Nurse Tornado Opens a Shelter for The Poor & Lost of Steelhead…

Shamian Alley has a very welcome addition as Nurse Lucy Tornado has opened a shelter where the poor & lost of Shanghai can lay their head and fill their bellies all under her tender mercies… pop over and say hello to the old gent who helps out there, Mudpie I believe he calls himself.

 

Bunneh on a Boat!

From the heart of the Mysterio Studios of Grignano & Raglan comes a cautionary tale of Mother Nature and a simple seafaring bunneh…

 

Goodunnit: Chapter 10 – And One More Makes Three

As the sun rose over Polymath Tower, pouring its spiteful light down upon my pounding head, I was calculating whether or not my lungs would make the dash to the pawnshop or simply explode with the effort.

One of my neighbours, Miss Tornado who ran the flophouse at twenty, had found me slumped on her steps and woken me with a message “There’s an angry old nun looking for you, says you’re needed over at Ho Pings.” Angry old nun could only mean the fearsome Mother Supirior, a nun so tough I heard she’d once had a face off with the owl-eating demon from Boomtown and won. I wasn’t sure if it was a contest to see who had the scariest face, but old MS would have won that hands down anyway.

As I ran down the cobbled street, I caught my reflection in a window. Christ and all his angels! My clothes were rumpled to the point of disgrace, my hair and whiskers jutted out at all angles and my face, oh god my face! I looked like a half-starved, half-crazed, half-burst scarecrow running round a field shrieking at birds! And judging by the smell, it was manure spreading time. I hoped to God Sister Sweetchecks didn’t see me like this.

Fuzz was stood with Mother Supierior outside the gawdy pawnbrokers and he gasped in shock as I came to a halt heaving and wheezing, “Gods Alive! Beck you look worse than the stiff!”. Old MS shot him a withering glare, he smiled slightly and added a hasty “well, almost.”

I grunted and self-consciously tried to run my fingers through my matted hair. It didn’t help. “You called?” my voice sounded as if my mouth was made from worn-out carpet, which given the taste it may have been.

“Hmmm not sure I did the right thing…”

“Can it Fuzz,” I snapped, “just tell me what you want.”

The sheriff just glared at me for what felt like an age, his face a mixture of anger and pity that made my skin crawl with shame, “I’m… I’m sorry Fuzz…” I started to say before the wolverine in a wimple cut me dead.

“And so you should be! You sir are a mess. A mess! You come here reeking of that vile smoke and sweat and cheap perfume,” I looked at Fuzz, shocked. He stepped back out of her eyeline and flashed me a slight sardonic smile that said “You’re on your own, pal.”

“I… I…” I stammered.

“I have not finished, Dr Beck,” she said, her tone brooking no discussion on the matter. I shut my trap and held on tight, something told me this was going to be a bumpy ride. “How dare you speak to the sheriff like that! How dare you! He called you into this – against my better judgement I may add,” Fuzz nodded, his smile all Chesire Cat, “and you arrive not only late and resembling something dredged up from the harbour, but with an attitude to match your odour – foul! Well it is not good enough sir! It is simply not good enough! And another thing…” She stopped as Fuzz stepped forward again, all faux gravitas, “I think that’s enough Mother Superior, I think Dr Beck has got the message loud and clear, haven’t you Doc.”

I was stunned. It felt like I’d been drop-kicked by my granny and then made to dress up as her poodle, “I… Well, yes. I’m sorry Sister,” “Mother Superior!” she corrected. “Mother Superior, of course, I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well, see you buck your ideas up, young man. See you buck them right up. Now if you excuse me, I think I need some fresh air!” and she stomped off like a monochrome thundercloud looking for someone to smite with lightning.

I looked at Fuzz, too stunned to speak. Fuzz grinned at me, “What can I say, doc? She’s one tough Mother.”

I nodded sagely, like Canute agreeing with someone lecturing on water’s ability to drown people, “Well, I’m sorry Fuzz, how about I go get straightened out and then come back, huh?”

