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Dale wrote on Shiftassisters on January 22nd: “Today as I was driving to the newspaper a big yellow car popped out right in front of me. Really, wasn’t there, then it was.” I think she lives in NY, too!

A hotel room in New Venice, January 2034

Sean had agreed reluctantly.
As his father Lord Wrick had been aware for some time, Sean had been heavily drinking following the death of Margaret, and though he could still speak with her, he had a hard time not to take her as an illusion from his guilty mind.
So, wary of the impacts on his grand-children, Guinevere and Peregrine, Hilarion Wrick had demanded him to personally take care of their education, and have them move with him. The year before, he had acquired an old mansion in the Orkney Islands, in a healthy location far from the buzz of towns, and was in the process of having it restored. Its previous owner, Baron O’Dolly seemed to have disappeared and Lord Wrick had seized the occasion, as there was a nice big area of land around the place. Restoration would soon be over, he’d said, and he was wishing the children would move in the next spring.

Of course, Sean had known that his father’s proposal was no mere proposal. With the wealth and lawyers he had at his disposal, even if he would have to wait years, he could get what he was wanting. Even if he was to crush everything in the process. So he had agreed.

— Why do you feel sorry? You are no fit to raise children, and Becky is certainly no better than you… the ghost of Margaret was saying
— You know what it is, I feel so inadequate… What will my children remember of me?
— Don’t be stupid, they love you… And I’ll talk to them… On the contrary, loving the old bat won’t be as easy for them

This almost brought up a smile on Sean’s face.

— Yes, you’re right, and you are right for Becky and I… Perhaps we’ll have children, but for now, I suppose we want to enjoy being together, and take a deep bracing breath.
— Then stop being so gloomy and go call her. Perhaps you even want to start looking for an apartment in New Venice for both of you, to make her a big nice surprise for your wedding. She didn’t seem so fond of the idea of staying in Dublin for extended periods of time.
— Yes! And I’ll book our honey moon too… She wants to see so many places I suppose I’ll have to book a cruise over the world. And perhaps get tickets for the first trip in the cross-oceanic tunnel… Thank you Margaret, I’m so full of projects…
— Why, thank YOU, she said with a bwink (a simultaneous blinking and winking, in ghost’s jargon).

— But what the heck is he doing? He’s not gonna puke into my car! Armando was giving short anxious looks at the rear having finally noticed where the frogging sound was coming from.
— Oh, no… Al is very professional Tina was giggling. You know, he’s a top consultant on health issues. He’d tell you that better than me, I’m just a cosemotologist, but he knows what he does
— Oh really? Armando sounded interested
— Indeed… Al started
— Cosemotologist? interrupted Armando, almost flying over a wild goose crossing the path of the car.
— Yes answered Tina, batting a few eyelashes in the process.
— It has to do with this new thing, like using emotions as make-up?
— Yes, sure. It’s pretty effective for black spots, for instance, I’m not telling that for you of course. Here’s my card, if you’re interested in some private consultation. I also do sebum-blotches analysis, all you have to do is apply your face on a sheet of paper…

Oh, wasn’t that mean, Tina? although Sam was finding the discussion hilarious, he knew Armando was quite ticklish on his appearance.

— And what’s the use of his swelling and frog sounds then? asked Armando, in a subtle attempt to move the focus of attention away from him
— Mmm… I’m still experimenting, but it’s an alteration of some of our common digesting bacterias, to have us efficiently process some of the new foods. But as I see it, the process of adaptation of these new bacterias may have some unpleasant side effects of swelling. Fortunately, I’ve found some old beat in the MuSoundeum that seems to help dissipate the swelling effects… I suppose the singer is still alive now… Perhaps you even know her, she was called Britta Toothpicks

— Good grief, here it is! Armando was visibly very relieved to have the rooftop of their destination on sight. He started to descend abruptly, making Chump bark at the slight air decompression, and in a matter of minutes, at the sound of frogs and Britta Toothpicks’ beats, they had all landed safely on top of the River Soup Restaurant and Salsad a new hype all-you-can-eat restaurant, where people would sit on boats and scoop their food out of the soup-river.

In the flying car, Al was mentally reciting mantras and drawing symbols, and was distractedly participating in the conversation which he could follow thanks to telepathic transfers he grasped from his friends conversations.
His gums were now much better, and he had recovered a wonderful smile with shiny pearl-white teeth.

The car interior was now a bit small for them five, and Tina’d had to press herself on Al and Becky, who was almost disappearing in her boubou full of folds, her head wedged against the hat and the hat against the roof of the car.

— Can’t we get some air in there? asked Tina, who was feeling she needed to breathe more.
— Err… Let me check

Sam’s friend was looking clumsily at some buttons for one to release the hood.

— Watch out! Becky cried, propping up her hat which had fallen on her eyes.

They had narrowly missed a bunch of balloons floating in the middle of the buildings.

