Tag Archives: The Musician

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. He 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. He didn’t even realized she’d 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 Gaston, Purden/Snowlands, Sansara, Second Life

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 Gaston, Second Life, Uncategorized

continuation

Turns out Jacob I. had mistakened Earie for another punk with a queerly similar mohawk who came in earlier that night. “Chuck,” Jacob said, thinking back to the meeting and shaking his head. “Must have been a clown dressed up as a punk. They do that.”

“Tell him to take off his hat,” purred a tinier Broken Heart, sitting on it. “You know you want to see.”

“See what?” Earie asked.

“The I., of course,” replied Broken Heart.

“Oh he’s not interested in that thing, Jackie.”

“Don’t call me Jackie,” said the bone cat.

“Alright.” Jacob looked to the punk presently sitting with him. “How’s that grass treating you, hehe.”

“Pretty good,” said Earie, taking another toke. He’d finish this joint and be done with it, he decided. Has to walk home still, he knew. But how to navigate that whole backyard journey again? Maybe Broken Heart would escort him. If she did, then perhaps he could partake in at least part of another joint. “Good stuff; starting to see Hawaii, haha,” he finally replied to Jacob’s query. “So… what were we talking about? Oh. I have to ask the bone cat something.”

“Hat,” persisted Broken Heart. She tapped her little paw on Jacob’s straw chapeau for emphasis.

Jacob exhaled a lot of smoke in resignation, raising his eyebrow for Earlie while setting his joint down in the ashtray on the table. “She’s not going to give up. But I’m warning you. It’s intense.” Broken Heart jumped to the floor and he removed the hat, laying it carefully on the couch beside him.

Looks like another Big Reveal to me.

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name game 02

Broken Heart led Earie through a series of backyard passages where they met several colorful characters. I’ll get to that story more later. But true to her word they were here outside the Joint Joint, with Jacob I. supposedly within. Broken Heart had further explained that the I. stood for nothing. “Think Harry S. Truman,” she said while striding over some old tires on their journey. Seeing Earie not reply, she added, “or U.S. Grant.” “So his full and legal name is Jacob I.,” Earie replied back, dodging a broken coke bottle. “Formerly Jacob the Lawnmower,” he furthered, alluding to earlier conversation. By this time they were passing through Old Lady Bedford’s clothes line in another tight spot, being careful not to get, well, clotheslined (caught in the neck). At 96 she represented the town’s oldest prostitute, but her only remaining customer was Billy Tokesalot, a nonagenarian himself. Sometimes it took them 10 days.

In the present moment, Earie tried the door to the establishment. Locked. “Don’t knock the knockers,” Broken Heart ordered from below. “He’ll come.” Nothing happened for several minutes. Earie glanced over at the policeman standing beside them a couple of times, but his gaze remained fixed on the window. “Nice night,” Earie finally offered. The policeman didn’t answer; focus unchanged. At 4:45am Jacob I. opened the door, and stared at each figure in front of it. “Broken Heart,” he said, nodding down to the cat-person. Jacob then came back to Earie. “I thought I told you to stay away, Chuck.”

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searching

Red, yellow, blue, he thinks. Is this *us* again somehow?

And across the street: same colors in a row. Right order according to their houses, even. He peers through the window.

Someone shooting up. Grim town.

Nope. Not here either.

There was just a lot of f-cking places Jacob I. could be.

He decides to retreat back to the safety of his Yellow House and try again tomorrow. Too dangerous at night.

Oh no. He’s lost again.

Is that the burning barrel from the night before? He’s unsure.

A scream from the shack down the plank walkway.

Red and blue glasses thrown through a window. He’s close! But so dangerous here. He senses it all around. Maybe he should put on his blue eye again — look tougher. Or crazier may be good too.

Totally lost. “Shoo cat. Ain’t got time for you.”

But the boney feline persisted. “RreeRRW!” it said. That translates to “follow ME!” in cat language.

Then, gazing at Earie’s turned face, it changed. “Blue red,” Broken Heart spoke with an eerie, child-like voice. “Blue red blue red blue red.”

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punks

Earie (The Musician) realized there were still many mysteries to be resolved concerning VHC City — like the relationship of this Sipvicious logo found in the Quincey Educational Building and the famous punk Sid Vicious who stayed in the town’s grand Hotel Chelsea. Chroma and Improvio, being rooted in a basal nature still, desired to visit the infamous Room 100 where Sid killed Nancy. The All Nancy’s ghost found in the Grand Lapara Hotel more recently is mere reflection of this tragic event, they’ve determined. The Grand Lapara Hotel itself, they say, is a reflection of Hotel Chelsea, in that both are modeled after real life New York City hotels. Earie, who has evolved beyond them now, he feels, thinks otherwise. But his main concern right now is not VHC City nor Olde Lapara Town. It’s Gaston-Berry, and finding Jacob I. and attempting to get him to explain what the heck is happening to him currently. Chroma and Improvio made up like hookers? Red and blue lensed glasses? The Lei sisters? It’s a head scratcher, he realizes while scratching his head. So it’s back to the Yellow House to prepare for a downtown visit.

But first, he must dress more appropriately for the location. Some purchases at historical Blackburns Store in Alabama or Georgia aid him.

Did he go too far with the blue eye? Yes, he determined. He did. A bit too alien, and the new landlord specified in her short rental note: NO aliens.

Good enough.

Eat your heart out Improvio, you old skunk.

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Filed under Gaston, Heterocera, Second Life, Uncategorized, VHC City

name game

Earie woke up in a strange place once more. He felt like he’d been drugged. But he recognized the rusty lighting all around. Still Gaston-Berry, he realized. For there indeed was a Berry too, as legends told.

Now where was home again in all this mess?

Ahh, the ocean. He must be close. There’s Stewart’s ship out there. A landmark for his confused mind.

He sits in the worn wooden chair on the pier and tries to remember what happened the night before.

Audrey was her name? No… Leona. Leona Lei. And her sister Hana Lei. Or at least they always wore leis (traditional Hawaiian garland of flowers). But wait — he’s remembering the horrible details now. It was only his siblings Improvio and Chroma, dolled up like women of the night. What was in that weed Jacob sold them last week?? And those wacky glasses (sunglasses?) they passed back and forth between them, with one lens red and the other blue. Yes, he must track down Jacob, who resides downtown somewhere. He remembers an initial for a last name but not the actual name. Jacob I. Maybe that will be sufficient.

But first, to find home.

Easy enough.

He must pay more attention to his surroundings.

—–

Meanwhile, downtown:

“So little grass, Broken Heart Jackie.”

“And so much paper.”

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Filed under Gaston, Second Life, Uncategorized