I’m not going to say where, when, or how. But there is a place, up on a hill, where you can see the likes of this on a regular basis:

There are bunches of them, standing with their arms extended, like a frozen aerobics class perhaps, only in worse attire. You speak to them and nobody answers. You rez weird objects and fly them at their heads, and nobody moves.  They are camper zombies, and they must be stopped.

But how? Romana tried to reason with them, but was unsuccessful. Alex drew his gun, fired, but nothing happened. I wanted to hurl insults, but nobody was answering. They weren’t really there. And unlike a long forgotten episode of dragging “away” avatars hovering around camping spots in a casino to a designated mercy killing field, these folks were fixed in their places. Unmovable. Unbreakable. Unstoppable.

So for a brief while, they were sacrificed.

You could almost see their spirits ascending to that digital kingdom in the sky, lifted from the sad and pathetic burden of their hedonistic, materialistic, camperistic lives. The most any of them had made was about $36L. But shortly, the crosses auto-returned, and we were back to our awkward gawking and head shaking.

Campers. Will they ever learn?

Okay, this started a couple of weeks ago when this charming man, Wrath, the biggest Morrissey/Smiths freak that ever was, noticed that “Morrisey” was an available SL last name. Someone pointed out that it would be funny if we had a Smiths/Morrissey night at Clockwork and all came with alts with the last name “Morrisey.” Well, hang the dj, that’s a brilliant idea. (And yes, we understand it’s not exactly the spelling of Moz’ last name. Leave the second S off for sorrow. Or something.) We laughed about it and agreed we should. But, as we have brilliant ideas all the time (ha!), we didn’t immediately pursue it.

But last night we started talking about it again and began thinking of first names to go with “Morrisey.” Myg disappeared and then, faster than a hairdresser on fire, this ugly n00b “Myg Morrisey” tp’d into the club. It was on. Soon there was “More,” “KillUncle,” “JellyBean,” “HawksRock,” “Jillian,” and “Suedehead” Morrisey. By the end of the night we had “Sable,” “Nene,” “Piccadilly,” and “Zo.” It won’t stop there.

Morriseys are against rules. They are anarchic, friendly, and weird.

Morriseys generally travel in packs. Though there are no rules, Morriseys feel more comfortable in the company of other Morriseys. A lone Morrisey is a vulnerable target, and we don’t want to feel more vulnerable than we already do. Also, traveling in packs is a moveable feast, a transient Morrisey mob. While out traveling in packs, Morriseys will be noticed. Don’t panic. Stick together. Ask the people if they like The Smiths or Morrissey. When they say “yes” jubilance ensues. Encourage them to change their last name to Morrisey immediately.

What will come of this? I wouldn’t say, no. But you can bet there will be events, probably parties, sets, and Morrisey Mobs. Eventually, we will outnumber the Lindens. Get your Morrisey now. How soon is now? Today. Join the group -=Morrisey=-. Await instructions.

Update/Morriseys news:
My SLife with the Thrill Kill Morrisey Cult
Wrath Paine in Night of a Thousand Morriseys

What a load of bullshit that was.

White heat began to ebb and throb inside of me and that feeling of heavy dense smoke in my brain returned. I saw the look of derision on Moody’s face, even on the edge of her own annihilation, and felt my insides boil.

Never again would this bitch diagnose a depressive, not if I had anything to do with it.

I reached for her bloody throat and wrapped both my hands around it, pressing, twisting as hard as I could. I thought I was going to rip her head right off her neck. I made one good last yank and heard a grotesque “poppoppoppop!” Then something very strange happened.

Moody’s skin blanched and I thought maybe I’d finally killed her, but I was wrong. Very wrong. I moved my hands from her neck and saw that her bloody wound was. . . gone.

I was, quite frankly, shocked. And trust me, so was she. When she stood up, the woman had nearly perfect posture.

“I cannot believe this,” she whispered as she carefully backed away from me. From what I could tell, there was not a scratch on her. “You’ve put me back into alignment,” she uttered. “I’m. . . ruined.”

“What?” I didn’t understand. I suppose she didn’t care to explain, but she actually had no choice because just then somebody forced her into a teleport. She began to get fuzzy around the edges when there was a huge clamor at the door.

Alex busted into the room with Agent Paine just behind him.

“Myg! What the hell happened?” Alex asked.

“I’ll ask the questions around here,” Paine barked. “What the hell happened?”

I meant to answer, but instead I just started to cry that heavy whole body cry with snot pouring out of every orifice and gallons of air rushing in and out of my lungs so hard and so fast I couldn’t talk.

“It’s okay doll, I’m here,” Alex tried to soothe me, but I just kept sobbing.

“Where’s Moody?” Paine asked. “I know she was here. Where did she go?”

