What happened to yellow?
An ongoing investigation.
“We are both sitting demons at The Table now,” stated Wheeler. “You can speak freely here fiend, er friend.”
“M-my father’s perfectly yellow skin turned to green in an instant!” gasped Snowbob.
“But… he’s still yellow,” Wheeler said, looking over.
“So this is the new spotlight.”
Baker Bloch exclaimed yes (!) to Baker Blinker.
“Can you turn it off without deleting the prim?” she asked, becoming blinded.
“Make yourself headless,” requested Baker Bloch.
“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.
“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,”
Experiments in Soulcatching, 01
“The giant appeared here. Right in the center of the sim. Blame lemon, eh.”
“Yes ma’am, I understand,” said Jerome T. Newton, downing a sugar cube. “Process and eliminate.”
“Process and eliminate,” he said again, back cooling.
It was night again. Jerome’s time. Seats were still cold and warm. Icy fire.
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
A cow suddenly burst into flames across Robin Lane.
(to be continued)
“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!
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?
“I wonder where The Librarian went?” he tried again. “He always seems to be here, sitting.”
“Bathroom break,” 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.”
“And over in Boos as well,” added Old Mabel.
What might have been.
“It’s a shame about Snowbob’s mother. Surely he knows, along with the father.”
“They know that she’s on assignment in Corsica, Old Mabel, and something has happened. Mr. Owens just came from Corsica and the sim in question.”
“I did. I just got information that I may not be returning,” spoke the chef/detective. “The filly I was tailing got wind of my investigation and set sail in the middle of the night. I may be staying here a bit longer than I planned. But the new mystery has got its claws in me now. It’s that book.” He pulled the stained slip of paper out of his pocket and opened it in Baker Bloch’s direction. “Pill,” he repeated. Baker Bloch could clearly see the word. It was the third time he had shown it to him. Yes, his interest was certainly piqued. “In the wine,” he added. “Wine,” he emphasized.
“Yeah, we’ve known something odd was going on (in that direction) for a long, long time Mr. Owens — Kenny. I might as well start calling you Kenny since you may be staying with us a while. The main question for now is: why did the giant female show up in the middle of the sim in question and play a game of roshambo with the tiny Minoan who is now Old Mabel’s good friend. Then why did that somehow open up a door or window or something into the place beside the motel you were staying in and allow (us) a glimpse into the firey death of Snowbob’s poor mother caused by this Jerome fellow. Who is Jerome T. Newton? He’s obviously a killer. Then there’s the burnt-to-a-crisp cow across Robin Lane.
“I’ll talk with the giant,” said Old Mabel, sitting on the floor between the two and still staring up at the newest Bogota collage, at its central Snowmanster and what might have been. Christmas. “She’s got a name, by the way: Brenda. Jiff — the tiny Minoan you speak of — and Brenda are friends.” More than friends she almost said, but decided not to reveal that whole story yet. So big and so small. How does that work? she asked herself yet again.
Kenny yawned and stretched his arms. “I guess I better head back over to Collagesity North and get some shut eye now; have to get up early for the interviews with Snowbob and his father. ‘Preciate you showing me around the galleries tonight. Weird I’m in them. I know more. I must digest.”
Goodnights all around after that, with Baker Bloch and Old Mabel remaining in front of the newly hung Bogota 08 as Kenny teleports downstairs.
“He knows too much,” said Baker to the Martian.
Mum’s the word.
“This is the greater me,” explained Tin S. Man to little yellow Spongebob perched on the edge of The Table. It’s a square.
“Bahahahaha!” screeched Spongebob.
“Not an appropriate place to laugh — again.”
“And in the very next post — here let me click through — we have this.”
“That lady!” exclaimed Spongebob.
“Yes. When Mr. Keat Owens pays a visit to you tomorrow, you *do not* know this, um, lady. You erase her memory from your mind. Do you understand? Snowmanster’s existence depends on it. Your wife’s very existence, I said. We can save her through careful collaging, but you have to help us. The detective — Mr. Keat Owens again — cannot make the connection between the two. He must remain in the dark. Do you *understand* Mr. Squarepants?”
Spongebob laughs again.
I hope to hell this works, is all Tin S. Man could think.
She has a name:
Old Mabel had trouble getting to sleep. She kept thinking of poor Snowmanster and Spongebob and Snowbob. She decided to teleport back to the room where it happened. She simply typed “Ask” to find the location. Interesting.