“Nah, you’re here now, aren’t you? Let me show you the new stiff.”

“Another John Doe or old man Ping?” I asked, wondering what the hell was going on in Steelhead. So many murders could only point one way – the tong.

“Yup, Ho Ping, the questionable owner of this questionable establishment,” Fuzz stared at the model flamingoes by the door and sighed. Ho Ping, a tong fence who always managed to stay just on the right side of the law, ran a pawnshop where he ran a nice sideline in bleeding the poor Chinese workers dry. Like the rot eating away at the foundations of the harbour, Ping was a cancer gnawing away at the people of Shamain. Somehow I doubted they’d miss him much. But who killed him? Ping was deep with the Tong after all. Was this some kind of turf war? I’d not heard about a new gang trying to muscle in, though. Maybe some poor sap in hock to him finally snapped and cashed Ho Ping’s cheque in, but this didn’t seem likely as the repercusions for their family both here and back home would be terrible. There was one other explanation, one that made more sense than rival tongs or rogue borrowers. “Let me see the body,” I said already walking into the shop…

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To be continued…
All the “Goodunnit? Murder in Steelhead!” posts can be read here.

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Links to other blogs and stories:
1) The start of this case was discussed at this weekly town hall meeting here.

 

I tell you what I’d miss about SL…

My blog.

That’s all.

Well, sort of.

You see I had this post planned a few weeks back when I was totally pissed off with SL. Since then I’ve had a new surge of fun and joy from being in-world – I’ve started writing again, I’ve actually built something, ideas are tumbling out of me and I have even found a work-around for the still fucking annoying snapshots-to-email bug(1).

But back then, in the Dark Weeks when I seriously did not want to log in, I got to thinking about what I was in SL for. What made me log in? Could I identify what I wanted from a virtual life and could I then find somewhere else to get it?

At the time several of my friends were having a rough time in SL. Osprey & Eladrienne were just two old hands among many who were finding, for various reasons, either more fun elsewhere or not enough in SL. It looked for a while as if a exodus of people I had ‘grown up’ with was about to start.

Things have calmed down but in that time I was thinking about what kept me in-world. Yes there are my friends, but I can keep in touch with them outside of SL as we all have email, Flickr, YouTube, blogs, twitter, facebook and therefore SL is only one of many ways I can be with them. What then about the things that have kept me in there in the last couple of years? The exploring stopped a year or more ago, I ditched my island months ago, even the show can no longer go on as it once did and none of these things seemed important. So what was it that was keeping me in SL? Try as I might I couldn’t answer that seemingly simple question until I shrunk it down to its bare, obvious minimum.

What would I miss if I never logged in again?

Now given that friends don’t count because even though I would miss them, I’d still be in touch with them, I suddenly realised there was one simple, honest answer.

My blog.

That’s what I do SL for. Something to post about. I love blogging, but need something to blog about. Without SL I was facing a very uncomfortable question. What would I write about? And that really shook me…

Now as I say, the things pissing me off about SL have lessened a little and I’ve found the time & energy to write and build. I’ve had tons of stuff to blog about and I’m happy again but the fact remains that, for me at least, SL is a sort of creative trigger for my writing, whether that be creative RP or just self-indulgent comic bollocks & waffle.

So maybe the question isn’t “What other world can replace SL for me?” and instead maybe it’s “What else do I find creatively inspiring enough that it makes me want to blog about it?”

But that, dear reader, is another question I have to ponder. For now I’m enjoying RPing in Steelhead, which constitutes about 99% of my online time now, as it is providing me with bags of stuff to write about. If that ever dries up then I’ll know it’s time to move on and look for something new – whether that will be in or out of SL remains to be seen.

(1) I save them to HD. Yes, many people told me to do this to get past the bug and I have ended up doing that, but I still maintain it’s not my preferred choice. I have to upload my emails to flicker now, an extra step in the chain I never had to think about before, but hey ho… at least I can do one of my favourite things in SL again

 

Valley of The Burros (or Fek Me! I’ve Got a Linden Home!)