“Look Paine, can’t you see she’s in no shape for this?” Alex said, and gathered me into his arms. “I’m taking her home.”

I cried the whole way back to Section 8.

“Babe, your freckles are back,” he said, running a finger softly along the edge of my face. “What happened to you back there?”

I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t fight off the heavy sleep coming on. A deep, satisfying calm settled over me as I let my eyes roll back into my head, where all the demons I’d always feared were scampering away. I watched them run into the blackness of my unconsciousness and thought, “Yes, run bastards–get a good head start now. Because I’m coming for you.”

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Met a Stranger Cast Party – You are invited!

Join the cast and crew of Met a Stranger tonight at Clockwork (slURL) in Mainline Philadelphia – Topgol! Festivities to begin at around 3pm SL time and to go until whenever we get bored. Come visit the sets, experience the finest in Topgol lag for yourself while enjoying the back catalog of Alexander Burgess’s (aka DJ keTchUp) mp3 collection. It’ll be mygTastic!

But what could I do?

Lisa came toward me, dagger in hand, a thirst for blood in her eyes. I’ve seen that look before and I knew what it meant.

White heat poured out through my skin, warming me like a pre-menopausal hot flash (which was very weird, believe me).

Weirder still was seeing a she-devil who can’t take a little climate change. Moody was visibly disturbed as the heat spread through the room. “K..kill her now! N..now!” she rattled.

“Give me your wrist, girl!” said Lisa.

I held out my arm, prepared to meet my maker.

“N..n..not l..l..like th.that! No…no…b.b.b.b.b.b.looood!” Moody aimed her evil glare at me once again, but this time the sting was met with a counter force–the warmth from my skin enveloped me in a glow and diffused her power. Her eyes went all spacey, one moving away from the other.

Lisa slashed my wrist, a clean sharp cut released my lifeblood onto the floor.

“Ow! Fuck!” I cried out. Alex was not going to be happy with the cleaning bill this week, for sure.

Moody looked on, horrified, gulping air. Hissing and growling she sprang. Lisa turned and jammed the bloody dagger into the doctor’s larynx.

“I’m sorry, but we’re out of time,” Lisa said.

Moody clutched her throat and fell to the ground twitching.

“Myg!” Lisa commanded. “You must give Vanny your blood. Now–or we’ll lose her!”

Stunned, I went to Vanny and held my wrist to her mouth. She stirred and wrapped her lips around the wound. As she began to suck I doubled over from the pain. Then she released me and took a heaving breath, but collapsed again.

“I’ve got to get her home Myg, or she’ll die,” Lisa said. She gathered Vanny into her arms and the two of them began to fade.

“Lisa!” I cried out.

“You’re going to be alright, Myg.” Lisa’s tired voice was faint in my head. “For now, anyway…”

Then I was alone.

Except for her.

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Vanny lay there mortally wounded, bleeding uncontrollably, her breathing shallow and quick. I thought she and I were dead meat for sure. But I was wrong.

Rezzed from a shadow it seemed, like an unholy vision, Lisa appeared. And wow, was she pissed.

“What have you done to my child?” Her voice was steady, calm and cold.

“She’s dead,” said Doctor Moody.

Steel flashed unforgiving moonlight into the room, as Lisa drew an unnatural looking blade and held it to Moody’s jaw.

“No one hurts my girl.”

Dr. Moody grabbed Lisa’s blade and squeezed, dripping blood as she forced it down against all of Lisa’s strength.

“It seems you’re mistaken about that, dear.” Dr. Moody glanced where Vanny lay, now motionless.

Lisa’s eyes glowed red. The doctor pulled an ancient looking blade, but instead of fighting with it, she began drawing strange symbols in the air. In an unworldly tone sounding half strangled chicken and half boxer, Moody chanted in an alien tongue. Lisa flinched at the sound of her voice, but then drew her hood tightly and prepared to attack.

Quickly she slashed at the doctor, slicing into her coat and leaving a nasty gash in her thigh, but the doctor, preoccupied, hardly noticed. Moody seemed completely devoid of any feeling at all. She made jabbing motions at Lisa with her sword, almost playing with her.

“Vanny was not loyal to you–you are better off without this broken puppet.” She nudged Vanny’s lifeless form with her boot and Lisa lunged at her again, but Moody blocked.

“You know,” she continued, and then looked in my direction menacingly. “It was Mygdala who caused Vanny to suffer this fate. As long as she lives, Vanny will never rest in peace.”

Lisa steadied a long, hard look into my eyes, and I saw such pain in hers my body shook. For once I was speechless.

“You and I are very similar Mistress Takao.” Moody said more softly, working her true magic. “I understand your attachment to Mygdala, but believe me when I tell you she is not who she appears to be.” Lisa steadied her blade at Moody, but turned to me.