“That woman over there must have seen it all,” she says while within. “Ma’am, are you alive?” No answer.
“What’s she staring at?” Old Mabel moved her camera angle behind the slut’s head.
“The drink machine? Hmmm, no drinks within.”
Then it dawned on Old Mabel as the sun sphere touched the horizon. Opening!
“My legs are
jello gelatin,” Brenda said in her rather booming voice to the approaching Old Mabel, coming from the direction of SoSo. “I’m not the athlete I use to be. Difficult to train now with all these structures surrounding the woods. Before I had The Freedom.”
Old Mabel had reached the giant female warrior by now.
“Wow. Your legs are really going crazy there. Maybe you better stop today. Try again tomorrow.” The Martian wondered how long she’d been at it. Hours?
“No, I’m giving up — giving back Spongebob his money. That old lighthouse isn’t going to budge,” she gauged, looking over her shoulder and then back down at her quivering limbs. “Been sitting there in that one position too long, all crooked and such. Rooted in the ground it is, like a demented tree. Now if we had an *Unch* lighthouse, well, things would be different. Unch has it right. Have you met him?”
Old Mabel realized she hadn’t attempted to locate Unch in the forest at night, an oversight. Daytime was no good for that. But so much going on right now in Collagesity and elsewhere!
“The intelligence of paper, the mobility of scissors, the persistence of rock. Best qualities of each rolled into one super-being. Unch,” she said again.
“Well, I’ll have to make a concerted effort to meet this — God-like entity.”
“Yes,” said Brenda. “God-*like*. But you’re not here to talk about trees.”
“No,” admitted Old Mabel.
The giant stood up, testing her legs. Chilly night had swiftly moved in. Both looked up at the tilted lighthouse and its lit window.
“Where should we go?” Brenda then asked Old Mabel. “Hard for me to fit in places, let alone act in secrecy.”
“Well, it’s nighttime now,” offered Old Mabel. “Why don’t we go see Unch(!)”
“That blabbermouth?” the giant then said, taking the Martian by surprise with this turn. “No, not Unch. Not the forest. Or — wait. How about the other side of the forest. Away from Unch. That abandoned cottage and grounds.” She rubbed her giant chin thoughtfully. “Yes, that will do. Why hadn’t I thought of that before. We can head up Robin Lane then move south through its western edge.”
“Or we could just teleport.”
“Yes, this is good. The wall is just high enough to keep me hidden. I will make this my place now, if it isn’t already. Yes, I’m remembering backwards now. This is already my home. This is where I live. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” said Old Mabel, trying to figure out the giant’s backward talk.
“This is where Jiff and I live as husband and wife. I was his servant, his prisoner on the Ryan Industries vessel. No, his fellow prisoner. And we are not husband and wife…” Brenda paused, trying to sort out the correct timelines. “Play a game with me, alien woman,” she then said. “Roshambo.” Old Mabel stated that she had not heard of it, prompting Brenda to explain. “We go 1,2, and at 3 we both make a hand signal. There are 3.” Brenda demonstrated the three hand gestures involved in the game to Old Mabel. They played.
The correct reality manifested around them now. This was Brenda’s cottage, just like Snowbob had his own house on the other side of the woods, in Collagesity. Things were sorting out. Good ol’ roshambo!
One problem, though. “Who are you?” a comfortably reclining Brenda asked of the approaching Old Mabel.
Through my avatars, I often like to teleport directly into the center of a sim that’s caught my interest to initiate further investigation (if desired). Using this method proved fruitful indeed for Wyrd of the Maebaleia or Satori continent. Inhabiting the ghost of Bracket Jupiter, I found myself also in the midst of my former neighbor Art Oluja’s “Art and Weird Words” parcel previously mentioned in this September post. I began to unlock several mysteries that had been haunting me…
… like the nature of the cubic bird creature trapped in a giant mason jar found on Art’s Minoa lot just before she sold it about a week back. I discovered not one but two such birds located in a heavily windowed building just to Bracket’s west, red and green mates named Rose and Jade respectively.
And then I found reference to a jar in a picture on the wall. The technique used here is called blackout poetry.
I do not know the rational behind the 2 large black and white cubes placed beside this structure. Perhaps they have something to do with Art’s lauded 2015 LEA installation named “Metamorfaces”.
