Rumblitis--Chapter Five

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
  
   FIVE:
  
   The Birthday Boy was ALWAYS arrived--alive in the eternal discharge of a Good God's Holy Phantom; moreover, Ray Rumble was sipping from the reckless resonation of an F. Scott Fitzgerald pewter flask, the alcoholic substance contained within yet to be determined, though possibly a vodka/cranberry mix for healthy bladder walls and the easing evacuation of urine through a non-inflamed urethra.
   So, Christ, pulling into the plush garage of Ray's suburbia, the day gloomed by an overcast of cumulus cloudage--it being a 1969 Camaro, stunning in diablo-black with inviolate-white racing stripes, not having the Mexican-American Cool of a cowl induction option, and bragging a rare and bizarre amount of cubic inches, like 301, a 4.9 Liter, Turbo-Charged flex of American Muscle, bored out to the mystical numerology of 309 cubic inches--this offering decent gas mileage; plus, a thunderous potency to damn any exotically engineered German Import.
   Christ, manually rolling down a barely-tinted window, revealing Pilate's non-canonized description:  Jet-Black Hair, a Dark Brow, though not the bushy overkill of superfluous hairs, a Perfect Hebrew Nose, and Lips moist and fluidic--verily, Christ was the mirror image of His Undefiled Mother, being a 50% Genetic Match to Her Awesome Ancestry, for:  Forty Days paint a beard on a pretty face!
   Ray was like:
   "Happy Birthday Lord."
   Christ back with:
   "Thanks man."
   Next, Ray got shotgun into the synergy of Camaro Jesus--so cool, Tebowing over the angelic asphalt of picket fence suburbia, even up here in mountainous Montana, the Living Christ cranking on the revealing radio, the over-the-border sounds of the Canadian Babe proclaiming:
  
   Saint Nicholas is laughing with Light Speed Travel,
   Making the mind of a nerdish physicist unravel,
   For the fat, jolly man is a wing-booted stampede,
   Quicksand carousing with the sublimity of need
   To share the charity of packages wrapped in gleaming color,
   Blessed by red ribbons and green bows--like happy to see your Bank Teller;
   Indeed, Christmas is the flu season yet over the top,
   And so is the resurrecting thump of Peter Cottontail's hop.