I’ve gone Premium. After three and a half years in-world I’m paying The Man. I didn’t want to, I did it to help out Cowell & Kahruvel (more of that in a future post) but in the process I got a Linden Home. Pity me?

I plumped for one of the California Living ones(1) and had hoped that I’d get one in the hills or by some water. Fat chance! I’m in the middle of a slum. A nice slum yes, but a slum non-the-less. At one point I flew two sims east and couldn’t tell the difference and then got lost on the way back – I was stood two houses away from mine and still couldn’t find it!

Anyway, it’s not all bad: my sim is called Nutsedge. I know the yanks may be thinking I mean nuts as in crazy, but honestly I just mean testicles. I’m British, I laugh when someone says “Winnie the Pooh”. Poo. Heh.

Anyways, take a look at my Valley of the Burros…

Edit: Here is the SLURL http://slurl.com/secondlife/nutsedge/186/66/72/

Errrmmm, Where do I live? Is it there? Or there? There maybe? Nope… not a fucking clue…

(1) I *had* thought I’d want a Japanese style one (I certainly didn’t want a frigging Super Mario Castle!) but they looked a bit naff. Well, they all look that, but at least the LA ones have two floors and I like that in a house – I blame growing up in a bungalow

 

Holo’s New Diner (or Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag [of Chow])

My mate Holocluck Henley (Bay City’s favourite comic book artist & Emergency Medical Hologram) is opening a new diner over in Hydrangea. He’s got a history of diners you know, he built a cracker over at the winterfest sims a few months ago and he’s taking all that experience and slapping up The Starship Diner and it’s looking great! Go along and try out the food replicator, the fish & chips were quite good

EDIT (19th April 10): By the time you’ve read this The Starship Diner will have been open for a while – here is Holo’s first update post

 

Bunneh, P.I.

When Enjah was filming the sublime “Malted Bunneh” she designed a great range of 40s noir clothes for the detectives and police – here is Bunneh, P.I.

 

Cowell is vanishing?

Report to follow… can’t talk… too shocked and upset…

EDIT (8 hours later): Salazar has confirmed that the land and Champie Jack’s building has been washed away by an ocean surge of unknown orgin but tests indicate it was a random eveny and does not indicate a wider instability in Cowell. He also says that the prims the wave has freed up will lead to to remodelling rather than direct rebuilding. Watch this space! Hat tip to Douglas Quinn for alerting me!

EDIT (19th April 10): Sal has added some links on the Kahruvel website about the Rodeo Incident & the Phyneas Jack Memorial Trust plans for the future.

 

Steelhead: The Trouble With Wishes…

I was a-wandering through Steelhead’s Capital City region last night heading for the library where I understand a new exhibit is about to open on the history and development of photography (more about that in a post to follow, no doubt) when I bumped into, indeed all but tripped over!, a small purple saber-toothed kitty cat in a natty black hat. Living in Steelhead one becomes somewhat blasse about odd sights, but this one certainly took me by surprise, especially when said kitty spoke to me in the distinctive & delightful brogue of the Jager-kind.

It turned out that this wee purple creature is none other than Europa Embassy guard & new Boomtown tavern owner Vladyr Dreamscape and she has found herself in this unfortunate state after dabbling in the wishes game. She was granted three of the slippery little devils by Eugenia Burton, Steelhead’s resident fae & one-time-farmer-now-half-sunken-houseboat-dwelling-Herr-Baron-chasing-wish-giver. Miss Burton’s heart is as big as Steelhead, but ever since that dreadful business in Babbage her powers have seemed a little… flakey and poor Vladyr did not chose her words carefully enough when she spent her first two wishes on her desire to shapeshift. Now she is stuck as a Jager-cat until she can devise words clever enough to pin the third wish down and not only return to Jager-form, but also retain her heart’s desire; the ability to change her form at will. It’s a tough task and I wish her well – myself and Keli McBride tried to help but I fear it was beyond us. I did suggest she contact Miss Fuschia Begonia in Caledon but I hear she is trapped in forn parts by some form of volcanic eruption near the roof of the world that has grounded all air-ship services. I also suggested she try The Scientist in Babbage, but I regretted doing that as soon as the words had left my lips as I hear he is even more unstable than usual at the moment.

