Jazzmin Flush (50)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (50)"
   
   Donald and Jazzmin Flush--daughter and derailed Dad embraced, tons of tears raining forth from their watery orbs, and Jazzmin noticed how nice Daddy smelled--like Brut aftershave save the "Brute" of it all.  And the cleansed scent was wisely welcomed.
   Separating from the synergy of love's hug, Jazzmin blurted, "I really want to know everything about you and Mommy.  Especially why I never got to know you guys save the myth of it all."
   "In time."  Donald promised with a stoic glare.  "Anyway, it seems you have some special friends."
   And Swiss, whiskers rapidly twitching, poked his mouse head out of his hole, noticing Donald as did Donald notice him.  "Come over here little guy.  I don't want to hurt you."
   And Swiss scattered in Donald's fatherly direction, sniffing his shoes that smelled like stinky cheese and anchovies.
   "He likes you Daddy."  Jazzmin Flush smiling.
   "Does he like that boyfriend of yours?"  Donald asked.
   Jazzmin Flush, of course, blushed.  "Daddy, Thomas is the nicest guy around.  He reveres and respects me.  I've never even french-kissed him."
   Donald did his best Clint Eastwood squint, as if fueled by hemorrhoid pain.  "I hope so, or I'll have to tell him that I'm not afraid to go back to prison."
   Jazzmin Flush got wide-eyed.  "You were in prison?"
   Donald like, "I swear--the politician had it coming."  

Francis: "Come on man!" - Dad -

   
   
   
 
 
Francis:  "Come on man!"  - Dad -
   
   Rarely weirder than myself tales of tortured souls featured; however, at a time of immediate crises concerning a pubescent child gelling with the wrong crowd; plus, his own lack of confident steel, what can I do but ask you guys to pray for:  "FRANCIS"
  
   What happened to the scent of paperback books and letters mailed with crisply-ironed 5 dollar bills included within?  When growing constantly allergic to the Internet, reliance upon the specters of the past seem wisest for a quirky, couth-filled gentleman, him wending within illness and seemingly perpetual turmoil, yet risking further poverty, throwing himself in the rodeo, and I've done it before.  
  
  For all children of step-families--yes, it sucks, and you don't know if folk are friends or foe; regardless, trust in this life to resonate you sweetly eternal, and you'll definitely BEHAVE.  What's better than staying out of trouble!!!  Who wants to look over their shoulder!?!  Stay straight, get religious instead of independently spiritual, and glam yourself for God.  Too, read a book every once in a while.  A real one.  Made of paper.  

Jazzmin Flush (49)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (49)"
   
   Rascal escorted Donald Flush into the humble underground of Jazzmin's basement.  There, after nodding a classy greeting, the arctic-wolf-cool of Thomas departed with coydog Rascal; plus, little Swiss scurried into a well-deserved hole while Jazzmin uneasily exhaled curiosity and excitement, positioning herself in front of her bygone father.
   
DONALD
I can't believe I found you.
  
JAZZMIN
Were you hiding from me or something?
  
DONALD
Don't be like that--I was shanghaied!
  
JAZZMIN
Complaining?
  
DONALD
If people don't complain; next, they just end up submitting to injustice.
  
JAZZMIN
Where were you Daddy?  What's the real story?  And why now, when I'm getting my life together?
  
DONALD
Selfish women are proudly prone to sink their carnal fangs into a well-groomed man, obstructing his relationship with his family and especially children.  That's what happened.  I cheated on your mother.  Look, to have a few Bluebeard-like secrets is okay, but to be forced into imaginary love with that secret, well, I'm just so sorry Jazzmin. 
  
JAZZMIN
I want you to tell me all about this unworthy woman who was the ruination of my family.  I'll find her and kill her.  No.  But I'd sure like to punch her in the poonani.   

A Yankee Coyote Observed Near Grant's Tomb

   
   "A Yankee Coyote Observed Near Grant's Tomb"
   
A Yankee Coyote observed near Grant's tomb;
Thus, erase not the mystical, and acknowledge the boon,
Knowing:  pity and mercy a soul complete;
Hence, keep your vision on love and heaven you'll meet,
For life is but the blink of an eye,
And leering at temporary power is like thieving your own pie.  
  

