Clothing challenged, lawn mowing Jacobia was stuck, unable to press forward on her own.
So she decided to put on a few more clothes and join another progressive rock group, this time *not* starting with a G, or at least only the letter itself being referred to this go around. The G-Spots were born, half black, half white, all Basterds after naturally evolving into a punk band. Okay then, let’s go with The Basterds, since The Bastards is obviously taken and also the Basturds. And The Bastords doesn’t make much sense, and neither does the Bastirds. Hmmm… Bastirds.
When I spoke to Jacobia about it she said that (the name) Bastirds was silly and that they would go with G-Spots, except spell it Gee Spots, like a frisky gee cat she knew growing up in Paper-Soap. Anita (lead guitarist) agreed, and so did Stig (keyboardist) and Dirk (bassist). The band hit all the right notes, just like during good sex. After acquiring drummer Peter Sun (formerly Mitch Peterson) to complete the quintet, their first gig proper was in front of a tunnel playing to a disinterested crowd wondering why their train went missin. They would move on to bigger and better.
I often dreamed of the explosion that killed Heidi Biker Chick, our former director, soon to be replaced by new director Percy Pierce. It was always the same: I was inside the bar, trying to identity her in the flames and smoke, being burned alive myself. I perish looking for her; perhaps a ceiling beam falls on me, cutting short my horror. But where am I when I wake up? Where am I *now*? (gasp) I sit up: the beam didn’t need to be pushed off me, although I lie in the same position that I died — on the floor. How did I get from my bed to the floor? Everything seemed strange.
In the dreamscape I just left, the fire kept spreading. Now: the fire station itself just next door. Ruby! They’re after Ruby. Better send in the army but, trouble is, the army started it in the first place. Me again, then, I suppose.
I get up. I finish planting the bomb underneath the table where Heidi Biker Chick would meet Hank Graphite later. I know the meeting would start at 7 o’clock sharp. Heidi: always prompt, always professional in her approach to time. 5:05 now. I set the timer for 2 hours. I walk outside, down Violin Lane, back to the depot and the train that brought me here to this brave new world. I am re-swallowed by the tunnel. I wake up for real.
I look over for Alysha but it is 1 year and 2 months too soon. Better get back to work.
now ironically named fire station
“Just remember that you are water and you’ll be fine.”
“Was he really the King of Pizza? Axis-Windmill ponders from his booth, staring down at the cheesy triangle steaming before him. Or was he the King of *Paper*?
He takes a bite. Tastes like cardboard, he determines, upping the possibility.
I could have been much more, he thinks below his golden crown while hauling in cardboard boxes from the back. And I am.
“What’s up?” Hatti
demands asks. Suddenly ashamed of her face scars, she turns away, looks at the picture on the wall instead. Funny, she decides after a small debate in her head about its value. Pizza slices at the Last Supper. Lo-fi goodness.
“Gold,” he answers. “Golden crowns.”
“Cows?” Claude obviously came to mind.
“Seriously,” he replies, getting serious. “Dinah’s back.”
“The Anomaly? How?” She knew how.
“You know how.” They look at each other again.
“I’m just a simple witch. Don’t give me credit where credit isn’t due.”
“You blew up–”
“*You* blew up…” It was here that Axis-Windmill realized he was talking to himself, as in a mirror. He’d conveniently forgotten that inconvenient fact.
“Right, right. Dr. Mouse. I know.”
“He was the only one who could fix this.”
“Herbert,” he offered.
“Herbert Dune?” she replied skeptically again. “That’s you too. Can’t you remember *anything*? It’s like you’re not even trying.”
Axis-Windmill started trying. He stared over, noting the blue hair poking out of the large, black, conical hat, holes made on purpose for this, purpose. “Why is your hair sometimes blue and sometimes red?”
“You know, silly. Sometimes I’m cross, sometimes I’m not. I can edit out the cross but I have to use red. When I’m not cross: blue. I’m in a good mood tonight,” she explained about the present color.
He looks at her face scars, wondering how she got them again. He looks down at his aging hands; his own flaw lines. He thinks of his age. 60-ish. 62, 65. 60. Early 60s. 63 — that’s it. And Alysha: waiting at the other end of the 1 1/8 year stream. But still many choices to be made along the way. “About Dinah,” he decides to switch back (to earlier talk). “There’s a video I want you to see — want your thoughts on it. A witch is involved. And… pizza.”