If you or anyone you know has any experience of Djini law, wish-negotiation or shapeshifting, please could you contact Miss Vladyr Dreamscape via telegram to Steelhead or the Steelhead Ning

 

Mutations: Chapter 3 – Smoke and Water

Beck rode back in silence; both rider and mount had a lot to think about and the winding path around Spirit Lake and back home afforded them plenty of time to do it in. Once they reached the blacksmith outside Shanghai, Beck passed his surefooted steed back and retrieved his bicycle for the last part of his journey through the tunnel and onto the rickety wooden bridges that clung to the side of the crowded harbour. Normally he cycled slowly along these, having more than once nearly tumbled over the edge in the past, but now he peddled urgently with a seemingly scant regard for his safety. He’d been eager to get back to his practice before nightfall but something he’d seen when he looked at Antfarm had shaken him to the core and now he had a very different destination in mind.

Down in the belly of Shanghai, as night seeped its way across the water and squeezed itself into the alleys, snickets & ginnels criss-crossing between buildings, parents fussed and worried over their children. Those rich enough set guards to watch over their wards whilst others less well off locked and barred their homes and prepared to spend another uncomfortable night propped up in a chair with a gun nestled on their lap. The parents in the slums had no such comforts, and indeed, far more reason to worry. Their homes could not be barred and bolted, the heaps of rotting wood and crumbling brick they had no option to live in couldn’t even keep the night breeze out, let alone a child-snatching nightmare. They couldn’t afford gaurds to patrol their streets and watch their windows. Oh they had tried, exhausted men and women banding together after long, hard days in the cannery. They took hour long shifts from their precious sleep to walk the streets and alleys and watch over their sleeping children, but the Tong smelt money and sent in their thugs to deliever a series of painful lessons; pay us to protect your streets or no one protects them. Now families gathered even more tightly together, taking it in turns to sleep through the darkness of the night whilst someone sat awake, boning knife or fish-hook at the ready.

Beck could taste this atmosphere, could taste the fear and anguish and resentment, and it made him sick. Not since Manchester had he felt such terror infesting one place and he’d been living in it every day and every night since little Li Fe’s bones had been brought to his surgery. Well not tonight, he had decided. He couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take the constant pall of dread, the sense of impotence, the bloody memories. Not tonight. As the sun set behind the harbour, the shadow cast by the glorious Sun Tower falling across the slums as if to deny its wretched residents any crumb of comfort by cutting off their light first, Beck propped his bicycle against the rear of the Dragon Lady’s hotel and slipped in a secret door.

“Ahhh, Meester Smeeth, welcome back,” the greeter’s tone a perfect blend of ice cold warmth, his spell gutting fish had apparently worked wonders on his attitude. Beck all but ignored him and instead allowed himself to be led through the heady, sickly smoke to a cot by one of the pipe girls. Unlike the poor women owned by the Tong, the Dragon Ladys girls were never forced into anything as seedy as common prostitution. That wasn’t to say such a path was closed to them, but if they chose it they ceased to be pipe girls and instead moved behind the curtain, deeper into this dimly lit underworld, and became concubines, dreams wrapped in flesh and silk, soft-skinned angels bestowing their graces upon mere mortals. Beck had always resisted their siren song no matter how insistent the call, but despite his resolve in his mind he was an adulterer; another failing, he thought, to add to his legion. He climbed into his allocated cot and loosened his collar while the girl handed him a pipe and turned to leave. As she walked away, her hips swaying back and forth beneath her exquisite red hanfu, Beck tried to ignore the knot of desire that twisted in his groin and the shame that it brought. Instead, to block it out, he put the pipe to his lips and drew in a cloud of sweet, thick smoke. Somewhere deep in his brain the rational, lucid, controlling part of him collapsed like a marionette having its strings cut. He was free once more…

