Tag Archives: Snowbob^*

Hearts 02

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She was back at Cry I. but underwater now. Down to a putter: end of hole.

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This was the night she met Dr. Low with red and blue eyes. Splitsville.

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But first… some lemonade at the conveniently placed Joker’s Wild bar to her left. Old Grey awaits through the Red Door.

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—–

“Guess it’s time for that heart to heart, Old Mabel,” she starts. “Lemonade’s on me tonight. Karl!” she then yells, banging her cane on the bar counter. She waits just a second and bangs again. “Rhoda! Whoever!”

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“Oh it’s you. ‘Bout time. Well… a 24 oz can of Pabst Blue Ribbon for me and the little lady will have a lemonade. Start a tab.”

“I’m 113 years old, *Old* Grey,” the Martian proclaims defiantly. She then glared at Snowbob behind the counter. The last time she saw the hybrid being was in the mystery cabinet or closet or whatever. She didn’t really like what was happening there, but perhaps it was all a dream.

“Yellow is missing,” he said, staring back. “Replaced by green!”

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“He’s right this time, you know,” agreed Old Grey. The Martian now noticed the lemonade already in front of him.

Splitsville.

—–

Snowmanster exits the closet.

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What might have been.

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Red Read

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“Father, when will mother be joining us?” asked Snowbob the man-child.

“Corsica,” indicated the father. “Corsica, Corsica, Corsica!”

“She’s not going to be here anytime soon. Is she?” The father doesn’t answer this time. Both stare blankly into space.

Snowbob is beginning to theorized his family won’t be staying in Collagesity long. The house payment hasn’t gone through yet. Their furniture is still in storage. Even though he manged to get the main gate to the property open yesterday, there was still some kind of invisible barrier that he had to jump over to come inside — a sign. And his father’s skin had turned from yellow to green. A mysterious malady, because he seems perfectly normal. But Snowbob keeps recheckeding his father’s outfit list behind him. Always green skin instead of the previous yellow. Yellow is missing. Yellow is missing!

—–

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I’ve got to solve this case so I can get out of here! thought Owens, wearing the mantle of private detective now.

Tired of staring at roshambo images, he sat down at The Table and enjoyed more leftover wine from the diner. By this time he was drinking straight from the bottle. “Reading anything interesting?” he asked Curled Paper across from him, trying to start up a conversation once more. “‘Winesap’? Sounds intriguing.” But Curled Paper still said nothing (his light was off). Paper, he then thought. Curled Paper. Another clue?

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“I wonder where The Librarian went?” he tried again. “He always seems to be here, sitting.”

“Bathroom break, let’s say,” then uttered Tin S. Man in his low voice from the left. “It takes him a while.” Owens had forgotten the metal being was alive. Someone to talk to while he drinks. Nice!

“Well, er… what do I call you?” He squinted up at the giant’s kind face.

“Tin S., please. Like the game. Like the sport. It’s always love something for me. My ego and aggression are always zeroed out.”

“Well that’s fascinating, Tin S.,” Owens spoke while taking another sip of wine from his bottle. “So rude,” he then said of himself, lifting the bottle toward Tin S. Man. “Want any?”

“I cannot drink wine, only oil. Wine makes me tipsy. When I fall down, I cannot get up because of my massive weight. Only oil please. Do you have a bottle of oil?”

“Not on me, no. Maybe later. Listen, Tin. S., how did you get here? I mean, why are you at The Table along with the others? Old Mabel mentioned you were a famous musician inside that outer casing. Dave something. Davis?”

“Davies,” corrected Tin S. Man. “That is a true inner form, yes.” He paused.

“What’s the purpose of all this?”

Tin S. Man moved his joints slightly, then asked a question back: “What do you know of our user?”

“I know that Baker Bloch is the main channel for the user who goes by the same name.”

“Baker B., close enough,” said Tin S. Man.

“And… um, I guess The Table, as far as I understand, represents a gathering of variants, mainly musicians like yourself, who have, er, *donated* their work to a greater whole. This Table.” He then knocks on The Table to reinforce his answer.

“Are you staying in town long enough to attend the next Table meeting?” asked Tin S. Man.

“I *hope* not,” returned Owens. He needed to get back to the roshambo images. Something about that yellow hand. Paper. Switch. He pulled the little, wine stained slip of paper from his coat pocket and read it again. This is the one found in Baker Bloch’s own wine. “Pill” is all it said.

“Reading anything interesting?” The giant smiles.

—–

Meanwhile, over at the Red Umbrella…

That’s him alright. Owens.”

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“And over in Boos as well,” added Old Mabel.

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Paper.

It was night again. Jerome’s time. Seats were still cold and warm. Icy fire.

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“Let’s take you somewhere and put you to work, Mr. Author — Mr. Detective. How about Perch, hmm? Wait… that’s currently closed for ceiling repairs. Blue Feather it is!”

—–

(meal joined in progess)

“I can’t eat another single shrimp, Baker Bloch, despite it being on the house. I wonder if our waiter would enjoy taking it home with him. Oh, this must be the chef.”

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“I’m so sorry about the paper in your wine,” he began, hands wringing. “I hope you are enjoying the free extra food and drink. Anything else we can get you here at the Blue Feather? Anything at all.”

Baker Blinker looked him over from head to foot, noticing a small red stain on the right pocket of his rather rumpled coat. “We’re fine, Mr. — what’s your name again? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“I’m new,” he replied. “I’m Mr. Owens. Amateur chef by day, professional sleuth by night. Here’s my business card.” He reached into his right pocket, hesitated and perhaps turned slightly red (?), then switched hands to procure the promised paper from the left.

“Cool,” responded Baker Blinker, taking the card. “Interesting first name.”

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“It’s Irish. Call me Kenny. I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your dinner. Your waiter Andrew will return in just a moment to check on you. Have a nice remainder of the evening.”

“Thank you,” said Baker Blinker, nodding at him.

“Yes, thanks,” added Baker Bloch.

—–

15 minutes later…

“Did you make the switch?” asked a fidgety Newton back in Collagesity North again.

“Yeah,” responded the declared chef/detective. “Can I go home now?”

“Not quite.”

A cow suddenly burst into flames across Robin Lane.

(to be continued)

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Experiments in Soulcatching, 01

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Arnold and Betsy Layne.

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Rock?

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—-

“So this is the new spotlight.”

Baker Bloch exclaimed yes (!) to Baker Blinker.

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“Can you turn it off without deleting the prim?” she asked, becoming blinded.

“Make yourself headless,” requested Baker Bloch.

“What?”

“Just do it. For a moment.”

“Alright, weird-o. Hold on. Give me a moment to rummage through my inventory.”

“Hold on,” said Baker Bloch as well. “I’ll just give you mine.”

“Oh,” spoke Baker Blinker, observing the added inventory. She showed and wore.

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“Interesting. Not there yet.”

“Not where yet?” asked a confused Baker Blinker.

“The Neighbors. Spongebob and Snowmanster and their man-child. Spongemanster?”

“Snowbob?” corrected Baker Blinker. “The new guy at The Table?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Which we’re actually here to talk about.” She paused; restored herself. “You start.”

“No you,” he insisted.

“Together, then. 1,2,”

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Yellow Down?

“We are both sitting demons at The Table now,” stated Wheeler. “You can speak freely here fiend, er friend.”

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“M-my father’s perfectly yellow skin turned to green in an instant!” gasped Snowbob.

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“But… he’s still yellow,” Wheeler said, looking over.

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“I *know*.”

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