Rumblitis--Chapter One

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Dramatis Personae:
   Ray Rumble:  An inquisitive quasi-stallion, having heroically played within the romantic isolation of the Canadian Football League located beyond Green Bay's frozen tundra, punting with Herculean performance--now:  A mystical inhabitant of an undisclosed Montana suburbia.
   Xelba:  A spectral apparition armed with the corporeal reflection of a ghostly glow, offering Ray the sublimity of solace, though unable to physically pour him a life-easing cocktail of the vodka combination.
   Basil Loveflesh:  Ray's Freudian physician; specifically, a well-lathered shrink ornamented in the finest of intellectual gifts bestowed by a Loving God.
   Staci Rumble:  The Holy Ghost, and how having adulterous imagery of carnal copulation concerning Her Awesome Self is the only unforgivable sin as mentioned in the methodology of the New Testament.
   Lieutenant Commander Spinoza:  Ray's pet hedgehog--allowed the freedom of roam throughout its captivity being a suburban habitat.
   All The Rest:  I haven't created you yet . . .
  
   ONE:
  
   If the Almighty, Abrahamic God knows the fateful future; next, everything has already happened, and we are upon the pulsating perpetuity of a Super String Wheel, it craftily churning our architected and always intentions, this repeating in rapid rhapsody, allowing:  There is no Free Will; as a result--God is the Author of Life, and so also says the War-Battered Bible.  We have been constructed by the awesome art of intelligence, proving evolution exists in the fabric of man's physiology, yet human consciousness is a gracious gift granted by God, allowing a devil's creation to get out of hand.
   Ray Rumble regretted retreating from the official roster of the now known "Rider Nation" hidden within the frigid brag of Saskatchewan; nevertheless, bumming his soul Southwards, searching into the Native America that forged his essence and made him an Injun--his casual Caucasian mix of over the pond and beyond making him a compassionate creature created for the American Spangle--this being a luscious country grown towards opulent cravings, and he was like:
   "Damn."
   Glaring at the glowing gleam of effulgent Neon-Green Cheese hanging in the star-kissed sky--yes, Ray was taking a piss, dousing a ground-dwelling fern flinching from the passing incarceration of inhabitants once residing within the urinary tract and a bladder upwards . . .  Again with profane utterances:
   "Mother of pearl."
   It was all like a dream, Xelba aglow in the cascading elegance of a blue-black mane gleefully peeking over her angelic shoulders, framing a vampire-like face made pouty by an anemic complexion pedigreed in the regal plush of flamboyant-red lipstick, eyes too gleaming great, smoky made, offering consolation for the humility of the color brown--so fine . . .