“I think Moe stands for Missouri, Hucka Doobie. I believe Moe may own a Moe or Mo Island above and beyond a CC tavern. He knows the Parkville guy. They have the same boss.”
“Bed,” Hucka simply says.
Cassandra City still holds promise but probably not for this here current photo-novel. Baker Bloch must take his leave, rented apartment in town unused. Big Dick, a Phil actually, waits patiently in the corner of his hotel lobby, looking forward to more communication through the aether.
Story possibilities in Heartsdale, a major driver early on in photo-novel 20, have most likely been exhausted as well. Let’s return there for a similar, final shot: Baker Bloch in front of Small Wood posing with Teddy, a black and white horse owned by an avatar named Zero.
Both glimpse Philip Strevor through a broken gate to the sidewalk. Strangely, the duplicate Yoko Ona that also walked around this particular Heartsdale block is gone now. Yoko as a whole has probably moved on from this sim.
There seems to be more in Iris, a place to be focused on still. For example, there’s a kind of, um, inexplicable “hole” in the center of the 4-5 sim region owned by [delete name], who may actually, in Real Life, be [delete word]. If so, *Crooked* seems to be a link. The prominence of the Moth Temple seen in the background here, the “eye” of the whole Heterocera continent, could play a role in the hypothetical overshadowing of this mystery spot.
Toppsity? I’m not sure what took place in the trial of Yoko Ona. We *know* that she spat on Baker Bloch when he tried to turn her right-side up from upside down while both were fishing in Heartsdale Bay, the last Heartsdale related post in this here photo-novel actually. You don’t spit on the chief avatar of a blog, the one the owner most identifies with, and get away with it — at least in the blog itself, where we still are last time I checked. (pause) Yes, I just checked. We are still in the blog.
But the witches of her coven eliminated original judge Tronesisia: drowned, with a possible saving ship arriving too late in the early afternoon after the late morning accident. Then the several witnesses we know of — Miss Raincoat (aka Sammy Whatammy), Uncle Stinky, and probably Crayola as well (aka Tammy Whatammy?) — have all been linked to maleficent forces too. Wait, let me check that again. (pause) Uncle Stinky has *not* been associated with such forces. He still can be used by the prosecutor George A., who we’ve not talked about since that particular post either. So we should return to Toppsity and finish the trial. Defendant Yoko Ona may be called to the stand herself. *That* could be interesting.
Philip Strevor was his own boss for a while but that changed when he entered the Red Room and met Casey One Hole, the bastard. From then on, he worked for him; boss no more. Instead he was a grunt man, bullying underlings and upward mobile wannabes. Like Whatammys except transparent. Sammy Whatammy, aka Miss Raincoat, waited in the waiting room to be seen next by Philip. Then it was Yoko Ona (upward mobile wannabe) and then Zapppa (underling). The place was still heavily bugged.
“Never mind the sign,” he made the obligatory apology to start. “I’m not the boss any more. *He* is. He calls the shots, sometimes golf shots, sometimes other kinds of shots, if you know what I mean.” He stared at Miss Raincoat/Sammy Whatammy, expecting an answer. “Do you *know*… what I *mean*?” he repeated more sinisterly, as was appropriate at this juncture. He’d seen it happen. He didn’t want to see someone face that kind of music again. Pizza!
“I testified just like [delete name] wanted me to. I said all the words I was suppose to say.” She repeated some of the words here: “Underwater. Sinky. Blub blub blub. Just like [delete name] told me.”
“Why can’t you say [delete name]?”
The name of our (actual) boss. [Delete name]. Dang! Now I’m doing it too. Must be [delete word].”
“[Delete name][delete word] is obviously [delete word][delete name]. Reversed.”
“*That* bloodied vampire? That imbecile? Impossible.”
“I believe [delete word].”
“*He’s* Casey One Hole? Played by ever method actor Tom Casey? Dang!”
(to be continued?)
Sammy Whatammy went home after work and just sat here usually. She never saw sister Tammy. Nammy and Pammy never called — it’s like they didn’t exist. Only Crayola and herself, waiting for this mysterious boss to show up.
“How long was it last week? 3 weeks?”
“Welllllll,” replied Crayola, stretching out words with her large red mouth like she’s wont to do. “Tiiiimme does work difffereeentllly upp therrrrre.”