— Jeeze! It’s no better than the submarway this thing… Becky was being fidgety at everything and was wishing for the whole wedding preparations to soon be over.
— Is that a frog we hear? asked Armando who had finally released the hood, having Becky clutch her hat, as well as little Chump, with the strong wind now blowing on their heads.
— WHAT? FLOG A TIRE? Tina was shouting now, seeing now all the benefits of being able to telepathically communicate…

A click on a button. The hood was again put on top of the car.
— Bit too noisy, hey? said Armando
— Well, didn’t really mind said Albert dreamily

— Oh dammit! Is there a damn frog in that car’s engine or what? Armando was stressed.

Tina looked at Sam in the rear-view mirror and spluttered affectionately. Al had just mentally expressed he was experimenting with new yeast actions in his digesting system, and that there was some minor inconveniences on which he would have liked some discretion… His belly was swelling funnily and making gargoyling noises…

— Ahahah, a frog… perhaps even a blue-bullfrog with all that frogging noise! Tina was feeling surprisingly exuberant.

— Wait!

A small impish gnomesque figure wearing a black and white tunic adorned with a silver blazon was standing in front of Claude, formerly known as Number Four.
Claude was reading to fight, and extricate himself of that stinky situation, starting to feel the powerful strength the treatment had given him and feeling virtually unstoppable.
Considering that such a small individual, especially unarmed, wasn’t much of a threat, he stopped in his track, wondering if that was part of a subtle stratagem.

— What do you want?
— We do not want you harm, stranger. We are aware of the experiments which have been done on you, and we are sorry for what has been done…
— Oh, don’t be, I feel better than I’ve been in ages
— Yes, we saw that, though we are not that sure that the treatment effects are permanent either…
— Not permanent? What have you done to me?
— Nothing. There is nothing to fear from us, we are peaceful. We are a wing of a group of individuals whose primary skills lay in robbing. We are mostly hired to retrieve precious possessions in great discretion and you could consider yourself lucky to have seen us in our true form.
— Us? How many are you?
— A few… We gave you a mixture of plants and magnetite powder to help you stabilize your situation, apparently it has succeeded.
— Mmm, perhaps yes…
— Another thing you probably want to know before we help you get rid of these bandages if you want. During your sleep, you muttered lots of things, one of which was a name: “Sasha”.
— Sasha?
— Yes. I’m afraid we believe that the individual you were calling is dead. We monitored the doctor’s assistant when she disposed of the body. It was not pretty. I thought you should know.

Despite his mission, Claude couldn’t help but feel sorry; Sasha’s sweet voice had been such a comfort during the last days of his transformation…

Robbers they say… Hope we’re not after the same thing…

There is a time where reality and fiction bleed into each other so much exquisitely that they soon become indiscernible one from another. Such a time is not in a distant future. The time is now.

Elizabeth started to munch on her black and white quillipooh. Her yawning had made one of the mini-goats faint and drop on the floor stiff as a board… Light as a feather, looking at the quillipooh, stiff as a board looking at the goat. Light as a feather, another look at the quillipooh, stiff as a board, look at the goat…

She wasn’t sure waking up in the middle of the night to write the tiny bits of sentences she’d heard were very useful.

Light as a father, staffed as a motherboard…, Late as a feature… stuffed as a bugger…
Eyelids becoming heavy and slowly dropping over her eyes, she was also feeling her body starting to vibrate violently… Her nerves, probably dying for a nicobeck fix.

She reached out for her bedecked beckelite cigarette holder, her eyes still half-closed, but it wasn’t here… For all matter and purposes, the table wasn’t here either…
She opened her eyes fully and almost got a shock. She was floating a feet above the floor, like cushioned in layers of air. Was she dreaming already? Wow, in any case, this… experimentation was hunky-dory!

Baroness Sharples in the newspaper last night…..

111 emails in the inbox this morning, too
Rabbits, owls, neptunes and herons…..
oh and driftwood (driftwood icon)
OH! In today’s paper: normal people tell 88,000 lies (that’s either a year or a lifetime, I can’t remember), and that’s not including probable selves. We are not normal, therefore we are an exception

In the creaking wooden caravan slowly moving its way on the dusty roads, Twilight was lost in deep thoughts, caressing mechanically the beautiful blond wig.
She had done it almost on an impulse, but like all impulses she’d ever had, it had always felt deeply true to her core and she had gone. Now, it felt a bit strange, and too rational doubts were creeping along like viscous bugs, and she felt like judging her behaviour over and over.
Of course, her brothers, Jo the first, and then Elroy, had been supportive, but they had always been that way. Even when their first reactions were to object to what she was doing, like dancing in the saloon, her determination was always winning them easily. She had promised to write often, and she would probably be back in a year.