Jazzmin Flush (48)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (48)"
   
   Donald Flush attempting to explain and visually-enlightened comedic with two, lime-green gummi bears squished between his pearly-stained and aligned chompers.  "Look--like with the trans-gender types during that metamorphosis of physical revolution, or the Reagan-era 1980's with pierced punk bands and all that loud crap screaming from their imaginary faces.  This is the future.  We grow.  We accept.  It becomes normal without blinking or thinking weirdly about it,  Plus, it was only certain parts of the American Region that fought to accept growth, not constricting it, conservative-ing it; regardless, somehow--it all worked for us--the United States."
   Rascal thought she might need baby powder mixed with aloe for her butt scratch thing she had going on.  "You're totally right dude--uh, Mr. Donald Flush.  Now come on in, and bring a large pizza with blood sausage.  Your daughter is stranger than you.  Can you believe it--she has a pet mouse named Swiss.  Unfreakable . . ."  

Jazzmin Flush (47)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (47)"
   
   Like a swift spy--Rascal got on the cosmic case of Jazzmin's Dad.  The coydog girl was ecstatic that she could help her new friends, like:  "Can I?  Can I Thomas?  Please, can I?"
   And Jazzmin agreed.  Rascal should investigate the pizza delivery guy.  As a result, Rascal rounded Jazzmin's basement, getting on the asphalt ballet of it all.  Walking with a girl's skip towards the magnificent, 1957 Chevy.  She made no secret in her approach.  All smiles.  Wagging her metaphorical tail.  Dude in car blushed, and Rascal knew it was Jazzmin's Dad.  Right up on him, she asked, "I wanna know if you're the father of Miss Jazzmin Flush?"
   The man responded, "I am Donald Flush.  And yes I am."
    "No crap about that dude--you just owned it.  But I figured your name was Danny."  Rascal said.
   "Plenty of people think they have me figured out."  Donald Flush admitted.  "But do they know the bard?"
   "You're sounding waaaay wacky now guy."
   "What's wrong with a little literary adventure.  No machine gun sentences.  Plus, Jazzmin should know."
    Rascal scratched her bottom--just for a second.  "Know what?"
   "That her father was rich and brilliant once, a great mathematician."  Donald smiling, almost with pride.  "Alas, stolen away, thieved and hijacked by a shrew yet to be tamed.  Like to a stepdame or a dowager.  Long withering out a young man's revenue."
   Rascal couldn't help it.  Weirded out.  Scratched her bottom again.  "You got any more gummi bears in that hot rod?"  

Jazzmin Flush (46)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (46)"   
   
   "You can't have a torrid Tolstoy story, written in eloquent sequences, before being divinely spawned everlasting and eternal--without a pizza delivery guy as a main character!"  Thomas cried.
   Jazzmin Flush didn't blush, but passionately pushed back:  "The L.A. Derelict published my first obituary on Girthy Gilda, but--I'm not a novelist.  I'll never be a novelist.  I don't wanna be a novelist!"
   Thomas sideways, sideburns growing Wolverineways.  "Just check it out, will ya?  This dynamic dude dubbed Danny--he may be your father.  Why else would he deliciously deliver an anchovy deep dish decorated with baby, multi-colored gummi bears?"
   "He thinks I'm pregnant."  Jazzmin Flush biting her lip at the resonating remembrance of an entire rainy year.
   Thomas continued:  "He's got your goldenish hair, same almond-shaped eyes, and his 1957 Chevy with two, mind you--TWO, four barrels is constantly rumbling, like tough pit bulls, outside of your basement habitat.  And he's too much of a geezer to be stalking you.  I would sniff out that testosterone-laced crap, easily.  I can smell him, and he smells like you--this dude is your Dad."
   "But he's a pizza delivery guy?"  Jazzmin Flush snarled.
   "Now that you are a hot, sexy reporter--you think you're too good for him?"  Thomas imperatively probed poignantly. 
  "Okay--I officially hate myself."  Jazzmin blowing a strand of gold out of her eyes.  "And I do love gummi bears."   

Cats and Mexican Lasagna

   
   "Cats and Mexican Lasagna"
   
When I first read that "real" cats don't eat lasagna, I was a bit perplexed;
Next, a devil-worshiping, teenage girl, concerning me--hexed;
As a result, I got bubbly and baffled; plus, sincerely bizarre,
Morphing into a quasi-gourmet, suburban kitchen-cooking star;
Moreover, I artistically crafted a Mexican Lasagna,
Using mild salsa, so as to not scald mama.  

