Looks like some big ta’doin’s going on at Chelsea for the Halloween season, but Baker feels it’s not his place to go down and investigate. He’s for all practical purposes banned from the Sister sim of VHC City, if not physically then psychologically and philosophically, he feels. He allied himself with alter-ego and ancient town vampire Pitch Darkly and is now suffering the consequences. Fellow former VHC City vampire Buster Damm cannot return either, but has less of a desire to do so. Pitch wants to come back; enjoy the alternate reality where his Pitch Black property was not absorbed by the Finely Torn Id and he still has a central place in town and can pick the brain and borrow the ear of Chelsea leader Sikul Himakt about developments in those directions (psychological/ philosophical). But it’s not going to happen. The Diagonal has power still, yes. Rubi and Sister are still definitely sister sims, united by the triple numbers 97/97/97 in past/present/future. All’s Baker and me can do is focus on what we have, what we know. 97/97/97 is no longer present in VHC City. If it *would* return, if the power of the triple numbers and the attached Diagonal were known, then a link could return. But there’s always fiction for it. 🙂
Woody may have discovered or remembered an important detail related to this. Let’s have Baker Bloch tonight quickly change into that character instead of Pitch or something else…
… and send him over to the very center of the Purden sim, with the “show interface” option checked off on the snapshot.
Sentient tree Core-Alena should be here, true, but it’s only Woody tonight. He ponders on the absence, and then notices that he’s at 128/128/127, very close to the theoretical lone triple number of the sim. Or are there maybe even other triple numbers here? It’s worth a check… lemme turn on the sun and have Woody walk around and I’ll get back to ya’ll on this.
First off, Baker-as-Woody finds it more difficult to walk The Diagonal in Purden than Rubi because all the *trees* seem to be exactly the same. In this way, Purden, although containing many more trees than Rubi overall (I think I estimated about 5 times the amount at one time), is a simpler, perhaps more primitive sim. Core-Alena stands out from all this same-ness more than kindred walky talky tree Unch does in his own Linden woods. Back to Woody’s walk…
Okay, Woody can definitely stand at coordinates 127/127/127, and my guess is that this may be the true triple number of the sim. But so close to the center that it’s most likely a practical equivalent. Or centre, as Woody likes to spell it for a reason. He’s thinking of psychologist/philosopher
Phillip Jeffries Jeffrie Phillips right now.
He’s heading uphill for a little bit beyond this. Definitely possibilities for another triple number, maybe even several…
But in subsequently walking up to the crest, Woody realizes that’s it’s simply not high enough, and that another triple number wouldn’t be reached in the sim. He gives Purden up for the night and teleports over to Jaffee instead, right on the edge but not within the Purden forest. This is the place where he once lived in an a-frame, as chronicled in “Collagesity 2016-2017 Winter” (Part 6). But now we have two places named “Still” there instead. They’re even marked on the inworld map…
Strange. The word “Still” has now been erased in Jaffee (!). It was just there the other night when Woody joined the rest of the Blackstars at a rehearsal in “Still Dead”. But there is — or *were* — two “Stills”, as mentioned, with “Still Alive” joining “Still Dead” to make a logical yin-yang sky box tandem.
Hmm, a new house on his old land. And this Blackbook person perhaps within, the owner of “Still Dead” Woody talked to just about a week back. He doesn’t desire avatar interaction tonight, however, and decides to teleport elsewhere. Home will do presently. Collagesity, yes. This is indeed home now. And right on the western edge of another, parallel woods. Perfect for him.
Good thing Woody didn’t use remote viewing while there to look within. Bert the Semi-Nudist! (his old love)
“Terry. I’m glad you’re here already.”
“Yup. Mr. R. sent me ahead to set up the place, make sure all the correct drinks are loaded up, (and) so on. We’re playing cards later tonight. On the clock, of course.”
“Of course,” Baker Bloch responds.
“Sorry we don’t quite have our license nailed down in Minoa yet,” the green fire-ickle states.
“Perfectly all right. Just checking to see how things were going.”
“Mr. R. should be here by the end of the month, first of next month at the latest, Mr. Bloch.”
“Mr. Baker. Mr. B.” Terry emits that cool clicking sound with his mouth again and points. Baker is a bit smitten himself. Such a groovy dude.
“Norum,” Wilson Wheeler says. “This is the place.”
“And there is the man.”
“Bucket of nails,” requests Wilson to Terry. “And make it bloody.”
“Ahem,” intercedes Baker Bloch. “Not open yet, Wilson. Sorry.”
“Yeah, sorry,” echoes Terry. He tries to size up his new potential customer, but can’t quite make out what’s the deal-i-o. Baker helps.
“So you’re a man again,” he states to Wilson.
“Yeah. A pretty man. Let me show you. You haven’t seen yet.”
