00460501
“I’m going to rub than d-mn coffin right out of the painting, that’s what I’m going to do, hmm-mm-mm.”
“Paw?”
Andy twirls away from the flawed painting Uncle Herbert gave him as a wedding gift for his first marriage and toward his son from that marriage, trying to block his vision of what he was doing to it with his body as best as possible.
“Opie, what’re you doing out of bed?” Andy says in a harsher tone than normal, which of course Opie, being the sensitive child he is, picks up on. Something’s wrong, he senses.
“I-I just wanted some milk. And maybe cookies (!)” Should have been a laugh track there, Barry De Boy thinks from the couch, also understanding something’s wrong.
“Milk milk milk, okay okay okay,” Andy says while rushing over to corral his son and herd him toward the kitchen. “And then right straight back to bed. Do you realize what time it is?”
—–
After making sure Opie is good and tucked in again, Andy returns to the painting. But his rubbing has made the child’s coffin even *more* visible to his complete exasperation, uncovering additional layers of paint. “What the–” he says while staring at it, and then instinctively glances over his shoulder to make sure Opie didn’t come back down again. “That’s it that’s it, wedding gift or no, this painting’s got to *go*,” and he grabs it with both hands, intending to take it out to the squad car parked in the driveway and dispose of it in the dumpster behind Floyd’s first thing in the morning, before he even goes into the office. He’s just that determined — suddenly — to be done with the thing. Uncle Herbert hadn’t visited in months after all. But Aunt Bee, he thinks. Herbert was her favorite brother. She’ll notice, she’ll be upset; won’t let off until he puts the painting he gave us back up above the mantelpiece, pheh.
There’s another way, he realizes. Who can change a painting but a *painter*. “Barry De Boy,” he says aloud, probably to the camera.
“Barry De Boy??” Barry utters too. He looks down at the red tie, wakes up.
(to be continued)
00460502 (lost & found)
I know, I’ll ask that pedestrian up ahead for directions, she thinks.
“Dandelion!?” she shouted over the cycle’s roar while pulling up beside him and slowing to his pace. “Know where to find!?”
But he kept on trudging along in his stumbly bumbly way, not answering. “Well *fine*!” she said and motored on, only to encounter him *again* just ahead. NPC, she realized. Not real. And no dialog assigned to it apparently since she got the same non-response from the second one. Meet him in another district of town and he could be a Chatty Kathy, though, she theorized while pulling away once more.
“Dandelion?!” they said after she finally flagged down someone real about 3 blocks away, a native to Night City named Dave. Or Don. “Different part of town!” he answered over her still raging motor. “You’re in Watson! You *need* Heywood, Vista Del Rey to be specific…!”
“… Dandelion to exactly pinpoint!” she finished for him. And Dave or Don told her.
But when she arrived at the indicated location, she finds that she *herself* is already there. As another Redd. She gets up off the bench to its side and heads within…
00460503 (Vista (Del Rey))
“Interesting place you have here, Dandelion.” She’d caught up with the owner of the cocktails bar. Indeed a dandy, a playboy, but of the loyalest kind. “But… I must ask, of course. How did *you* get here?”
“Interesting question in turn, my lady, interesting indeed. And the crux of the issue — you’re good at getting to those as I’m recalling. Our many adventures.” He shakes his head with the flood of memories, takes a second to absorb and then recalibrate the discussion. In truth, he didn’t think his great great friend Gerald, the former witcher recently retired to the Touisant vineyard he inherited after killing that, well… red headed *monster*, would choose Merry here over Jennifer. He considers the red head before him, looming large and bright. That must be it. Gerald was always a sucker for bright colors. Like those painters who only paint red yellow blue all over Beauchamp. Abstracters, they’re sometimes called. His other great great friend Princess Anna of Lea who ruled that land had explained it all. Abstraction’s the rage of Beauchamp, she said while pointing an artist out, busy away at it on one of the many town terraces. If you paint or draw realistically you are considered mundane, run of the mill; *anyone* can do realism, she said at the time, which he thought was odd. He preferred landscape paintings himself. And portraits, especially of himself. Which gets him to the point.
“It all had to do with a painting, Merry. A painting of me.”
00460504 (Lady of Space and Time)
“I fled through many worlds, many times… They came very close to catching me once. It was then that Avallac’h appeared, out of nowhere. He found a portal and took us to a world where Eredin couldn’t find us for… oh, perhaps half a year…”
“The world where Eredin couldn’t find you. What was that like?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“People there had metal in their heads, waged war from a distance, using things similar to megascopes. And there were no horses, everyone had their own flying ship instead.”