Jazzmin Flush (45)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (45)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush royally regretted not being a more fantastic friend for the great Girthy Gilda, remembering how ruff ruff Rascal had recently reminded her of the mystical coyote's reason for altruistic, canine-existence:  a tortured teacher of death, perhaps--giving old age to the human folk in order for them to make super-symmetrical their affairs, affording them with sublimity before being birthed into the unearthly Otherworld.
   Jazzmin Flush did not shed Freya's tears over Girthy Gilda's tiny tombstone, but should have, crying golden--though it lovingly lurked within her corporeal stronghold, that California wonderland know as her total, pulsating physiology--yet one day she will be rewarded and reminded of her regal wealth--inherited by the fabulous fable of a father.  For now, she knelt down, placing an electric-white tin of mint-flavored snus over Girthy Gilda's grave.  

Jazzmin Flush (44)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (44)"
   
   Thomas was a bit twisted at the moment, yet beyond billowing blood flow concerning Rascal's hearty scent--it was all terribly tragic--the raunchy roller-coasters of peaks and valleys in life's perpetual ping-pong game.  And as Jazzmin, Fredrica, and Rascal entered into Girthy Gilda's modest shanty, Thomas was protectively shielding the elderly Saint with his transfigured body, glaring at the female threesome, having washed his hands in obsessive scourge before closing the dead lady's eyes and placing coins above for the ferryman.
   Rascal blurted, "She knew, I surmise, that everybody's poop stinks.  Never shamed by others."
   "More than that."  Thomas spoke solemnly.  "She simply cared about the little guy.  The hobbits and hoboes spinning the wheels of life by little yet respected labor.  Hers was the pigskin scramble by fast-footed Flutie over the Canadian tundra, adoring the great games played by the underdog so much that she gave good will to the non-deserving.  Folk like us."
   "Why put us down?"  Fredrica pondered loudly.
   Thomas looked his sister in the eye, saying, "If you never fall down; then, you'll never know how to pull yourself up.  Every battery needs recharged by the tragedies of life.   The Cubs will win--one golden day."  

Jazzmin Flush (43)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (43)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush deliberately devoured another soft taco, hungrily inhaling the continuous, primal cravings of legal food, though never got horizontally-challenged; moreover, threw down the yummy, hard-shelled delish of Mexican cuisine, but slicing a cruel cut atop her oral cavity, knowing that the soothe of green tea would assist in inflicting tranquility upon the rising bacteria, not minding that the word "quack" was insidiously inflicted upon pristine physicians throughout American History, for their loving loyalty of Mother Earth's herbology rightfully stole away from designer drug companies having pseudo-politicians and demonic doctors boot-licking the crooked cash--all is such and is after the slave-making Industrial Revolution--God Bless it though, right?
   And Fredrica came upon Jazzmin's crunchy meal and blossoming companionship with rascally Rascal--Thomas' sister eagerly noticing the coydog girl's dog-like beauty, saying:  "Funeral arrangements for Girthy Gilda are in the works.  Thomas insists a simplistic burial in a modest, vampire-proof, wooden box, with a rose-petal forged Rosary wrapped around her eternal grip."
   "That sounds awesome."  Jazzmin Flush noted.  "Girthy Gilda will now feed the Earth, getting boldly burped beautifully into the forever folklore of an always risen Phoenix."   

Union Blue--underground, country music

   
   "Union Blue--underground, country music"
   
   Taken from the Earthy North after barely a year old, being anchored in the Confederate Capital; next, wending deeper South.  Here's a ditty:
   
I love my Jap-made truck;
My shamrock luck--
I'm a Yankee Doodle
Ain't being feudal--
Do you like to fish much!?!
  
   Like the American Coyote, every Transplanted Yankee absorbing Southern Beauty and simultaneously remembering his Sublime Heritage is an American Original.  

Jazzmin Flush (42)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (42)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was cautiously crushed; specifically, got the nasty news that Girthy Gilda had passionately passed--Thomas explained:  "She totally uttered an Act of Contrition; next, boldly blasted off to God."
   And indeed she had, transmigrating until unto the DIVINE JUSTICE SYSTEM, getting great recommendations for a fabulous form of astral-like reincarnation, knowing her lazy family neglected her to the gruesome grave; still, to starburst ghostways, glittering eternal, haunting the horrid hell out of every soul wickedly infatuated with making Miss Jazzmin Flush and her pretty posse perish.
   As a result, infused with a specter's kiss--Jazzmin Flush knew this wasn't a nefarious death, yet a mighty challenge, a gallant gauntlet laid bear-trapways, smacked down, facing, always, the pestering poison of iniquity.   
   Thus, Jazzmin Flush graciously gobbled up another soft taco, sprinkling a delicious dash of the mystical mustard seed atop its open sombrero.  