Other objects concerning the installation are found in the 2 treehouses on the property.
And in another book here we have that blacked out sheet again highlighting a jar image.
While in Wyrd, the deceased Bracket also rocked with a new flesh and blood friend on the porch of Maya’s Espresso Cafe just off Route 8B.
Keat Owens gleaned important scraps of information from his Wednesday morning meeting with Spongebob (son Snowbob wasn’t around), but didn’t get to the core of the matter. He asked what his wife was doing over in the Askja sim of Corsica. Spongebob plainly told him that she was on assignment. Owens asked for more details. Spongebob said his wife was an employee of the space program, but they didn’t discuss her work. “So if she works for the space program,” Owens probed, “is she an engineer, a technician, a, I don’t know, an administrator?” Spongebob shook his head at each guess. “Well you seem to know what she *isn’t*.” Spongebob laughed nervously. Owens switched tactics and ask how Spongebob and Snowmanster met each other. Then he playfully added, “If I ask ja, would ja tell me?” but the yellow fellow didn’t get the pun. Turns out they met right here in Minoa, in this very house at a neighborhood Christmas party dating from 2007, or at least that’s what Spongebob told Owens yesterday. Snowmanster is a native of the region, Spongebob explained. A demon, he supplemented with a whisper. His uncle, Spongebill Triangleslacks Sr., owned the house at the time, and was, in fact, the original owner of the property, which Spongebob then inherited upon his passing. “Well,” said Owens, “I’m rechecking the About Land information right now and it says the property is owned by Clarity Dagostino. This would include both houses and then that lighthouse over in the corner of the lot.” Spongebob explained that the land was deeded over to Ms. Dagostino in a complex 3 way interaction also involving a rental company, but Uncle Bill technically remained the owner. Owens then cut the meeting short, feeling there was enough to chew on. Plus he had other concerns this morning.
I’m sure glad he didn’t ask about my extra pair of hands which suddenly manifested around my belly when I sat down, Owens thought while leaving. When he stood up: all gone again. Queer!
“That man had 4 hands,” said Spongebob to the emerged
Snowbob Snowmanster after Keat Owens had left. “Bahahahaha!”
Old Mabel couldn’t stay away from Corsica and its mysterious Askja. Shortly before dawn again, she arrived at the scene of the crime and, 1) purchased a drink from the now working Neurolab vending machine, 2) accidentally reset a chess game that had manifested on the table Snowmanster was last seen at, and, 3) bought an advertised collection of thimbles from the motel next door.
Next she found a parcel called “Giants at the Door Band”, not far from the center of the sim where a *giant* (i.e., Brenda) had arrived just days before and helped opened a door or window or something into the room where Snowmanster apparently burned to death. She enjoyed their green and yellow beanstalk ride while there, which shot her up about 120 meters to a cloud with no giant atall inside. Still quite fun, and, besides, she knew who the *real* giant was, even if said giant didn’t know who *she* was any longer. A very strange turn, but one of many currently going down in Collagesity now. Here’s the Giants at the Door band’s facebook page:
Old Mabel was confused. She set out much earlier tonight to track down a sighting of Keat Owens in Sansara’s Langdale sim, but this *twin* claimed never to have visited or even hear of Collagesity. Old Mabel asked his name. “Pety” returned the person. Obviously not Keat Owens, then. While in the hotel room he inhabited Old Mabel looked around for further clues about what was going on. A blue feather pen attracted her attention, but she was on the wrong path now. Pety also mentioned something about a thimble thief. Old Mabel will do more research on that.
Meanwhile, back in Collagesity the *real* Keat Owens was in a world of trouble. The double hand situation was intensifying. Owens sensed the end of his existence in the town. He wanted to know what hell Jerome T. Newton sprang from. He had that right. He stared at SoSo South’s Newton 10 collage and its central image. This *was* Jerome T. Newton. But how?
Death stalked the chef/inspector. Newton summoned.
“Did you get the information I requested?” Owens had not; he felt the truth slipping away near the beginning of his meeting with Spongebob.
“The square yellow man has accomplished what he needed to do here,” Owens spoke from his heart. “His wife is saved. It is too late for our kind. *Their* truth will get out.”
“Fool!!” Newton screeched, and the burning commenced. It was over in 30 seconds tops. All that was left in the end were his true hands, ash gray and turned to stone. The Truth Hands.
They remained in that very spot for many years to come.