“Siri, stop fooling around.”
“Told you you wouldn’t believe me.
“Ah, we should’ve stayed there.”
—–
“And so *that*, dear lady, is how we all came here, you, me, Gerald, others. One by one by one, we all got sucked into the portal, with Siri on the other side, desiring us to join her after she returned to this strange but hopefully safe land — safe from the Wild Hunt of course. And I’ve… adapted. As you can see.” He waves his arm around the small but busy cocktails bar he runs with Zoltar, another that came through the portal. His old tavern partner who had become his new bar partner.
Merry Gouldbusk’s brain gears were spinning fast with excitement. “So… Siri is here as well?”
“Of course,” answered the colorful, dandy Dandelion with confidence. “She’s at the center of it all. A game within a game. Trapped. But for a reason. Found her in a drawer in my office out back. ‘Hmph,’ I say at the time. ‘Wonder how someone that looks like Siri got on the cover of that magazine?’ Later I learned that *was* Siri. Literally. Siri and the game had become one.”
“Fascinating,” is all dumbfounded Merry Gouldbusk could think of saying. Portals, she ponders. She’s beginning to understand why Gerald hates them so. Trapped! Just like all the rest. What would she do here? Streetwalker? Would it get that bad? Surely it wouldn’t get that bad.
“So… Dandelion.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Do you, ahem, need a dishwasher here by chance?” she only 1/2 joked.
“I… have something better. Siri has been preparing for this moment. Come with me. Back to my office. Another part of the magic of this world. A talking book. Just as Siri linked up with me, I was suppose to link up with you. Gerald… not really sure about yet,” he admits with a shake of his head. “We’ll cross that bridge later. Here… come.”
And they get up and go to his office out back for further instructions from Center Control.
(to be continued)
00460505 (Siri + Gerald Too)
“You and Merry. Never expected it to be honest.”
“Life’s full of surprises.”
“So how did the two of you–”
“End up together?” Gerald finished Siri’s question. “Hmm, with Jennifer it was fight after fight, lots of arguments, drama… not saying it was bad, but…”
“But what?”
“Got to be exhausting. With Merry, it’s not. I finally feel… harmony. A calm. Feel like things are the way they’re suppose to be.”
—–
“Show me what you found,” she said without turning away from the ball holding, 4 armed, magenta and amber tinted statue.
00460506
“Investigating a murder, ma’am. Blue Moon Kentucky. Know anything? A-bout it?”
“My Son!” she cried upon seeing him beam in on a ray of light. “Come back to me.”
“No ma’am. Not your Son. Or your Sun for that matter if that’s what you meant. Despite the beam and ray thing going on here underneath me.” But then he thought again. Clue!
Barry De Boy wakes up, immediately googles “Elvis Esley”. Or was it Isley?
(to be continued)
00460507
*Done* with the folding and done for the day, she thinks, sweat beading on her forehead from all the humidity around here because of the, well, *water* — over her 2 feet and up to 3-4 feet, pheh. *Now* what? she wonders. Back to *his* place?
“TOILET,” he calls from over the intercom, making her realize she had one more chore to accomplish before she could get paid. Orders of the big boss.
“Wolvie, closing up for the day!” Emily said in synchronicity with the video from somewhere beyond the cracked door, trying not to look in. She’s learned to deal with it.
“Just visiting the bathroom again and done!” he called back.
—–
“Cleaning, of course,” said Wheeler about same bathroom. “Not the other stuff. But still quite nasty, one could say. I believe you could put the big boss firmly in the sadist category. It all just got… out of control.”
“Nah, you’re okay, you’re good,” opined James Smoker, sitting across the bum camp fire from her, still holding and puffing on two cigarettes at once — while he could. “No need to crucify yourself over the matter,” he says, watching her “burn” through the fire. Like a witch. Or maybe a witcher, hmm. “This so-called Big Boss (*cough*): sounds like he’s just a butthead, a butt *period*,” he continued in his gravelly voice growing deeper and more gravelly by the year, the week. He hadn’t told her about the terminal thing. And he hadn’t revealed his true name. Not yet. So she just kept imagining him as James Smoker.
“Nice of you to say so,” says Wheeler. “But I’m afraid the whole town knows, the whole town looks down on me.” Still burning away inside a fire of her own devising.