“Just a glimpse at the police station. How’s Burt the Cop doing?”
“Brutus?” replies Wilson. “Prostitute problems as usual. Gaston’s filled with them, even choking on them. Berries. Cherry, Raspberry, Blueberry. Lemon. Yes, Berry is fully intertwined with Gaston. You knew Lemon on Mars didn’t you?”
“I did,” states Baker, thinking back fondly to his stay in futuristic INSCO. “Have you seen her? She ran around with Sugar then, but wasn’t a prostitute (like her) at the time. Circumstances must have changed. Science is getting tough to swallow for many.”
“I’m not sure she’s really a whore there,” says Wilson. “She could be undercover. Brutus hinted at so much. Purple Gang. Burt Lake Band. Crooked.”
“Oden, then,” responds Baker.
“Yeah. Have you seen him?”
“Maybe a glimpse as well at Morrison. Rockabilly Cafe. But we’re done filming there.” He pauses. “And you haven’t shown me the new face yet.”
“That’s way too pretty, man,” Baker offers. “For a man. How about a scar? What do you think Terry?”
“see title 02” again
Chroma was the last to emerge. Gregg, but without the extra “g.” The old Lapara question “Who’s ‘G’?” may have been answered.
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.”
“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.”
Mr. Babyface stares disgustedly into the heart of Hana Lei from a safe distance, wondering how his nephew could have ended up in such a God awful spot.
“Blow she does indeed,” he answers that whale over thar.
Mr. Babyface attempts to return to his new Collagesity apartment but realizes he set home to Audrey’s Bar instead. So he just asks Terry if he can use his phone to make the call.
“We’ve found them,” he starts for the person on the other end. Twittering; he waits, then seems to answer. “It’s fine. Commode is kind of out in the open.” More twittering from the phone. “Baker Blinker owns the property. She’s the one who set me up.” Another round from the other side. “I haven’t been in the woods yet.” A long bout of twittering, then, “Okay thanks.” After a small click, he hands the receiver back to Terry who puts it underneath the bar somewhere.
“Trouble in paradise?” Terry probes, as bartenders often do.
Mr. Babyface thinks about asking Terry if he perhaps knows the whereabouts of Caucasian Tommy Brade but then decides against it. No need to rouse suspicion so soon. That will come. So he pretends Terry is asking him about his recently rented Kidd Tower abode.
“Nah, the apartment is basically fine. Phone has some static. The bed needs a new mattress. The downstairs renter controls the heat. The stove doesn’t work.”
“But the view, eh, Mr. Babblefarce?” Terry smiles and winks cooly.
“Mr. Babyface,” he corrects. “Yeah. Good view.” He takes a series of puffs from his pipe, contemplating the next move. “When will you get your liquor license?” he then thinks to insert.
“End of October. First of November at the latest. Then Collagesity will be back in business for real. You’ll see. Baker Blinker has filled me in on all the detail-i-o’s.”
“She seems nice,” offers Mr. Babyface. Ah, yes. *Baker* would know, he realizes. But there’s the other Baker as well. Which is the real power in town? That’s what he has to find out next.
Pretty man Wilson Wheeler walks around the corner and into the bar.
“And what the f-ck are you suppose to be?” he asks the small, pipe smoking figure. Terry keeps grinning and winking.
Greg Ogden sits in his new apartment and enjoys the latest Sunklands post. “Upstairs guy doesn’t have any heat of his own, eh?” He makes a mental note to figure out this Mr. Babyface’s schedule and turn down the thermostat accordingly. Because Greg Ogden is here to
cause avoid trouble. If he wasn’t he would have chosen to remain Gregg Oden and stuck with the seaweed hair, even kept the plot line going over in Morrison.
He spent the rest of the afternoon painstakingly arranging the furniture in the apartment to suit his symmetrical needs.
“Sooo. You wanted to see me Carrcassonnee. But you can’t talk without your eye. And Spider is inanimate as well. Hmph. Why am I here, then?”
Spotting it behind a boulder to her right, she used the teleporter again. “And *here*?”
“OMG. SoSo South has been destroyed!”
I, as her user, then realized what had occurred. I’d accidentally linked a teleporter to SoSo South when working on it in the Collagesity skybox the other day. The teleporter happened to be in Carrcassonee’s gazebo when I moved the whole thing back to the ground, which Wheeler Wilson teleported to when trying to reach the skybox from Blue Feather. But in using the teleporter again, everything went haywire, seemingly.
Baker Bloch, posing as Bookworm up in the heart of the SoSo Mall at the time, was called in. He moved all the pieces — which were still linked, thankfully — up to the skybox and went to work. He asked Wheeler to log out to give him room and decrease the likelihood of more wonky things happening. He lowered his graphic options and logged out and back in for the same reason. He searched for and then found the skybox landmark in his inventory. Baker himself headed upward.
