He’d gotten use to Tigger but this was another type of beast entirely. More teeth, more everything! He decided to purchase that handy wearable tent beside him for zero lindens and sleep in the yard. Good choice. Then tomorrow he’ll head down to the beach to hopefully pick up more gossip on where to find Bart. Both (the sims of) Carumba and Cowabunga seem to be misdirections but he’d find out soon enough. The famous yellow ragamuffin didn’t originate the term Cowabunga, which instead came from the Newton Jasper Turtles, he now knew. And Carumba is actually (a corruption of) Caramba, as in “Ay Caramba!”, so also an error there, as in between the legs. He checked down there while he was thinking of it. Still kind of itchy, but he resisted the urge to scratchy. With this condition and the heat coming up, he knew this could be a long novel 39 to take him to the end of August or so. A bit cooler here on the brown ridge. Beach would be a tad warmer. And stickier. Not a Snowball’s chance he could get out of it, though. Information was there; he could sense it with his tingly higher psychic senses.
—–
Lots of stray cats and dogs outside, big and small, but certainly better than what’s inside. A tiny calico cat enters the tent and falls asleep purring atop his stretched out body. He soon does likewise after pondering Tom, the renegade treatises, and how he got to this time, this place. Vacation, he told the big boss, tired of following around disobeying Shelley, watching her build a thought-to-be secret underwater room here, a presumed clandestine skybox there. Doesn’t she realize they can *see*? So he decided to get to the heart of the matter. Tomorrow he’s going to find one of those turtles.
(to be continued)
Sunklands 