Boos Gallery (Collagesity dispersal continues)
It fits, but I don’t think it *fit* fits. That is, it slots — barely — into this side of the 640 square metere parcel I just rented in NWES City, but stylistically there’s something left to be desired seemingly. Back to the drawing board… the positioning still appears “meaningful”, hmm.
Maybe it does fit in there.
“I don’t understand what I’m suppose to be *learning* here!”
A noise from the back of the room. She had awoken someone. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here,” the boyish male voice sleepily repeated, as if waking up from a dream. “I’m here.”
But when she got up and turned in surprised response no one was there.
He kissed the cone topped clown head from the back. “I love you,” he cooed. “And I *understand* you.”
He turned and finally saw her. In the flesh! She was scratching her head, but not from something she didn’t understand this time. Lice. Must have got in during the middle of the night. No more sleeping in clown barns!
She hadn’t notice him yet because of all the scratching. Itching and scratching. He could run away — again. But where? Back to his maw? Nah, that wasn’t really an option, although he needed food every once in a while. Tripe: better than entrails at times. It described his life perfectly.
Bubbles, he thought. That’s what I’ll call her. The name just floated into his head like an enclosed air pocket. And once he had a name then talking could commence. “Little girl, little girl,” he began softly, out of earshot again. He knew just how to pitch it to remain unheard. Then: “I’m here, I’m here, I’m — *here*.” The last “here” got through, as he planned. Despite the name (DeBoy, derived from D-Boy or Dunce Boy or one who makes a lot of “D”s and just gets by) this diminutive fellow is quite nuanced and different from us more learned folks. And now he possibly has a friend.
Suisan turned again toward the voice but again saw nothing but a cone. The boy remained invisible to her.
“Come on and hurry up with that kid’s puzzle, Duncy. I’m ready to start with the *adult* toys.”
“Now Duncy. *Separate* your words; don’t compound everything you say just because you are *lazy*.”
“All… right.” He was trying so hard not to be stupid and duncy. He so wanted to earn a new nickname from Bubbles.
And later he would: The Boy or just Boy, derived from DeBoy (derived from D-Boy or Dunce-Boy or one who makes a lot of “D”‘s). Because one day, not too far in the future and maybe even today, The Boy from DeBoy would open Suisan’s eyes to the world around her and the horror it entails. Entrails.
“Maw came back last night,” DeBoy (still DeBoy here and not The Boy — yet) offered while keeping alert for a puzzle piece with a brightly painted clown face on it. “Fresh from Stomach Land.”
“Now, *Duncy*. You *know* there’s no such place.”
“There tis too.” He had a while to go in Suisan’s eyes. She could see the boy now but the cone still dominated the face. Sometimes — often — he became merely a cone again. DeCone.
“There it is!” he exclaims, spotting it with his keen eyes. He inserts another piece. Shouldn’t be long now.
Bake’s Bakery has moved in to one of the 2 lower rooms of my more downtown Teepot apartment. The demon hot beverage dispenser remains, ha ha (he he he (ho ho ho ho)).
Just around the corner (hu hu!).
Also: the important bits of the attached apartment remain. Like this now 5 day old pizza in one of the 2 upstairs rooms (hi!).
“We better get down to business, Jeffrie. Let’s talk about Audrey.”
“Okay, um, *doctor*.”
“I don’t know how long I was a mouse but it was a long time. I lived in the richest house in town but we were still dirt poor. Like all the rest. Audrey lived 5 doors down. There were no houses inbetween. Just doors: upright, as if still serving a function. And perhaps they were.”
Jeffrie Phillips was becoming impatient with the doctor’s rambling story. Why was he the doctor now? What happened to the old one? He asked these aloud.
“I’m trying to tell you, Baker Bloch.”
Baker Bloch? Jeffrie Phillips thinks here. But then he realized the (new) doctor was right. That was he. And this was his bakery. Bake’s Bakery, with the demon hot beverage dispenser to complete. It didn’t work without the vending machine. He decides to ask the doctor about it next.
“So tasty,” Doctor Mouse compliments. “I had a, let’s see (he checks his inventory), a Jedi tea. I suppose that’s something from Star Wars.”
“Star *What*?” Jeffrie Phillips had never heard of Star Wars. “Do you mean Star Trek?”
“I do not,” the doctor measured out. He keeps thinking back to the drink, and how it vanished into thin air just before he could take the last swallow. Oh well: delicious still. No need to ask for a prorated discount from Baker Boy here. The Boy.
He first met him when he was this Mouse. He tells Baker Baby Buddy Boy this here. His old nickname. It rang a bell.
He was remembering more. “Pansy. That was your name! Pansy Mouse.”
“Correct.” He points to the planchette on the crate in front of him with the board, another demon device. “We got it from this.”
“And that’s where…”
He changed. This was the past. Pansy = Pan-Z. Jeffrie Phillips instinctively grasps his glowing red tie, a long held habit. He knew *they* were still in there. So many — well, five.
The now squeaky voice continued. “Audrey was in it all along. She *caused* it.”
(to be continued?)
The original Jeffrie Phillips.
“On the house today, boy. *The* Boy. Congrats!” the old service robot creaked and cranked. The look became him.
“Aww. Thanks Slicey!”
“He’s at the (Bumble) Bee, David.” tracking Duncan Avocado spoke over a nearby phone. Indistinguishable talking from the other end, then: “Yeah, his maw’s out of town again. This was an easy one.”
He’d been here before. There were less dogs, however. And something about cats. Yeo. Maybe just “meow”, as in an exclamation. Of what, though? Then the color green entered his mind and wouldn’t leave. And other colors followed: Beige, Brown, Olive… Pink. “Pink!” he called out.