“What is she talking about Myg?” I had no answer.

Moody smacked Lisa’s blade out of her face and began chanting again, and Lisa recoiled as if in physical pain. As the doctor’s foreign words echoed in the therapy office, I felt strange bubbling feelings, like my blood was warming. But it was different from the rage–it was like white heat, and it began to flow from my hands, my feet, the top of my head.

“Is it getting warm in here?” I asked.

Moody seemed to feel it too, because she started to stutter. And if you’ve never heard an evil incantation with a speech impediment, let me tell you it isn’t pretty. She looked in my direction, horrified, and then turned to Lisa.

“L..l..lisa k..kill her!” Moody shrieked. “It’s M..m..m..m..mygdala who has done this to your ch..child, and sssh..she’ll do it to all of us if she is allowed to l..l..l..live!”

Lisa shuddered at Moody’s tripped up screeching, her piercing shrill voice like hot dull needles in the brain. Lisa looked at me, almost desperately, and I held my hands up to her in surrender. Lisa was my oldest friend, my first protector, and I could never fight her. If Lisa wanted me dead, I was done.

“D..d..dooo it!” Moody screamed.

Lisa approached me tenuously, blade drawn and pointed in my direction. It seemed like the end, at last.

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“Shut up Myg!” she snapped. I saw another showdown brewing. And it was, but not in the way I thought.

“Vanny, you’d like to kill Mygdala now, is that right?” Dr. Moody asked.

Well that was one hell of a start to the session. I knew Dr. Moody used some controversial techniques, but bringing my stalker in for a face-to-face seemed like an extreme intervention–even for her. Of course, Vanny and I had some serious issues, which I’d been venting about in therapy for weeks. You would too if one of your best friends had become a vampire and was trying to “feed” on you all the time. Let me tell you, that’s really hard on a relationship.

“Kill me? What the hell will that accomplish?”

Vanny leered as she stalked towards me. She knows I’m not much of a fighter.

“Myg shut up!” Vanny hissed.

“Well, Mygdala, why do you think you should die? I’m sure the answer is somewhere in your unconscious mind.” Moody’s maniacal smile was really starting to worry me.

“But…but…I don’t think I should die. I think Vanny needs to stop stalking me.” I gave her the finest pissed off look I could muster.

“Just like we talked about, Vanny” Dr. Moody said. “Kill her now, with your bare hands, but be sure not to spill any of her blood. It’s tainted.”

“Tainted?” Well, that hurt. But I didn’t have time to process my feelings about it because Vanny suddenly backhanded me so hard she knocked me clear across the room. Dr. Moody’s guttural belly laugh made my stomach turn three times over–I was definitely working through some emotional baggage with that last move. But I wasn’t happy about it.

I clutched my sides and spat on the floor, heaving in pain. As I inhaled, I could feel the contents of my stomach swirling and the pain transform into a strange chaotic power within me. It began to surge, like concentrated smoke climbing my spinal column, filling my head. Smoke, flame and fury. I rose and faced Vanny, finally, without fear.

“You bitch! What have I ever done to you?!”

I lit into Vanny like I’d long wanted to attack everyone in my life who’s ever betrayed me. My parents who’d abandoned me at birth. My first grade teacher who told me I had a big mouth and couldn’t draw. My legal guardian who’d treated me like I was nothing more than a gnat in her field of vision. They were all standing in front of me. They were all her.

“How does it make you feel, Mygdala, knowing that you are about to die and nobody cares?” Dr. Moody’s words hit me hard. Nobody cares….nobody cares….nobody cares….hearing those words now sent me so far over the edge that I actually swung at her, only to be blocked by the barrel of Vanny’s gun.

“Vanny, how long have you been betraying Lisa for this yellow-eyed bitch?”

At that, Vanny blasted the room with some kind of localized chemical weapon.

I choked and sputtered and fell to the ground under a sticky carbon haze. Then suddenly I heard Vanny whisper in my ear, “Run Myg!”

I could barely breathe let alone run, but I dragged myself towards the door. Dr. Moody gagged grotesquely and then started screaming something at Vanny–it all sounded foreign to my ears (German? Esperanto? DOS?). I knew the intervention had gone awry.

I was going to sneak out, but then turned back and caught the doctor leveling what seemed to be a World War 7 era Dictatorshop Flame Thrower right at Vanny’s head.

“Vanny!” I screamed.

“Run Myg! Run!”

I ran, but not away. This time, with my new found courage I lunged at the evil psychotherapist, my rage fueling me as my hands reached for her skinny red neck. She was quick in ducking me though–probably afraid of a malpractice suit, and with damned good reason!