“Those *Uptowners* might,” said James Smoker to this. “But us Downtowners… we stick together through thick and thin. Like bounded sticks.” He puts his two cigarettes together with his two hands to emphasize his point. Burny sticks, she understands — local nomenclature. If she burns, he burns; nice gesture from him.
So James S. considered her a Downtowner, she thought. Interesting. Even though she worked Uptown, lived Uptown. Maybe Willa Brown Halter is on the wrong side of the issue.
“What about *Mid*town?” she decided to ask, curious about the so-called neutral zone between the divisions, upper and lower. Where she was floored by Charlene that day of the town meeting and so had to pick herself up off the slanted pavement in order to attend.
“Center Core?” he responded, thinking of his primary reason for coming here to this Burg in the first place. To find a place where he could crawl into and die.
He decides to just blurt it out, the reason, the end point. Only crackles from the fire for a while after that.
(to be continued)
00460508 (The Burg)
Downtown.
Uptown.
Midtown. Center Core. Between two highways, raised and ground level. Busy both. Much noise to drown out things like gun shots, knife wounds, screams in the night. Perfect place to crawl in and die.
Wheeler watches while James practices his graffiti once more, his final testimony. She still doesn’t know his name. Maybe never will now. Will again, as in his.
00460509 (manifestation/ acquiring a name)
Mysterious, blood red sky…
…. continued…
… and then a “dandelion” of all things.
—–
“What are these mysterious *seeds* floating in front of me. And… who *am* I??”
00460510 (Big Boss 01)
“I’m surprised you’re still here, Big Ass Franz. Bartending, I mean. I thought you had bigger dreams for the world.”
“And I’m surprised *you’re* still here, Jer Left Horn. Playboy lifestyle like yours tends to cut a life short. What’s it been? 5 years?
“At least.”
“Why are you here?” Franz cut to the chase. “Cat-people again?”
“You guessed it. I started… to miss them. I really really started to miss them. Out of the blue.”
“Well… understandable — they can do that,” he admitted. “But they’re gone. Or at least I haven’t seen any around in many a blue moon,” he doubled down on the blue. He was lying but he kept a pretty good poker face going. Jer L.H. was not good but great at reading faces, though. He picked up on the untruth, but played along. Like any top notch poker player great with faces can do if needed.
“Yeah, noticed all the pictures of them had been taken down around here.”
“Yuuup. No need to keep them up.”
“Right right. Soo… Rebl?”
“Oh,” said Franz in his husky voice, slightly taken aback. “So you remember that part too. Don’t recall *revealing* that bit o’ information to you the last time.”
“You didn’t,” Jer replied. “Dug it up myself. Asked around. Military training, you see. Half spy, half gestapo. The Queen’s army. And that’s all you need to know about that.” He had the power to hypnotize if he blurted out the wrong thing, especially when drinking. He decided this wasn’t one of those moments. As long as he didn’t specify which queen.
“Okay, Queen’s army, huh?”
“*A* Queen’s army.”
“Alright. Soo… Mr. Left Horn — sir — you’ve asked your questions and reached your deadends. Now what? How about ordering a beer or three to keep this ol’ bartender going with your well salaried royal military money. In fact…” He leans over and quietens his voice. “If you give me a royal tip as well maybe my memory will be jostled about just what happened to them… the cat-people, the cat-*aliens*, mind you.”
“Will it?” ask Jer Left Horn plainly.
“Might. For the right, ahem, tip.” Still leaning, voice still low.
How much was it worth for Jer to “tip” this man? He decides to slam his left hand down on the bar to indicate he’s done here, head horn castling a curving shadow upon it. “Maybe I’ll see you later, Franz. Got some more leads to follow…”
“Horse’s mouth, here,” he said before the horned man got too far. “Remember that.” Jer waved him off… but perhaps Franz was right, he quickly backtracked. Would be hard to find a person who actually *dated* one of those feline aliens. And he was in love with her, he recalled, and perhaps she him. Even better. He turns around, pulls out a 500 from his jacket, lays it on the counter. He was willing to go up to 5000 but figured this might do the trick with somewhat slow Franz. It did up to a point.
“Red planet,” he said.
“Mars?”
“Red planet is all I can say for 500.” Jer pulls out 4500 more, totally intrigued and all in on the mystery.