Marsha “Star” Pink came out of the motel lobby and looked around for the origin of her name. But there was nothing to see but animals.
“Well I’m worried because he hasn’t come home yet.” Indistinguishable speech. “Yes, I just got back into town.” Indistinguishable speech. “Stomach Land, right.” Indistinguishable. “Yes, should be good eating tonight — listen, just meet me over here at the motel. Is that alright?” Indistinguishable speech. “*Sorry*. Is — that — all — *right*?” Laughing, perhaps derisive. “I know I’m teaching him bad lessons; just get over here.” She hung up the receiver. She kind of slammed the receiver back into its carriage, actually. 1/2 and 1/2. She turned toward the Big Boy in the southwest corner of the sim and shook her head. So obsessed was her little dunce of a boy with it. “I’m going to grow up to be *this* tall!” he exclaimed one time, juxtaposing his own diminutive figure with the much larger one in an exact 1:1 match from Pink’s perspective. He knew how to manipulate the angles just right to get the effect. He was indeed a gifted child in many ways, his mother knew. But not schooling. And Marsha “Star” Pink’s lack of same didn’t help atall. At — all.
(to be continued?)
She was about to walk right past him on her determined journey to the almost vacated clown amusement park when he called over. “Duncy be not here any longer, arrgh. He be passing about 5 hours ago now. One way in, one way out. 5 hours be too long in that place (*squawk*). My blind parrot over there beyond camera sweep be agreeing with me, matie (pause). Marsha matie.”
Marsha “Star” Pink halted forward progress and look over at the chatty figure suddenly saying her name, hand with smoke dangerously close to a smoking fire. Pirate — in fact…
“Jim the Bastard,” issued Marsha, taking him in. “I haven’t seen you since–”
“Storybrook?” he completed, voice roughened by cigarettes and sea. She hadn’t heard that name in a long *long* time. What happened to her? Well, for one thing, *death*.
15 minutes later, Suisan also came walking through the tall brown grass. “Come here, you,” Marsha called over, smoke in hand as well now. “We gotta talk.”
“*Sorry* I’m late!”
“Never mind that…”
(to be continued)
138 dead. Chain reaction. The words reverberated in his head like a broken record or something. A repetitive sea shanty — that’s better. He remembers to paint again. Dreamy dreams can wait. He tries to set them aside but more return en masse. Chain reaction. 138 dead, 138 dead, 138 dead. Perhaps it is time to write; maybe the *other* voices will drown out *these* voices. He moves from the canvas to the typewriter to begin a long overdue project. He inserts a blank sheet. Like life itself, waiting to be written upon, he thinks. Fresh start. He presses caps lock and centers the page 2/3rd up with 3 backspaces. He types a G, then an A, then an S. He stares at what he’s typed so far. T, then, O. He pauses again. N to finish. It has begun.
That should keep the bastard busy for a while.
“I remember that day like it was yesterday,” spoke Jiff the former staff psychologist at Gaston Police Station. “Gastion, they sometimes called it when they were all drunk and slury down in the basement beside the torturing devices. Best to be intoxicated down there. Too many ghosts and memories. But it was the only place they could get away from chief Golden
Josephine Jim and expect to get away with it. Chef Golden Jim Josephine often joined them. Cook at the upgraded Joint Joint, now a hip place for those who think with their hips instead of their head. Which was seemingly everyone around here. The Dark Peak dominated once more — Dark Days again.”
Jim the Bastard Pirate, formerly Randolph the Bastard Pirate, was typing away as Jiff’s cartoon-ish, Ickle voice yammered on. The words almost came too swift. He needed something better than a manual instrument for his craft, his trade. Because, he determined early on, this one will *sell*. I’ll hide all the things I’ve plundered from others, like that graphite gray map on the, let’s see, wall behind me. There. He turns.
Half of it remains screened for now.
Now eyepatched Jim the Bastard Pirate, still working from his magic typewriter, looks around the 2nd floor of his new Bogota Gallery in NWES City and sees it is good.
Soon he would reach the 3rd and enter a new level of understanding about what happened to Hucka Doobie when she was pushed into that collage to the left by thought-to-be friend Tammy Whatammy back in photo-novel 7. Instead: fusion.
trying to love
Hmm. A triple number: 173 173 173. Carpe Diem, huh? Seize the day. Seize the night!
Better head over to Harrison’s place.
166 166 (173): “Rome Italy: Montage 5” by Kyoko Furse-Barzane (L$350). Hucka Doobie naturally thinks back to the “When in Rome” collage and her role in that. Trapped! (Gastonite!) But what does “Rome” mean now? Carpe Diem: a Latin term.
I suppose Rome would have to mean Teepot itself, and the ability of the Greater Baker family to fit in. Starting with Bake’s Bakery: it all centers around that now. Do as the Teepoters do.
161 161 173: Sake server.
new Diagonal 02
200 200: another threshold.
But Hucka must *really* get over to Harrison’s before the night is done. Daylight in a little over an hour. Magic opening closed!
144 144. Maybe I better call Baker over here instead.
145 145 and 144 144 respectively.
“I was just going to tell you that The Boy was not at Stranger Creek. That’s all.”
“Good enough. Let’s see what else we’ve got on this Diagonal. Maybe it is all planned.” Both laugh.
203 203: “Let me help you out here old timer.”
204 204: Mo guest. Missouri? Mizzou?
203 203: “We’re just missing the mark now, Hucka Doobie. Can you hear me?”
239 239, 240 240:
240 240, 242 242: Uh oh. Something’s going on. “How can you be in 2 places at once?” I exclaimed, flipping back and forth between Baker Bloch’s and Hucka Doobie’s viewers.