She was remembering.
I asked her when it would end, all these transformations.
“It will never end,” she states plainly back, finality in her voice (obviously).
We were in the shack seen in back of that photo up above, Liz and me I suppose. The Loch Ness Monster could still be seen lurking in the distance. We were in a make-believe land, but not Hana Lei. A plainly stated one: Paper-Soap. I wondered what spirit Liz represented, since we are really all alive and dead at once, at least according to [delete name]. I’m starting to remember dreams a little better. It doesn’t seem that hard, and will have a chance to work on it more in 1 1/8 years. But I shouldn’t wait I can hear [delete name] say. We turn into Jennifer Lane…
“Bad juju over at the beach,” Fook Mi chef Kim Lee explained. “Bodies not washing up properly; turning black too soon; Suds and Bubbles can’t get to them in time.” Jennifer wondered how the word “black” here would affect Liz. She decides not to further this albeit interesting conversation in front of her.
The monster seems to stare back at her. Cherry branches sprout from her frizzy hair. She understands collage a lot better than us. We decide we’ll keep her around (for awhile). Caretaker for the moment Jennifer brings sushi from the bar.
“Sisters?” she contemplated the question posed by Shelley or Jennifer Lane beside her. “I suppose we have to be in a way.”
“Like Oz? You know, ‘Wicked’?”
“I don’t know the plot. Anyhow, I’m sorry I manipulated your husband into putting all those magazines around your house. We had to have a boy; that was the whole point. I’m sure you see the point now.”
“Julius,” she exclaims, staring up into the grey sky. “First born. I didn’t have a say.” *No*, she wouldn’t get over it just like that, just because she knows the reason. She was manipulated! By this… *witch* (!).
“What about Julia?” Shelley wanted to ask why *that* was allowed, at least later. Then she remembers earlier talk about astrology and the position of the Sun, Moon and Earth relative to each other. Each in its own season. The Moon and Earth had already been equated or something, the black clad, blue haired one said beside her — made the same. All they had to do now was cut the Sun down to size. Sun becomes son. Julius, cooled down by the milk and only the milk. They had to feed it through the navel day and night. It was laborsome. She may never get over being tired.
“‘Julia’ was perfect or almost so. The son, obviously: not so much, at least on the surface. But just underneath the exterior…”
“Self editing,” Shelley/Jennifer said as her lines demanded it at the time. “So what now? Is Bart(holomew) just going to wash up on the beach here, waiting for rebirth?”
“You don’t understand,” she said, looking forward beyond the cooler of Budweisers. “Julius and Julia are the same.”
“You better get back to Liz. *I* better get back to Axis-Windmill.”
She stared up. “How’s he holding up?”
“You know, it’s tough. Staring into the mirror and realizing who you are.”
“Right.” The sky lighted up and she looked away.
Alysha had changed again. I only knew her because of the red kid’s shoes she still wore. And the face scars of course. And those eyes I suppose, although they were more heavily mascaraed than before, if that’s even a word. We jointly stared at the chest (box) advertised as filled with photos and personal belongings the owner can’t part with because of the spirits of long dead relatives. The belongings are described as a mix of benign and antagonistic, the latter group apparently applying to potential visitors. Like us, I suppose.
“What could be *in* it?” she asked, staring at the surfaces and corners, looking for clues. The key remained unfound. We’d searched the entire place, named “Swamp Shack Brown” but obviously leaning more toward plum. Or raspberry.
The “Swamp Shack Purple” on the other side of the currently atrophying body of water tucked in the southwest corner of Soap just lost its violet furniture I was going to use in a post somewhere. Party over, I suppose. Instead we are compensated with the brown shack being this color, just as the Artist Formerly Known as Prince could have lived beyond the Purple Rain of 1999 and entered the new century with a raspberry beret. Or disguise… hmmm.
“Have you found anything?” I spoke down, thinking about calling her “honey” but deciding against it — too soon. Her dark eyes darted here and there but didn’t fixate on anything. What was she seeing?
“Yes, you’ve named a number of the Paper *Kings* and I thank you for that, Elvina.”
“You’re welcome, Buster.”
“Inspector,” he corrected. “By night. Chef by day.”
“Then…” She bit her tongue. He *must* know. “But…” she started again.