Turns out it was cube shaped of all things. A f-cking big ass red cube of a planet way way out in space somewhere, perhaps as far as Betelgeuse, Franz said, which would, in fact, explain the color, Jer Left Horn thought: solar reflection from that massive red giant of a star. Only the truly privileged knew about it, Franz insisted, and then took the money and told Left Horn to go away. Far far away. He had no problem with this now. “Easiest way to get there is the 1 after 909,” Franz said about a needed spaceship, his last bit of information revealed. 5000 dollars well well spent! thought Jer, free to leave the bar and End of Time itself for good…
… only to have another Horn, the Right one, almost immediately take his place there. Make that at exactly the same time to be more dramatic. 9:01 Jer leaves, 9:01 Benny arrives. But down at the docks and not the bar. Benny didn’t know about the bar, at least not yet.
(to be continued)
00460511
Wheeler made sure she rented the last room in the town’s hotel so that Benny Right Horn would be forced back into the caves, lucky her. Jackson Bloch — I *mean*, Bob the Builder from The Burg — shortly joined her. They were here at the End of Time researching infrastructure and solutions to. Bob hadn’t been here since the last time he visited, which is logical. Similar to Jer Left Horn’s last presence in this land, that would be around 5 years back now. Why did he visit then? Well, same reason. He was looking for answers. He had been born here as it turned out.
“Bob?” Wheeler called across the room, using his new name instead of the old still. As they agreed upon. “You all right over there? Have room for that, ahem, pipe on the couch with you?” Wheeler understood Bob was sleeping with the pipe but that was okay. His wife had died 3 years ago and so he’d turned a little weird in the meantime. Fetish with infrastructure. Deadly weapon doubled as a new wife and visa versa.
“Okay,” said Bob, adjusting the pipe relative to his body. They must stretch out together in exactly the right way. To make this happen, Bob had to prop it up on both couch ends and slide underneath it. Wheeler didn’t want to see!
“Listen, Bob. I think it’s time for me to go exploring in those caves, poke around End of Time as a whole while everyone is asleep. So I’ll see you around.”
(to be continued, but only on Wheeler’s side of things)
00460512
“Oh my GOD, you’ve *got* to be kidding,” says Fran to Cloe after Benny Right Horn tried to persuade the 2 girls in the same way as his actually handsome brother Jer Left Horn did over 5 years before. Nudity permitted on the docks: he’s taking “advantage” of that allowance as well.
Cloe said, “what? what?”, not looking away from her phone or turning around. She was still searching for that video of the cow blowing the farmer’s hat off without moving its mouth, ha. She knew Fran would find it hilarious.
“He’s actually got *2* censors to cover his ass it’s so massive, one for each cheek.”
“Speaking of asses…” And Cloe shows Fran the found video.
“Wow,” says Fran after the 7 second clip was over. “That was loud.”
“And windy (!). Soo… what were you saying?”
“Never mind.” Fran had enough of “bad” asses for a while.
But he had an ace in the hole. Or in the front. Oh no oh no, Benny don’t do it. But he did.
“Oh giiiirrrrls.”
Fran’s jaw drop when she saw Benny’s “pipe”. Benny was an old porn star. Like recently featured blog actor Drew “Grumpy” Cleveland currently residing in the Omega continent’s Castletown. You remember: from photo-novel 43. In fact, let’s have it that Drew started out as Benny’s stunt double. And perhaps also visa versa, each taking turns with each other, depending on the nature of the film. Drew liked front and Benny liked back. The arrangement worked out swell for several years. They easily edited the horn that grew out of the right side of his head in post-production. When *needed*.
And because of the turn, he’d get that information about the cat-people (aliens). Now to the caves to find them for real. No pussyfooting around this time!
“See ya later… giirrrls,” he said in parting after putting his clothes back on front ways. Slooowly.
“You bet!” said still slack jawed Fran. “What-ever,” said still phone playing Cloe, looking for more funny videos for her dear dear friend Fran.
(to be continued)
00460513
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFbCMEsoT5M
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4ACTR2X26Y&t=128s
My first GTA 6 related post! Mention of Providence Canyon State Park in Georgia being an inspiration for a GTA 6 location in the first Youtube video linked above just after watching a video (2nd link) referencing the Eye of Providence as an influence in GTA 5’s development. Cool! Can’t wait for more.
00460514
She pops a lemon-lime soda (free!) and ponders possibilities. Two new sims for End of Time since she last visited, Albert here, and then Pogo just above. The parcel’s name is Okefenokee South, another Georgia reference, then. Another theme!