“Mygdala that behavior is just so inappropriate,” she scolded and then fixed a heated glare right in the middle of my chest. I felt fire burning in my belly worse than the aftermath of several cheap pepperoni sticks. I doubled over in pain, unable to move.

Crouched on the floor, helplessly I watched as Vanny, blades and daggers out, closed in a death struggle. Weapons, fists, insults all seemed useless against the evil towering she-devil.

I frantically flipped through my contacts. Damn those Second Life Updates! IMs weren’t working, friends list wasn’t showing any names. And nobody in Topgol but the damned camper zombies.

We were borked.

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On her advice I went out job hunting. She said I have poor self-esteem and that if I become a contributing member of society, my black outs will go away. Well If that was the case, why the hell did I need that stupid blood test?

See, Doctor Moody always has some “intervention” in mind that involves me doing something I don’t want to do. All in the name of growth, reaching one’s potential, etc, etc, blah, blah who needs that crap? All I wanted was a way to stop waking up into someone else’s life. But I got a hell of a lot more than that.

“You live with a very deep internal conflict, Mygdala,” Dr. Moody said in our last session. “It must be hell inside your head.”

And I guess sometimes it is. Though according to her, I hate myself so much that my personality keeps splitting–like one half of me doesn’t know the other. This is what she believes is causing all my blackouts.

“There’s more than one of you in there.”

Well, how else could you explain it? While I’d never really considered myself a self-loather, when she pointed out all that was wrong with me–no family, no education, no job, no skills, both friends and strangers trying to kill me–it was easy to see it her way.

She told me I had to make something of my life if I wanted to eradicate the scourge of hell inside of me. So I applied for a job at the Wawa. And I was very optimistic about this new bold step I was taking.

But then I met the manager.

How was I to know the Philly Filcher was working there? I’d heard that she’d been acquitted of all charges, sure, but I still never expected this. She sure wasn’t happy to see me applying for a job–not after after our little run-in at the Quik Stop.

So, just imagine how awkward it was when mid-interview I started getting that tingly, light-headed sensation. I thought it was another panic attack at first, but then, just as she was asking for my references, I nodded out. Or rather, I was forcibly teleported out.

“Get up, Mygdala.” It sounded like Dr. Moody, but it sure as hell didn’t look like her.

Now, how would you feel if you woke up out of a forced teleport and saw some huge evil vixen staring you in the face? Okay, well at first you might be like, “Coooool. . .” but then, you’d be kind of upset I think. At least I was.

“I have the results of your blood test, my dear. I’m afraid your time is really up now.”

“My time?” I’d just gotten there! I was going to ask her what the hell she was talking about. Was this SL time? GMT? But then Vanny showed up, and I had my answer.

Or so I thought.

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After all these years of scouring, I’m sure I’ve found her–the blood test results from Dr. Altamura prove it. Silly girl, going for that test! She must have no idea of her lineage or she never would have gone.

I suppose then nobody has been in touch with her from the family–or if they have, they haven’t revealed themselves for who they really are.

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Well, now I don’t know what to think. I popped the disk in (luckily I kept that old floppy drive for sentimental reasons) and just couldn’t believe my eyes. It seems either Vanny’s been hitting the Absinthe too hard these days or something is really wrong with that girl. Here’s what she had to say.

My dear old friend,

The hunt is over.. forgive me.. for what I’ve become.. for what I’ve done.. for what I will do. Your time is up. You have to make a decision.

Your actions get too much attention from too much people. You won’t be able to see who is your friend and who is your enemy anymore. Everybody will only focus to use your fate to improve their own status, needs or plans.

You know that I am right with this. But at the same time you see that you can’t solve your problems alone.

I hunted you for quite some time now.. I am not proud of it.. but I was forced to do. Think Mygdala! Think! Remember every situation we shared.. I am the only one you can and should trust. Because I am the only one who will offer you a way out of all this!

Meet me at … Damn! They are coming.. I hear them… you will hear from me where you can find me..

V.

But, can I trust her?

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There’s something about him that stays with me, long after we’ve finished our espressos and said buona notte.

I’ve an obsessive need to know more. His accent, his mannerisms–he’s from the old country. How did he get here? Why? And how did he manage to get employment in Little Philadelphia’s only barber shop when the man can’t cut grass evenly?

That trollop Sable is always hanging all over him, getting in the way. She complicates things. She may need a little redirection.

Sr. Capalini is an incorrigible skirt chaser, and that brings me to perhaps the strangest thing of all about him. While the man spends nearly every free moment sniffing out anything in Topgol that smells remotely like girl, he has an odd, hands-off respect for Mygdala. Yet Mygdala never mentioned having any relationship to him–it’s like she’s hardly noticed him at all. But I certainly have.

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