were laid in it, signifying a completed sales transaction. Paper money doesn’t hack it for our Marion “Star” Harding, former ace pilot in the World Wide Web War, version 2.0. Since then they’d come out with 3.0 and he was back at his desk, back to being a private pilot specializing in the weird and even profane, like sneaking the elf hookers out of Santaland and back to Easter Isle where they belong. Bunnies, he thought here. Nothing but bunnies. “5:15 tomorrow okay for you?” he asked the prospective customer, working with numbers on his computer at the same time he thought all this other stuff.

“Sure.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0027, 0103, Nautilus, Upper Austra^

allure

—–

“All gone,” she exclaims in a thick accent as Marty walks up from behind, probably Russian. “Ruble.”

“Rubles?” Marty attempted as a (weak) joke. She turns. There was gold in her eyes.

Marty checked her profile. She seemed to be an artist, or was at least attached to an art colony. He decided to head there next. Maybe they would have more information about these Ruins of Lustre off the coast of Roost. But not that Roost: a different one. One that Marty knew quite well through Lemon back in the days. Roost Never Sleeps. It’s where Lemon was formed, actually. But it all seemed a big blur now. Too much excitement; too much hot coffee; too much *speed*.

She couldn’t come. She was stuck at this centerpoint, a mere marker. “Goodbye girl with the golden eyes!” he cried while flying away.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0026, 0310, Nautilus, NORTH, Rim Isles, Rooster's Peninsula

he died in Washington D.C.

One wasn’t suppose to do so, but Mrs. Misty Dorn often walked the 150 or so meters from her Philo retro-home to the lip of what “later” became known as the Catsocks Sinkhole, a portmanteau name derived from the Catalpa and Tussock sims which share the depression.

And behind her from this vantage point: the main gallery of hot tempered artist Angelina Dickenson who drove Pitch Darkly and Buster Damm from VHC City spring before last. Like driving Frankenstein’s Monster away from the village with fire, except in this case vampire monsters are involved instead of collaged together, electronically activated beings.

But Misty knew them as tamed pussycats: a rather henpecked Pitch (by Mary) and a somewhat dominated Buster (by Bettie). Like a modern day Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubles they are, neighboring Collagesity pals who enjoy going on adventures and do male bonding stuff with each other like bowling for dollars. Totally harmless; the sustaining blood they need now supplied by an herbal substitute distilled from locally grown turnip plants. The progression of monster medicine!

She turned back to the hole. But it all started here. Birthplace of Monsters they will also deem it, not technically true but that is how it will be remembered. Plane crash. Mary had told her all about it. She said everyone within a 1000 meter radius of VHC City came to witness the aftermath. And the insulated crates containing Pitch, Buster and others which were opened, freeing their contents. No humans survived, although they were they ones who wrecked the plane. On purpose. The rallying cry according to legend: “Let’s rock.” The target: well, most would assume the giant Hotel Chelsea itself only 300 meters from the site, not much further away than her own house in Philo. A fascinating and tragic story, which upon retelling Mary usually got a little choked up about. Not only for the dead humans but the still living, breathing monsters who emerged from the intact tail piece. The ones who received part of the blame, however undeserved. Like her husband Pitch. Mr. Mary.

She rose from the ground. But it was time to get back to Philo and meet with Septimius, who offered to come over and escort her down to Swindon’s Coffee and Tea Emporium in the center of town. She had other plans, however. Might as well get it over with because the event was inevitable. She knew Septimius, or the man behind Septimius, and the attraction would reach a logical conclusion. He didn’t have a General Grant tucked away in his back pocket like didn’t-die-in-Vain Abraham Lincoln, but it was still upon him. Thus the reason he thinks the 28th president of the United States is a female. Trees. Giant tree. The largest in the world, between it and Sherman, another back pocket filler upper. Another 2 fer 1, it seems.

With her standard 128 meter draw she could just make out the top of an autumn tree in Philo from this perspective. The town is afire with leaves brightly burning yellow, orange, red. If only their user’s real life world beyond the mirror was so blessed.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0011, 0110, Heterocera, Myron^

treed

Marion Harding sometimes went back to Unity Pond where the breakdowns were first noted. No sign of them today, however. Maybe they went away? Doubtful, though, he then realized, taking a last toke before throwing away the remainder of his joint into the murky waters. The aberrations would return.

He had smoked enough. Time to meet Golden Joe in the tree.

—–

“Rubles. Barney Rubles,” the golden head answered to Marion Harding’s first question in his deep, ghetto voice, which was: “What do I do with the ring, the core?” Maybe he didn’t phrase it succinctly enough (even though he did). He tried again, simpler this time. “Why am I here?” Golden Joe sprouted closer to him out of the tree limb so that he could look directly into Marion’s eyes. “Let’s talk more face to face, man. Marion Man.”

—–

Golden Joe winked out again. The tree changed. Marion could feel the energy elevate all around him. He stood up to take in the panorama. Various types of different, colorful plants had sprung out of its limbs now.

Marion felt he was home. Home at last. Not the fishing shack over in Horizons-Spica. But here. He must remember this feeling later, he said to himself. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.

He walked down the limb he was on into one of the tree’s main joints. A patio appeared to his left, connected to it by a long, descending ramp. All was translucent green crystal.

Someone called. “Marion, I’m down here, bud!” Distinctly the voice of Golden Joe again, but more feminine and less Godly and booming. Matching more the full name of the, er, character, he realized: Josephine.

Lured by the summon, Marion headed downward. He’d have to also remember the blend of pot he was smoking today, a weaving he called it while improvising the mix. Good work me!

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0007, 0510, Capitol City^, Gaeta V^^