According to its wikipedia article, Okefenokee Swamp is one of Georgia’s 7 natural wonders, a list which also includes Providence Canyon just mentioned in that last post too.
She takes off her shoes and walks along the water’s edge, wondering if this is a place she could actually settle down in for a while. Invite Newt to join her, perhaps. *Or*: Edward. Not really fair to just keep him at that backwards positioned waterfall over in Nawt Vaya for convenience sake. Oh well, onward with the exploration (!).
Or maybe just a totally new person shows up, she thinks a bit later while taking another rest at this barn location.
In fact, there he is.
“Hi. I’m Wheeler.”
“Albert,” he said, eyes not quite formed yet. “But call me Douglas.”
“Douglas it is.” Still no eyes. Wheeler can’t trust him to stay until they form. Still no eyes… still no eyes…
—–
Aah, who cares.
(to be continued?)
00460515
He’d already done it twice on the pipe but the pipe had turned into a broom, thanks to Wheeler’s, I mean, *Glinda’s* magic wand. “3rd time on the ceiling,” she commanded. “3rd time on the ceiling,” she repeated. “3rd time on the ceiling,” she said again. “Just fly up!” she finished the incantation, plainly stating the objective.
He can do it, she thinks. He *will* do it.
He indeed flies up after a short but significant enough pause, knocks against the ceiling pretty hard with the end of what is now his broom. Everything changes.
—–
He wakes up on the couch with the same old 12′ pipe but immediately senses its function has changed. He realizes he had the power to fix the town’s infrastructure all along. They don’t need End of Time’s alien cat-people, psychic geniuses in such things. He is actually one of them! In short, he knows he can fix everything simply with his mind. He laughs out loud with the power, “ha ha ha”. Is this good? Probably good I’m thinking. Pretty sure.
Well, just in case I suppose we should file it as another one of those: we’ll see’s. Plot holes are still possible if not pot holes now.
(to be continued)
00460516
“I was made from here,” puts forth Douglas, standing in the midst of the Albert Swamp Cemetery.
Ahh, the plot thickens, thinks Wheeler. “Parts?” she queried.
He starts indicating locations. Well, *a* location. “That headstone,” he gruffs while pointing ahead. “Head.” He points to his own.
“Uh *huh*. Feet?” she hastens the process, looking behind her to see if he would be vulnerable to suggestion. Another test of character from her, then. But, to her pleasure and satisfaction, he points to the same tombstone. “Same body,” he utters.
“Ohh, nice. And how about the rest, the arms, the legs, the torso, the… other stuff? Same?” she guesses. She moves forward and crouches down before he gets a chance to answer, checks the name on the tombstone. “Yup, looks like so. Albert…” she reads… “can’t make out the middle name.”
“Wendell,” issues Douglas, revealed now as a cobbled together Albert sim monster (of lore?).
“Okay… take your word for that. Then… yes, Douglas. Years 1882 through, it looks like, 1942. Oh, only 60 years old when he — you, I guess — died. War?”
“Just after war.” He was saying when he was born — remade — not the circumstances of death, Wheeler understood.
“*Wheeler*,” calls an energized Bob at the gate of the cemetery. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“Well. You found me!” she tries to match his energy. In turning she noticed he didn’t bring along his pipe. Unusual! Something has changed on his end too, she senses.
“I’ve found the cat-people and they are me,” he just blurted it out plainly and simply. “We can go home; back to The Burg. I can fix everything with my newfound psychic abilities.” He points to his own head with one of his two free hands. “Mind power.”
“Oh,*great*. That’s great news, Bob. It really is. But…”
“But what?” Bob looks at her and then the monster and then back. “You’ve found someone?”
“I’ve *made* someone,” she corrected. “Back in time. Cool, huh? I have powers too. Albert, I mean, *Douglas,* meet Bob. Bob the Builder who’s going to fix the problems of our Burg with his powerful brain powers now. Cool, huh?” she says in turn to him. He grunts. Wheeler takes it as a sign he’s impressed. She’ll have much time to learn the ins and outs of his mannerisms, though. She has to stay; she has to take care of him, her monster after all. There’s more mysteries here in this big ass swamp of a sim. And probably Pogo to the north as well. Okefenokee North? Could be. Maybe even a bit of Providence Canyon mixed in here too. Wouldn’t that be the oddest?
Sunklands 