“Yes, ‘but’. We’re looking for the kingpin, Elvina, and you know it. They just call themselves the Kings, collective, to honor him. He was secretly elected — as we understand it down at the station — on Thanksgiving Day of last year…”
*This* year, Elvina thought, but kept her mouth shut (again).
Turns out the plural version of the name was just an oversight. The gang working with the actual King would never dare call themselves such. On a tip from Elvina, mistake responsible Lester had to change all the related graffiti in town the next day.
“Okay, one down, Lester,” said Custer, in charge of the clean up, “and who knows how many to go. We’ll just walk around some more, pheh.”
“Yeah yeah, sure. Anything to appease the boss.”
“He ain’t elected yet.” But Custer knew he would be elected. Again. There were powers outside of town that would make sure of it.
Lester pointed toward the motel. “Over there I think.”
“Let’s go,” Custer waved.
Axis-Windmill watches Lester and Custer cross the road to the motel grounds. He looks up after they disappear behind its sign from his perspective, ready to erase another “S” to appease the new or soon-to-be new King of the sim. Paper fully separated from Soap; (fantasy) party over. So it will happen (!). That could explain the presence of the motel here, which Axis-Windmill recalls blew up just last month. This Thanksgiving becomes last Thanksgiving, a time burp as some put it.
Axis-Windmill turns from south to west toward another missing letter, this time a “G” down at the train tunnel, missing from “Missing Mile” (thus: “Missin Mile”). Gaining another perspective remotely he ponders the possibility of a Miss Square. Back to square one? He decides to ask the homeless person sitting in the street down from him.
“Miss Square?” he utters, causing the man to become aggressive.
A 5 minute rant about the sorry shape of the town follows.
And I suppose Dr. Mouse is back at well, killed in the motel explosion that didn’t happen now. Perhaps he’s next up for a visit.
(to be continued?)
“I lost you in the tunnel!” director Percy Pierce complains as Axis-Windmill tries to defend his disappearance from
a the scene.
“And I see you brought your two cat friends along to help your case. She turns to the red-blue eyed one on his right. Rebl *lawyer* is it now?”
“Yes ma’am. Axis did nothing wrong,” she begins in her purry way. “He followed the G-Spots through the tunnel to the missing letters.”
“Letters?” Percy Pierce spoke. “Don’t you mean: *letter*.”
A pause. “A moment with my client,” Rebl then requests, which Percy agrees to. Whispers; heads nodding and shaking; green and yellow eyed Guyd on the left side joins in the conversation. Percy can only make out scattered words (Paper, King, Soap, couple more). Finally: “enough”, she says. “We must get on. 9:30 shoot tomorrow. We must all be fresh.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” says Rebl in turn. “Don’t you mean: *shot*?”
It was hard to tell how old she was from this distance, this Raspberry Girl. She wore old style clothing that’s for sure. But I knew she was my salvific force, the thing I needed to live on in the minds and hearts of others. So I decided to approach her.
“A date?” she said daintily. “But you hardly know me. We just met.” I had to get to know her better, study what made her tick. Why the change of time revolving around her. Two thousand zero zero: party was suppose to be over, out of time. Yet here she is. It was a cloudy day, which means she’s not the brightest. But perhaps that is an act as well — probably is. I *sense* this.
I am a powerful entity or personality I know that. I can change the course of history. I can come back. But I have to have help.
(to be continued?)
The sim above Bart had finally turned from a raspberry shade of color back to clear, indicating it was online again. He could return to his boat that he rented to impress his new “girlfriend”. He turned the sky raspberry instead and went to work.
We don’t need Axis-Windmill between us to know this is all about TILE, Guyd.”
“We sure do, Rebl,” the fellow cat-person answered, but not a fellow like in a boy. Two girls and two cats. But that was about all they had in common.
“Better get over to the boat, Guyd, see what SID is up to.”
“That isn’t SID.” Yellow and green eyed Guyd tried to disagree with red-blue eyed Rebl at every important turn, and this was certainly one of ’em. Guyd felt SID was a character that didn’t need to be introduced in this here photo-novel, 29 in a series… in a series…
“I know,” agreed Rebl, surprising Guyd and knocking him out of his usual anti-Rebl mode. “This is Bart.” Both made “O”s with their mouth, as if they’d surprised each other. It was the first time they synchronized since Tuesday. 2 years ago.
