“Peters found this on the interwebs yesterday and passed it up to us, Tronesisia. We thought you’d like to know about the missing post, er piece.”
“I had a dream about Lambs.”
They talked Peter SoSo into staying a while longer, saying that working on the town trains would keep his mind off his problems. Tronesisia was happy. She didn’t want to be alone again. Positioned in their accustomed places at the raised park, Peter’s thoughts become more interesting to her by the day. Lily created him to be singer-composer Peter Gabriel, she thought to herself, but he turned out differently. He’s beginning to understand that Prissy is perhaps more a sister than a wife — the whole Luke Skywalker-Princess Leila-Star Wars thing again. He feels he didn’t live up to his mother’s hopes, even though the entrance into his own grave secured the sphereing of The Moon’s cube. Second Life’s *Moon* of The Moon, actually. Most curious. And these places don’t seem to exist any longer. They are refugees: Peter, Bendy, Prissy. Drawn here by All Nancy’s who doesn’t seem to be around either. Sacrifice.
Tronesisia is also curiously not that upset about Bendy’s departure with Prissy, unlike Peter. She knows more than him. Something has cleared in her mind. The Muff-Bermingham split is about over.
Peter SoSo and Prissy have a *ghost* in their bathroom, Bendy pondered when returning to his rowhouse from the hotel. No, not a ghost, an interdimensional being of some sort. A Nancy that is all Nancy’s. All Nancy’s. What does it mean?
Tronesisia, listening in unseen from the other side of the room, knew the answer.
Sissy not Prissy, she thought over and over. Sissy not Prissy, Sissy not Prissy, Sissy not Prissy…
Tronesisia enters the room. Good that Baker got rid of the clown watchguard outside, she thinks. 12 prims! He thought it was 3 or 4. Only 1 until 40 — (allotted) prims maxxed out. He certainly didn’t want to insult the new landlord right off, the new Ringmaster. One of ’em.
“Empty,” she uttered.
“Yes,” Bendy declared after checking it out. “An empty room; nothing within. You must have heard the wind, baby. But not from me, hehe.”
“No,” clarified Prissy. “This picture. This empty picture.” She kept studying the slight bit of orange hair at the bottom. “I’m remembering something.”
“We better get you home,” relented Bendy, starting to really worry about the mergirl’s recent ramblings. Attempts at smooching will have to wait.