Tag Archives: Wheeler Wilson^^++\@

September 11, 2022 · 8:11 am

progression

Let’s see, I have to fit the Duck back in here somewhere.

—–

“Yes, put on a robe, stay a while,” said Pauline Silentghost by her side, still assuming the pose of a master (channeler). “How’s your knee doing?”

“Fine,” Wheeler said, taking all the shifts in stride per usual. She doesn’t remember changing into the purple-ish robe but here we are. In… Sansara? Yes, but a special part, she realized. An artsy fartsy sub-continent to the immediate east and south. It’s a place she doesn’t think she’s ever been before until now. Thanks to Scroop, or Scrougeout as they call the Nautilus sim in these here parts. So says Pauline. The Oracle rules all in this out of the way, edge of the world type of location. Perhaps it’s just the distance from everything else that makes it so.

“You know who has to show up next.” Stares.

“Do I?” Wheeler tired of meeting the gaze and looked down at her robe, examining the texture. The finest cloth, she saw (and felt), perhaps cashmere. When she looked up: this.

“So who’s this fresh piece of hell?” she queried, but then knew the answer, which instantly became another question. “Daughter?”

It was Shelley Struthers with a, er, Scrougeout t-shirt, another duck.

“She is the owner of the castle,” replied Pauline, wiser than ever. Rust Never Sleeps becoming Roost Never Sleeps again. She turns. “Aren’t you dearest?”

“My name is Shelley,” she spoke plainly.

“Yes, we know your name,” replied robed Wheeler sitting across from her. She stared into umbrella eyes.

“My husband is George. We own the castle. Together.”

Shelley was much too young to be married. This was a future vision obviously, Wheeler realized. “Timeline, please,” she requested as politely as possible. “You’re a *child*.”

“I am *your* child.” Stares again all around. Awkwardness. Wheeler suspected she had a daughter for several years now, perhaps many years. The spaceship.

—–

“I’m telling you, Newt. She’s *real*.” He’d suspected as well. Black and white, male and female, on and off. Clone? Possibility.

(to be continued)

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September 10, 2022 · 6:02 pm

00340507

“I am Pauline Silentghost with the g silent and the h — not silent.”

“Pauline Silenthost?” replied Wheeler phonetically.

“Yes. (pause) I am the wisdom of all things–”

“–Nautilus, yes. I gathered that.” Wheeler indicated behind the entity at the circular framed nautilus shell, obvious symbol for the continent she once again inhabits. Like returned Rust. “Thus, I suppose, your smaller property in Scroop.”

“Scrougeout, yes. We call it Scrougeout. Carrcassonnee has decided so.”

“The… Oracle.”

“Yess.”

It was here Wheeler understood that they were talking to each other in their heads and not bodies. It was also here that Wheeler realized she was floating in air as a disembodied head or sumtin before the Oracle. Silentghost *was* the Oracle, or a channeler of Carrcassonnee in the moment. “You know Spider,” said Silentghost the Oracle. Then she fired these numbers very rapidly, the first being the same as the last. 24 permutations in total. Like this: “2130 1230 3210 2310 1320 3120 3102 1302 0312 3012 1032 0132 0231 2031 3021 0321 2301 3201 1203 2103 0123 1023 2013 0213 2130.”

“I suppose,” replied Wheeler, remaining even keeled through it all. “We found him in Tennessee. A Red Arrow indicated his presence there. And 8 shoes. And a bird, a dove perhaps.”

“Ahh… *my* dove. Victor, short for Victory. And *Victoria*.”

Wheeler tried to absorb this seeming nonsense, knowing it actually wasn’t.

“Let’s go down to my treehouse and talk further,” Silentghost requested, and then they were there.

(to be continued)

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September 10, 2022 · 9:28 am

new art

I love libraries, although I’m not sure I like the bureaucracy of one. Heck, the bureaucracy of anything, red tape built into the meaning. But reading, jeez. I can’t imagine a world without books or at least blogs, ha.

It’s getting harder for Wheeler to change out of what she is. It’s good she’s a faux fashion designer and/or model now, based on Long Islands. Which led her here thanks to Spider.

Gatsby again here on the “Lay Reading Bench Purple” in the tower set up by a fellow artist who has a smaller property in Scroop.

Fantastic.

But *this* (bottom of tower).

Compare.

My guess is that Spider wants us to find his former master, perhaps his present master. A witch has a cat. A wizard usually goes with a dog, sometimes with weird names to help disguise its true form.

“Carrcassonnee,” Wheeler calls over cautiously.

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September 9, 2022 · 8:55 am

Scroop’s closest one-to-one name match in the Oracle is Scrougeout

Spider guides. Wheeler’s new fashion design business highlighted by “accident” (foreground) on my big Nautilus map in the sky. Nearby Strutter sim’s steampunk village Rugburns with the cat-witch and her own tuxedo cat (“Pheh! Tuxedo?” she uttered disgustingly when learning she couldn’t get a solid black one) is gone now, disappeared back into the pixels it came from.

