Rumblitis--Chapter Two

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TWO:
  
   Back within the comfortable confines of a stereotypical residence near the Canadian Border, Ray recklessly reclined upon the fun squish of a Lime-Green Beanbag, observing the artificial bleach of a White Christmas Tree billowing bright by way of Rudolph's nose-like neon hung within the fake branches.  Xelba coming and going as benevolent ghosts usually do, haunting with the sophistication of saving energy for the most epiphanic information, and Lieutenant Commander Spinoza, the family pet, a hedgehog no less, gleefully dashing over the confederate gray of carpeting, putting a parental smile on Ray's drunken countenance, him feverishly pouring eggnog spiked with Captain Morgan's mind-altering bite into his awaiting gastrointestinal tract, it rolling down his elongated esophagus from the pristine likes of a kosher pickle jar--Ray a frugal patron of the cunning capitalism.
   Xelba sliced into corporeal reality, smirking in flirtatious fashion, running an intangible finger over Ray's receding hairline, his 50ish physicality and facial features reminding her of Luke Perry's thin yet handsome magnificence. And she blurted:
   "Does Spinoza crap on the carpet?"
   Ray like:
   "Has a litter box--you know that."
   Xelba cackling coolly:
   "Just testing your intoxicated status--you always did have a soft spot for excommunicated Rabbinical Scholars."
   Ray knowing that Christ Himself was tossed from the Temple, spiraling eternally down a large hill in theological defeat, embarrassing His Immaculate Mother, though the apex of awesome, granting the glorious gift of soothing salvation for all the freaks and geeks of planet Earth.  Xelba then reminding: 
   "The Packers play the Seahawks tonight--gonna watch?"
   And Ray, exiting into the theater of his mind, having the remembrance of reverie, him taking the long snap from an upside down center; next, putting the top of his foot into the desiring pigskin, lifting the odd-shaped ball near 60 yards skyways and like rolling thunder into the astonished arms of an adversarial return man.  Yet Ray did not dare hate himself for having modestly played in the mysterious CFL, for only the enchanted talent of anthropological androids get to mix it up within the monstrous might of the NFL.  Regardless, Ray, back into reality, focused upon the angelic face of Xelba, grinning a chipped tooth amidst the dental decay of yellowing stains due to menthol merged with nicotine, it making him all the more human, wishing he could run a loving hand through the dark energy of her spectral hair, having had loved her like a champion before suicide enlisted her into the ranks of Empyrean--truly, Xelba loathed dealing with Clinical Depression due to the Federal Government inserting its monopolizing self into the States' Rights of marijuana-free Montana, thieving away the much-needed medicine that could tame the demons of despair.