Looking down at her still normalized shoes, the only bit that remained, she remembered why she never saw Tammy: Witchery.
“Yooouurr cryiinnng. Wouldd youu like anotther sheeetttt?”
Two weeks and 36 bar shifts later, the boss shows up, golf club in hand. This was his club, and Sammy and Crayola were his
“Hey!” he harshly cried through the underwater window. “Wake up in there and open the door!”
“Though I might find you in here Wheeler, er, Flip.”
“Flip it is.” She flips her hair lightly with this.
“How’s ‘Beach’? I hear you’re working directly with Roger Pine Ridge this time. Great! Like Stanley K. and Arthur C. on ‘2001’. How is Stanley K. anyhoot?”
“How would I know?” Wheeler/Flip returned flippantly. Maybe “innocently” would be a better word there.
“Oh… right. How come no one wants to work with me?”
The seriousness of the question after surreal nonsense surprised the new dooed girl, former ruler of Collagesity, present ruler of Iris and Heterocera as a whole, including the (diagonal) lines, the whole hand. She was still in charge over here. Maybe it was best to move away from the Rubi Woods. Perhaps it was cursed after all, just like Karl claimed. Poor Karl.
I say most of this to Wheeler in the pause. Unlike what Cyberpaperdoll could do, she turns to face me. “You don’t suspect who I am yet.”
“I have my suspicions,” countered bloodied Baker, presently an inept werewolf named Ditch Parkly to balance his similarly inept vampire Pitch Darkly.
“I’m from the future.”
“I might have guessed.”
Wheeler/Flip returned her attention to her drink. A bucket of blood hold the nails. She was just tempted to splatter it all over herself and become a match to Baker over there. Bartender Sammy Whatammy, brother to Tammy and perhaps Gammy (Nammy, Pammy?), had gone to the grocery store over on the piers — should be back any minute. Baker Bloch used the opportunity to probe a little further.
“Hucka Doobie and I think Collagesity may be a goner, *Flip*.”
“What do I care? It’s not my responsibility any longer.”
Another pause. Sammy returned with the needed supplies.
(to be continued?)
“Thank you for your testimony, Miss Raincoat. You can get rid of the evidence.”
“Thank you my liege.”
“Does the prosecution have, er, any more witnesses to call today? Choose carefully. This case seems almost open and closed.”
“If you will my lord and liege, I call to the stand Uncle Stinky, a long time sailor of the Blue Feather Sea of this fair and fine continent.”
Judge Tronesisia looks around the court, sniffing a bit. Then she spots him with both senses as he enters from the right, grazing the shopping cart full of toilet paper in the process. “Pardon me,” he says while staring into wheeling Miss Raincoat’s stormy eyes. It was hate at first sight. And smell. They would meet much later, but she would be a mechanoid and he a pleasure drone on Alpha 9 by that time. Far far removed from this court perched on the 5th floor of the 5 story Burger Joint building. Prosecutor George A. lived right smack in the middle on the 3rd. You could say this was home base for him. He was in his element, stinky or not. He approached the bench after the witness was seated and the dirty air around him settled down.
“Now Uncle… Stinky is it?”
“Yeah. What of it?” True to a sailor he was salty, he was fishy, oily even. The odor might not be that unpleasant if it was Friday at, say, 5-7 o’clock.
George A. briefly contemplated asking him how he got his name and then dismissed it as irrelevant to the case. This was his ace in the hole. No room for error from this point on. He had to be tack sharp (!). Instead: “Tell us about your adventures on the sea. *The* Sea.”
“The Cube?” Uncle Stinky shot back, like a cannon on a ship of military design. “*The* Cube?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” George A. answered back. He turned and explained to the court that the Blue Feather Sea is often called the Blue Feather Cube or just “The Cube” by locals of the area. He doesn’t go into detail. He turns and asks a follow up. “Do you know about The Mermaid? The Mermaid at the bottom of said Sea? Or Cube?”
“Yeah, sure. But we on the western side of the sea call it The Porpoise.”
“Um — you mean The Jellyfish.”
“Objection,” barked defense attorney Cat-Witch behind him. “The prosecutor is leading the witness.”
“Overruled.” Tronesisia was fair if antiquated. She would see the truth through, like a bloodhound. “Answer the question, Mr. Stinky.”
(to be continued)