…

…

…

…

…

The smoke moved about him and through him. It infused his skin and flesh and bone, it swirled into his ears and nose and mouth filling him up with warm water from the bottom of the ocean. He was a fish swimming through himself in the depths of his own smoke and he was empty of purpose and memory as he drifted on strange currents, uncaring and unknowing. Until the hand. It reached through the smoke and the water and caressed his cheek, rocking him, tugging him. He turned away, pushed it aside. Not here! Not now! The currents raced and he pushed off into them, determined to get away, to stay free! But the hand was fast and strong. It fought for him, grasping and grabbing. He swam and dodged, flipping and wheeling to get away but it was tricksy and swift. And then, it had him. Strong fingers took hold of him and held him fast.

“Dr Beck…?” words darted around him, quicksilver through the smoke and water. He opened his eyes, staring up from the murky depths and into a woman’s face. For a moment he couldn’t place himself, a young well dressed white woman here? What would a respectable woman be doing here?

Er, yes? What can I do for you Miss…?” his mouth felt strange and full of seaweed and fish scales.

“Rhianon Jameson,” she said offering a gloved hand and Beck moved his own dull, dead hand to meet it, “I was hoping you could help me find someone. It’s quite important.”

“Hmm, yes, who is it?” he mumbled.

“A man who goes by the nom de plume the Scientist. He apparently knows some powerful medicine. I must find him, and time is running short.”

Beck’s face froze. Him! This woman was looking for him! God help her because if she found him no one else could. “I’m, ahhh, afraid I don’t know anyone with that name,” he tried to sound as sober as possible, please believe me please believe me please believe me he thought.

“You lie, sir. I can see it in your face,” her voice had a steel-edge that matched her eyes.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know…” A wave caught him, currents and undertows pulling him away as he started to drift off. The hand grabbed him again, he opened his eyes and she had him by the arm, anchoring him in the swell of the opium’s ebb and flow.

“Dr. Beck!” she was angry now, “You call yourself a medical man; you took an oath. And yet you are willing to let a man die – for what purpose? To protect the Scientist?”

One of the attendants appeared by her side, politely asking that she stop but she was having none of it. Around the small den people in various states of drug-induced apathy were gawping at the most unusual scene unfolding, all except Beck. He was staring at his hands as if trying to remember what they were called. No, not to protect him, he thought, to protect you! “Dangerous,” he said at last.

“I understand danger. I can take care of myself. Just tell me where he is!” Her tone was diamond hard.

“I don’t…know. I really don’t. He didn’t want anyone to find him. All I know is…Babbage…” Beck mumbled through the fog behind his eyes.

“New Babbage? Where?”

“Hmm, not sure. Find…” his voice trailed away as a wave narcotic slumber crashed against the rocks of Miss Jameson’s enforced lucidity. The attendant called for reinforcements. Footsteps coming near. He must warn her. He must.

“Find who? The Scientist?”

“No, not him. Find Lo Ping. Elderly chap. At least I think so…can’t really tell. He’s the only one…only one…who knows how to locate Scientist. SssssallIknow. Nowleavemealone.” Beck’s connection with the world was severed. The waves roared over him and pulled him far out to sea. The woman became but a distant speck on the horizon, a pinprick of light lost in the stars who were themselves extinguished by the ocean closing over him. He sank into it, to the bottom of its warm, cosseting depths to where his beloved waited for him with their children and he was disturbed no more…

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To be continued…
All the “Mutations” posts can be read here.

Links to other blogs and stories:
1) For more on Miss Jameson’s hunt for The Scientist, read her blog here
2) For more on the death of the Chinese boy Li Fe, read about Creaky Gloom on this blog here and on the Steelhead Ning here.

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