Jazzmin Flush (22)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (22)"
   
   "Canada is darn cold; still, the Chief did scatter there after flying over the Cuckoo's Nest."  Girthy Gilda lamented while sucking down the anti-oxidant properties of tobacco burned carcinogenic.  But Jazzmin Flush needed steel; specifically, Steel and Mercy.  Indeed, Thomas' body had succumbed in silly fashion to spontaneous combustion, and he didn't even drink cocktails and burn butts simultaneously; moreover, Jazzmin Flush knew he was high into the arctic, haven forgotten his untransfigured humanity, back when his Pap Pap used to get up at the whip crack of dawn every dandy day, just to see what Ginger Zee was wearing, always hoping for the ashtray look of a leather skirt; still, cherry lipstick stains on a butted out, green-colored, menthol filter look awfully sexxa in an ashtray.  Regardless, Jazzmin Flush was back-packing Canadaways.
   "Take a knife with ya, at least.  I got a zombie blade--lime-green from surgical steel in China's fine land, and people says if it be made in China it sucks.  Hogwash, they got one of the best space programs in this Global, Autonomous States of Federation."  Girthy Gilda wise, puffing always, closer to death, to freedom . . .
   "I'll be safe Girthy Gilda.  And I love you too Fredrica."  Jazzmin Flush embracing her two buds.
   Then, Girthy Gilda with one last zinger.  "Honey, don't sweat the hams and jams.  They all got coming:  A Rude Awakening."