Strutter’s closest one-to-one name match in the Oracle is Struthers, reminding us of Shelley and her Lebettu Castle where I just came from, me being Newt, formerly Axis-Windmill and with last name yet to be determined. Perhaps it is Newton. Heck perhaps it is Struthers, and Shelley is my child, hmm. *Our* child?

Anyway, Spider is back and I’m glad of it. Less work for me to find the next meaningful association to continue the blog posts being churned out one-by-one, like Struthers to Scroop here where the two-dimensional, numbers uttering chihuahua with a name of a different animal species altogether stands upon. Sim, that is…

… and diagonally on it in addition. Let’s follow this.

—–

Ahh yes.

I miss it.

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September 9, 2022 · 4:22 am

assimilations continue

Long Islands’ Benvolians love their solo artists. Here’s Prince and David Bowie, perhaps the 2 greatest such acts in musical history in terms of just raw, pure creativity.

Then of course Mama Cass (top), along with Elvis and Ol’ Blue Eyes Frank Sinatra. David Bowie has blue eyes too, but, as I think I’ve relayed here before, one appears brown or darker because of a condition called anisocoria (enlarged pupil). And then there’s Wilson Wheeler, I mean, Wheeler Wilson modelling another purple outfit, this time one of her harper dresses. Wheeler actually is afflicted by the same eye discoloration, seeming to have 1 blue and 1 brown eye. No mere accident there.

She stares over at Bowie, wondering if she has his anisocoria or true heterochromia — actual mismatched blue and brown hued eyes in other words. Doesn’t matter, she decides. The effect in this same. In the moment, she’s actually, come to think of it again, a mixture of Bowie and Prince, the latter famous for his purple garb. Interesting they appear together here in this most famous of Benvolian locations called Brazen Head, claiming itself as Our Second Lyfe’s oldest Irish pub. I think the owners anticipated the coming of Wheeler. She’s very famous as well, moreso in the future than the present. She’s working on it. Might be a modelling or fashion designing career that leads her there, might be something else. Desire creates reality, and she’s very determined to make it into that exclusive circle.

Maybe she should take up jazz piano.

—–

Ho ho, she can play!

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September 5, 2022 · 6:02 am

who’s that lady in purple

She finds herself staring through a window on Long Island, needing more clothes. She decides to assimilate (again). Wilson’s, she ponders the title of the shop while studying the inventory within. We’ll just shift that over one to Wheeler, let the women have the upper hand, although both sexes will be served once more.

—–

Better. And no Alpha needed this time. These were old fashion, BOM based outfits. She crosses her legs and waits for more plot to happen. She’s ready now.

“I’m still going to shorten my legs,” she says, studying her toes too far from her face, story renewed.

“As you wish,” spoke Newt, knowing the moment would pass. It always does.

He folds the paper over, puts it in his lap. “Wheeler”, he says, staring forward.

“Yes?”

“No, I mean the shop.”

“Yes, once more.” Her shop now. And she has a special purple one for Newt later. Ah heck, how about now. The legs can wait.

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August 31, 2022 · 3:04 pm

new bird

“You need perfection. You reach perfection. You pass perfection on the other side. Of course Wheeler Wilson was going to defeat (and assimilate) the new Tina Turner.”

“Tina Louise I believe,” said the fainter voice from the side, another Observer. “Like Mary Ann except beautifuller.”

“All-American still?” the first questioned the second. “Ρùℜ℘Îē?”

“That’s the key,” said the second.

“Heart of the matter,” reworded the first.

Resurrected Arthur Kill had finished retrieving the “Spider” from Tennessee but he was around for good thanks to the mop, with its silliness reinforcing its power. So they — Wheeler and he — decided to form a band, creating an alternate reality where “America the Beautiful” replaced the “Star Spangled Banner” as our country’s great national anthem. First gig: Towerboro or thereabouts, playing to an audience half blue half red. Now to split the two right down the middle, form a third. Wheeler kept wearing purple.

Wheeler kept wearing purple.

Wheeler kept wearing purple.

It worked. St. Francis Scott, the key, was hatched at the beginning of the 5th.


dramatization

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August 31, 2022 · 6:04 am

states

“Interesting place you brought me to, Wheeler. All I asked for is to give me back the mop.”

“Brrr,” she fake shivered. “Getting cold in here. You’ll have to put on at least a shirt soon.”

“You know I don’t do that, Wheeler,” spoke John L. Brown honestly. For a change. He *was* getting cold. A paradox was coming up. “It’s right there,” he continued. “Just… hand it over.”

“No,” she replied bluntly. “I… I’m not ready.”

“You like the *power*.” His smile turned into a smirk. Change x 2.

Wheeler thought back to using it on Arthur Kill. Indeed made him rise from the dead, just like Duck said it would when they met last. She desired to meet him again. John L. Brown said that he would meet in his stead and that he was away from Our Second Lyfe for the moment. Something in Real Life, he said. Uncopyrighted and untrademarked business. Herbert Domain.

“Herbert Domain?” Wheeler uttered at the time, obviously thinking of Tennessee. And she was right. They weren’t ready for that kind of business here. The dog named Spider is enough for now.

“You’ve done your business here,” spoke John L. Brown, the smirky smile not quite off his lips. “You know you can’t get out of this.”