In under 10 minutes he had everything about righted. He could check later with a full version of this gallery, which is a Linden build created specifically for the Zindra continent. Baker hadn’t made any significant alterations to the original design. Which was good in this case.
But Wheeler had been spooked. She became convinced that Carrcassonnee did the sabotaging, and was trying to communicate with her from “the beyond”, as she put it. “Something is happening,” she finishes.
forward forward forward forward: reverse
Wheeler logs back in and finishes what she was going to do this night: lower the Bermingham portal, sans rock arch, down to Collagesity and complete the emptying of the Muff skybox. Baker logs back in. Wheeler invites him to join her in Collagesity East, where he is able to complete his own story tonight as Bookworm. Wheeler stays logged in just in case more adjustments are needed to the portal.
“I wonder if that’s Richard Petty’s car?” the character asks about Jasper series collage “Wilsonia Driver.”
“Oh my dear, what is that?” exclaims the learned scholar when looking around the corner and spotting the lowered portal, which just appeared out of nowhere in his time. “Do you know sleeping lady? Mrs. Lady??”
He leaves her and wanders into the small greenspace leading to Audrey’s, a second and newer entrance.
“Two redbirds,” he notes. “One inside, one out. The tree seems to mark a boundary.” Learned scholars tend to think aloud when figuring stuff out. Bookworm is certainly no exception to the rule.
“Hmm. Curious, I was just here and didn’t notice that intrusion to the collage.”
In order, he writes down the letters on the plaque the man (me?) holds in the collage: 5×5.
Bookworm goes back to his newly rented apartment and ponders on what he’s just seen.
“Well. It’s finally happened, Broken Heart Jackie.”
“Don’t call me that,” Broken Heart the bone cat reprimanded for the umpteenth time about the name Jackie. “And now I really *do* have a broken heart.” She makes a clumsy motion on her chest of two things being ripped apart.
“Last of the grass… weed,” Jacob I. laments. “We’ll have to call up Leaf Erik’s son over in California, Pennsylvania for more — it will take weeks.”
“Months,” Broken Heart extends.
“Years,” Jacob I. finalizes, and then heaves a long sigh. “Darn that Jeffrie Phillips. Darn that stolen Centre.”
“Or we could go over to Leona Lei’s place in Hilltop. That will require changing into mechanoids. The last time it took us weeks to revert.”
“Years,” Jacob I. emphasizes again. “Sheer hell.” He looks down at his feet and wonders if they are really flesh and blood yet. Then, staring over at Broken Heart’s red and blue glasses, he gets an idea. “But the *sister* could work.”
“Hana? Is she still alive even after her death?”
“It was just a shish kabob skewer.”
“I though it was a ladle,” Broken Heart says. “You know, for dishing out soup and stuff.”
“I know what a lapel is. Did I say lapel? haha. That’s not even emphasized the same.”
“Label,” Broken Heart then says. But she accents the wrong syllable for humor.
“Labelle,” Jacob I. utters. “Patti Labelle!”
“The singer, actor, magician?” perks up Broken Heart, but then remembers the truth. “Man, we’re really baked.”
“Baker!” Jacob I. spouts, seeing the white opening once more. “Cook… Baker. That’s what we were trying to figure out.”
“I’m going to bed.” Broken Heart falls asleep while not even moving an inch from his spot on the couch. Jacob I. leans over and folds her bony hands over her little red broken heart.
“Night night, Jackie,” he ends while slipping into dreamland himself.
Jacob I. wakes up in an unfamiliar place. All-time great NBA power forward and recently retired Timmy Duncan looms dead ahead, a ball in front, a ball behind.
Jacob I. does not follow professional sports. He doesn’t know who this gentle giant is. He seems to speak. “Jacob, Jacob, down here.” Jacob I. ponders why a man so large has such a small, feminine voice. Tina recognizes this after he doesn’t look down. “Not Timmy, stoopid. *Me*.” Still no proper response from Jacob I. “Down *here*. It’s Tina.”
Jacob I. finally locates the source of the voice.
“Tina,” he calls down softly, knowing her ears are sensitive to what we would consider normal volume speaking. “It’s very good to see you old friend. But where are we?”
“Behind the wall. Jasper,” her tinny voice shouted up. “It’s the same as marijuana. I’m so small I fell through the cracks. Then I was able to bring you here as well.”
“Am I dreaming?” Jacob I. logically asks.
“Yes. We need to get you through the wall, and quickly. Before you wake up. We’ll have to make a run for it. Get up. Quickly. Follow me.” Tina turns and runs. “Get up quickly and follow me!” she calls back, halfway to the blackness already.
Jacob watches her as if just behind, then wakes up.
“I was left behind,” explains Jacob I. the next morning to an analyzing Broken Heart.