When the Freak Show had settled in town for a week, she had been at first almost grossed out by what was announced, and had not been her brothers to egg on her, she probably wouldn’t have been going to see them.
Pat Elson, the director of the Fabulously Great Freakus (or FGF), was a little dark-skinned man in an orange suit and top-hat, with a communicable enthusiasm and a sincere consideration for the people he called “his performers”. Very soon, rather than being repulsed by the differences, Twilight had been attracted by the way of life of these people, and was considering traveling with them as an opportunity to discover more about the world and about herself. Her inspiration to write was even tickling her fingers like an army of ants she had never felt before.
When she had said to Pat Elson that she was willing to travel and work with them, rather than laughing like he used to do, he’d taken a silent pondering moment to consider the options. Obviously Twilight wasn’t a freak herself, at least not physically freaky. But he couldn’t refuse help, as his business was growing every day. Venus, the armless woman, his best asset on the show, had been recently pregnant, giving birth to conjoined twins, and would surely appreciate two arms to give her a hand… so to speak.
So he had agreed.

The babies started crying in the caravan drawing Twilight out of her reveries. Venus was sleeping nearby, still exhausted, and Zarafina, the giraffe-woman, started to groan annoyed by the noise.
Twilight hurried to cuddle the babies, checking that they were alright. All was right, they were probably only bugged by the bumps in the road. No wonder… she sighed.

— There you are! said the man to the dark figure who had just landed on the wrought iron railed balcony I believe your trip was good!
— Absolutely, Sir. Everything went as you said.
— Good, very good.

The Baron was a tall man with an impressive build and a broad chest due to his lifelong passion for boxing. With his grey waxed moustache on his round rubicund face, he was giving the impression of a perfectly refined gentleman, but his disarrayed hair and his blue twinkling eyes behind his monocle were contrasting sharply and suggesting either a genius or a madman.

While Carla was getting rid of the cumbersome fly-like apparatus, the Baron was taking deep puffs on his pipe, releasing pink-coloured clouds smelling of vanilla.
The interior of the manor was of grisly aspect, but for all matter and purposes, the Baron seemed completely oblivious, as he was savouring his smoking on the stained worn bottle-green velvet sofa.
In actuality, the manor looked like a total ruin, and that, combined with the habit of speaking his mind which had gained him a reputation of heinous callous grizzly in society, had slowly severed him from all exterior contact.
The Crazy Baron, as the people of the nearby village had called him, was indeed very glad of this state of fact, which allowed him a complete privacy. As he liked to say to a few trusted people, being mad was the surest way of being left alone. Providing him what money, threats and coercion wouldn’t surely have given as surely. It was not completely safe either of incursion, but these, mainly due to a few young and curious daredevils from the village, could be easily thwarted thanks to the motion-sensors that were dispersed along the property and an appropriate anonymous call to the police. Because, unknown of but a few, underneath the old structure, was a room that, despite lacking a view, was not lacking of anything high-tech…

— Do you want to know the details? asked Carla, interrupting the Baron in his thoughts.
— Not really. I suppose you gave that old crone of a Viscountess the fright of her life, but well, I suppose she deserved it… Many would agree of course, though never in private. Ahah!
— Well, now you make me think of it, I reckon she forgot herself a bit in the process…
— Ahahah! If only it could have taught her something… The manic laughter of the Baron was as chilling as it was infectious.

Suddenly regaining his poised demeanour, the Baron resumed:
— Now, tell me, was it a genuine one?

The new shop was splendiferous. It had all people could imagine about pets and stuff, pets most people wouldn’t have imagined existed. There was even a whole division for the pets health, with permanent vets…

The “Rent’a Pet Shop, Boy!” was taking a whole building, with no less than thirteen storeys, and when Sidonie entered the huge hall at the ground floor, which was slightly above the waters’ level, she was awed by the quantity of animals which where stored in the facility.
She didn’t know what she wanted for a start and now she was beginning to feel lost.

A beautiful tall black woman, with short hair and wearing an ample avocado-coloured boubou and carrying a little dog close to her chest passed by her and Sidonie could hear her muttering apparently incoherent bits to herself
— Come on Chumpy, the doctor said it will be alright after that surgery, here, here little thing, breathe, breathe and say YES… Oh Lordy, I’m gonna be late, and Sam will be bugged if I make him wait in his friend’s flying car…

Sidonie was mesmerized by the woman, who suddenly turned to face her and said winkingly “I’d rather not go for a squawking parrot if I were you, they can’t keep quiet… and not a magpie either… Al said this new breeds of nine-tailed foxes are great, but I can’t really get used to anything else but dogs… Oh, I must go, need to have the last alterations done on my wedding gown… How can they expect that I remember all of this!”

And the woman went running out of the shop…

Sidonie was baffled… A nine-tailed fox… Why not, sounded like a nice idea. At least, she could start by renting it, and if it was a nice companion and Tonio was OK with it, she would adopt it…

She asked a vendor where was the fox section. The vendor took a very professional look to ask her if she meant the new genetically engineered breed of foxes, or the classical breeds, desert, arctic or continental…
Sidonie was lost for a moment, then remember the lady had said they were new breeds, so she asked for the new ones in an intimidated voice.

— Upstairs, thirteenth floor, on your right after the jump said the vendor and beware of the shrimpigators