“I think I’m going to like it here back on this Nautilus continent, let’s see (he studies her), Lichen?”
“Call me Blondie,” she requests. “As in ditzy.” But he knew this wasn’t true. She was just a comedian. “Watch this,” she then said, waving her hand toward the grill. “Fire.”
“Nifty.” A witch too.
“So Lichen is involved now. This must be 1942. But where’s Fern; Wendy? Is she…”
“Questions,” W warned, who may be Wendy herself. “Gambling boat,” she answers about Fern at least. “Dixie Belle. See you there.”
“Well that looks like it, gentlemen. Last hand: I win the boat.”
“I don’t understand what happened,” shocked Jim A. Brown to her left managed to utter. “All I had all night was clubs and diamonds.”
“And…” sputtered similarly baffled Zach Black opposite him. “Me? Hearts…”
“… and spades,” Fern Stalin finishes for him. “Yes, yes, very peculiar. What are the odds.”
“Odds doesn’t begin to describe it,” says Zach, trying to figure out how he’d ever win his Jazz Attack band back from this, this… *witch*.
“Time to bring out the girl,” she then declares.
Jim A. Brown and Zach Black look across the Belle on the table at each other. “Lena?” They weren’t ready for this but what choice did they have?
“No no no no no, the other one. The red haired one. The one we’ve been studying… collectively. Wait… don’t tell me. Is she dead? Like Maebaleia (continent) to us now? Let’s go with the boy, then, the Indian. But not Asian. Half and half. Is he still in his pod, bubbling away? I need to see the studies Rose produced, all the figures. Bring them… *now*.”
Her rapid fire delivery left Jim A. Brown and Zach Black drained of blood as if they were dead. And perhaps they were. Gambling debts gone wrong sometimes end that way. At any rate, they disappear from the scene, leaving Fern confronting… I suppose this is Wells?
(to be continued)
He flickered in but then was quickly replaced by another, a *guardian*. Pot-D representative Duncan Avocado, assigned to the case by Buster Damm a while ago in the photo-novel but then pulled in favor of White Mage. Now he’s back. And beautiful. “Duncan,” she said, not that surprised. “Should have known you were lurking behind the curtains somewhere, ready to have a seat. Whatcha been upto? It’s been, oh *forever*. Since…”
“Dixie, yeah I know,” Duncan Avocado said in her direction, knowing over what part of the table this was going. “I said I was sorry.”
“How’s your neck?”
“Mmmm.” Duncan hesitated, understanding this was the key. Jasper turned wrong. like a Newton Jasper Ninja Turtle upended to make a soup bowl.
“‘Cowabunga,'” she then said. “I want that treatise.”
“You know what.”
She wasn’t f-ing around any more. She owned the Dixie Belle gambling boat and all the characters that had passed through this here photo-novel, 29 in a series… Just: 29 in a series. She had complete control, *not* Alysha. Alysha was left back on Maebaleia — I’m not sure why but there you go. Now we have blonde Lichen Roosevelt. And, with her, dark haired Fern Stalin. And then the 3rd, but not red headed Alysha (or Wendy). Fern originally thought it would be similarly red Indian Wells, 1/2 brother to Rose Wells and the one she was studying for the Crabwoo Revitalization Project or Blue Feather Reinvestment Initiative or whatever the f- they’re calling it these days. Buster brought in Duncan to protect, then changed his mind and assigned White Mage to the case, but has, again, changed his mind because of Dixie (Belle). Duncan indeed does have karma involved. He pulls out a fish taco to eat on a break from acting. It almost reaches his mouth before he remembers the boy. George! I left him back in VHC City to fend for his own! He must be, jeez, 17 now? Maybe 18. I believe his birthday is Tuesday (of last week’s month). Oh (relief!). He now remembers he left the boy with his Aunt Clare, his *sister*. They didn’t have the same mother but it was close enough. Last time he spoke to him George was having more dreams about Yelloo. That’s where we should head next (Fern directs — former director Percy Pierce assigned to another “film”). The border between granite and snow. The ultimate division between Tennessee interior and Kentucky exterior. Like Static…
“I see,” she muttered after turning page 15 and starting to read 16. “Cowabunga *is* a misdirection, interesting.” 5 seconds later she turns another page.