“Chop me some wood first,” she said, fake shivering again. Because Wheeler had her own internal heating system. Unlike John.

But there was no wood to find in this desolate place high in the Foxtrot Backcountry. Only snow, static to others. Tennessee remains untraceable. The plane remains crashed in Kentucky and not Black Jack. That was the whole point of this.

Wheeler relented, gave over the mop. John L. Brown would hand it over to Paul in the next post.

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August 27, 2022 · 7:17 am

sideways

The front door to the investigators office had slammed hours ago, it seemed. Tessa had basically given up, when:

“Yes, here it is, Ms. Daigle. Thomas Mantell. Born Franklin Kentucky 06/30/22, died Franklin Kentucky 01/07/48. The famous UFO case of course, hidden amongst these more ordinary court cases and in a darker shade, which is why I overlooked it before. My missing partner.”

Tessa Daigle, divorced from her first husband for 3 years, looked up. “Your missing *what*?”

Psychic-detective Laura Roberts turned. “My missing partner,” she repeated evenly. “Robert Franklin, the beginning, the end, and everything between.” She sat down at the table with the confused Tessa. “*And* I think also *your* missing partner. Black Bart wasn’t it? Donald is never wrong. He predicted the going, he predicted the coming back to Earth in the cursed ship. Black Bart… Black Jack. The plane crashed in Black Jack.”

Tessa knew the case as it turns out. And for a specific reason. “But… you said he died in Franklin. Born in Franklin, died in Franklin. Hence: Franklin through and through it seems.”

“Yes.”

—–

Tessa scratches her head. “Black Bart has risen from the grave, the one just out there, beside the Junk Yard and…”

“And?”

“Auto re-pair, yes.”

“Good.”

“Both are dead now, the junk purveyor and the, um, jalopy mechanic. Done in by Black Bart, whom others know as Arthur Kill.”

“Soon he will acquire a new name, ” spoke the prescient Roberts, jotting down something. “Here — here’s an address he may go to next. Or this person will eventually be involved — probably already has been.”

Tessa looked down at the almost illegible scribble Psychic-detective Roberts handed back to her on the sticky note. She finally made it out. Wheeler… Wilson, yes. Wheeler, Wilson. Who’s that?

—–

“You cannot return here, although we may see each other again. Goodbye.”

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August 26, 2022 · 2:57 pm

Cable Isle

It was a pretty town for what it was. Perhaps was called Greentown at one time because of those nicely hued hills over there. Fake but fitting. Wheeler, donned in purple now as is her style in the current photo-novel, 34 in a series of infinity apparently, had to come back to see what chaos was wrought with the return of Arthur Kill, who hadn’t remained long in his long wooden coffin in the grave of the paltry cemetery on the south side of town, just behind Roberts and Franklin Investigators down there, immediately beside Johnson’s Junk Yard and Repair Shop to be more specific. Where he first showed up after he rose from the dead, I might suppose.

If he could have opened this darn, stuck gate first. “How do I get out of here?” he barked at Wheeler behind him, dressed as a witch in this earlier purple phase and oddly holding a mop instead of a broom while swinging on her swing after doing the deed.

“Have to go through the basement, silly,” she said. “Not that easy to raise the dead, you know. Can’t just walk through the front door and return to life. Just be glad you’re not down in that hot hot grave any longer.”

He turns. She points with the mop, the thing that did the deed in the first place. Sometimes silliness works best for more powerful magic, which was needed here. Basement it is, opening for opening.

Junk car enthusiast Ken and his repairman Bobby remain safe. For now.

Later :

“Car.”

“Jesus you scared the bejebers out of me, Arthur! I thought you were dead!” Kill had already killed repairman Bobby under the Cordova sedan while Ken had his head turned. Just that quickly, thanks to his new, improved powers of death found in the basement. Now he had his aim on the owner. After getting the ’57 Chevrolet up to snuff.

“I need a car,” he hounded. “I need a car now.” He kept staring at the one on the lift, the vehicle that would transport him back to the past, he knew (basement knowledge again).

Ken saw blood oozing from Bobby’s stiff body, realized what had happened. “Sure, sure, Arthur,” he said shakily. “W-when do you need it?” Ken knew he probably couldn’t escape the situation alive but wanted to delay the inevitable as long as possible. “I mean — look at it.” He pointed to the beat up, rusted Chevy while keeping his eye on Kill.

“How long?” Kill issued.

“I… I don’t know.” Ken dared to wipe some sweat from his forehead. “Weeks?” he stated weakly.

“How about tomorrow. *No*, how about 11 o’clock tonight. Red paint. New tires, the *only* thing I want new. Oil change — yes, new oil as well. Two new things, then. And gas — fill her up. New as well. 3 new things. And…”

“I—.” Ken started to explain that he couldn’t possibly do all these things in the requested time then changed his mind as Kill pointed a gun at his head, the same one he took to the grave. Repaired as well, like his body if not his soul. “I’ll… try,” he modified.

“You’ll *do*,” commanded Arthur back. Say it with me, Kenny. “You’ll *do*.”

“I’ll… do.”

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