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| Chey Loves Her Watermelon Gun |
The Bob Saga
XXXX: Resolution
Sweetie and I worked our way through the hysterical crowd as Diva's head spun slowly to a stop,
"Man, you talk about your performance art," said a Philip Linden lookalike. "This is freaking PERFORMANCE ART."
From her katana stilts, positioned high above my head, Sweetie curtsied and said, "Thank you, thank you." The crowd cheered.
"And now," said Sweetie to her adoring public, "I will introduce you to yet another new form of art. Let's hear it for Anti-Criminal Performance Art! I will now arrest the head of I'mSoNotADiva Bartlett!"
I frowned up at Sweetie. "Does this mean I'm going to have to stop shooting her with my watermelon gun?" I asked.
"I'm afraid so, dear Cheyenne. We must all make sacrifices for the sake of art."
"Grrr," I said, but I put the gun away.
But not before taking one final shot.
AlexHayden approached, holding Diva's head at arm's length. "Jolly good show," he said, and handed Diva to Sweetie, who handed Diva to a mounted cop. "Book her," she said.
"Thanks for your help, Alex," I said. "Sorry for being so hard on you in the blog."
"No worries," he said. "If you'll take care of that bloody hummingbird I'll call it even." And then he rezzed his custom-made Aston-Martin and drove away. It looked to me as if he crashed at the sim boundary.
I approached the remaning golem, which was standing stock-still. There was a trail of mud on its cheek, and as I watched, a tear trickled down.
One of the horse cops looked as if he was thinking about arresting the remaining golem, but I shook my head no and he moved along.
I dropped a landmark on the golem. "If you need a place to stay there's a docking station open at the HAL 9000 Memorial Detention Facility for the Robotically Criminally Insane," I said. "Up at our robot sanitorium."
Neelix had been broadcasting non-stop, to the chagrin of his peers, who were working desperately to rid their mouths of the remnants of Sweetie's throwing scones. I caught Neelix' eye and he grinned and nodded, but when I said, "There's only one loose end. Sleez--" I stopped because he was frantically shaking his head and making zipping motions with his fingers and lips.
I spoke into his microphone. "I suppose we'll never know who delivered the blackmail letters," I said. "I guess it'll just be another one of those Second Life mysteries, like where prims go when they die and why can Sweetie get only 38 levels of subfolders in her inventory."
"Thanks," IMed Neelix. "Sleezy is a poor excuse for a journalist, but she's all I have."
Sweetie was busily giving interviews to a half dozen Second Life magazines. "It's important to blend science and art," she said. "Take for instance, the beignet..."
And with that, dear readers, after more than a month of the saga of Bob, our drinking bird, we wish you...
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
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