Jazzmin Flush (41)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (41)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush sweetly swooshed around some loose cilantro within her yummafied oral cavity--a fresh, minty tongue getting the Mexican parsley to smoothly slide down further into her intestinal tract, where, as most herb-like things do, it illustriously illuminated the process of digestion.  Rascal was across from her willfully working on a chewy chimichanga, dripping the drool of hot cheese from a fanged bite.
   "What kind of dog are you?  I mean coydogs are half coyote and half domestic dog, mostly--so what's your genetic breed?"  Jazzmin Flush probed with question.
   "My great, great grandma was a Pomsky back when the Federal Government began recognizing anomalous humans--or freaks, whatever.  At least the brilliance of Uncle Sam gave us the protection we secretly craved and needed.  Yeah, there are a few monsters in the mix.  But most of us were, and still are--just scared is all, ya know."  Rascal replied.
   Jazzmin Flush, noticing severely, admitted:  "You're really pretty.  Like foxy."
   "Are you fishing for a compliment back at ya--California girl?"  Rascal getting instinctive, then:  "I'm sorry.  I know your pack is pretty weird, and I too want a family.  But I'm lousy at making friends."
  "We need all the help we can get."  Jazzmin Flush solidly said, washing down the remnants of a soft shell taco with the bubbly fizz of Dr. Pepper, knowing it was healthier than Coke, for Dr. Pepper kind of has the word Doctor in it.   

Jazzmin Flush (40)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (40)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush monstrously manifested no pulsating panegyric about Rascal within her own cerebral lines--no sir; nonetheless, there was something wickedly delightful concerning the female, coydog chick, to say the limited least.  And, within her (Jazzmin's) telepathic empathy, she heard Rascal boldly barking at her "in tune" whereabouts, offering:  "I am not a piece of, you know profanely what.  No--I'm a piece of CLASS."  And Jazzmin Flush knew not to be a kingfisher, labeling Rascal a pesky insect to be divinely devoured alive.  She must trust the imperfect symphony of that cool babe's well-aligned weirdness.  Remembering how the weirdo poet woefully wailed about President Clinton after backwarding his empathetic excellence in bard-like Blogs.  For President Clinton, as he evenly admitted, truly felt YOUR pain, loving, loving, loving, and doing so to awesomely assist the elderly, broken, poor, or yet-to-be recognized as great; indeed, President Clinton, simply:  CARED.
   Snapshot, Jazzmin Flush out of Rascal's rascally and mini Mindcrime, not purposely invading, but soaking her soul's terrific truth into Jazzmin's mercurial spark of jealousy, to simply let her honestly know:  "I'm not after your quasi-boyfriend.  Too, we should hang out and get a taco."  

Nashville Sounds, and the Richmond Braves

   
   "Nashville Sounds, and the Richmond Braves"
   
Fanatical fencing and jocular jousting is taboo when observing the Nashville Sounds,
For the mysterious umbrella is a villainous, Penguin-practicing feature that astounds;
However, a Bud Heavy might be liberty-loved and allowed--have only a couple,
Remembering the Richmond Braves in the 1970's when President Carter got no double;
Alas, babysit the delicious dog @ home and in your joyous, muster-stained gut,
For the baseball and the bat crack the bark of a home run mutt.
  

.

Jazzmin Flush (39)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (39)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush nastily, in nagging fashion, knew, as Rascal socially retreated for a much-needed pee break--doth thou knowest; hence, resurrect and revamp the vivacious vixen.  "My gosh my man Thomas!  What is that hungry-eyed girl doing with you?"
   Thomas smirked sardonically.  "She's helping us.  Come on Jazzmin--I'm practically a monk here."
   "Yeah, and she wants to sacrifice you sexually, selfishly spilling IT into her eternal longings."
   "I can't help it if I've got the animal, magnetic pull of it all."
   As if, as if, Jazzmin Flush was pushed and pulled with a monstrous bit of dominance over Thomas, never knowing love might morph wrongways, but remained converted to submission towards the sublimity of God's Good Ghost.  "I'm silly, and a stupid girl.  If you want a chance to decide--you freely have it."
   Thomas was awesomely amazed at Jazzmin's almost wicked insight into tomorrowland, but resisted carnal fantasy with curvaceous Rascal within the theater of his monkish mind.  "I have decided Jazzmin.  I actually decided the instantaneous moment that I had the cool courage to gaze into your innocent eyes.  I love funny, goofy, good-hearted Jazzmin--that's YOU, by the way.  Yup, I love ya, and always will."
   "Then what's this synergy with Rascal you have, I suspect?"
   Thomas locked his orbs into hers.  "She's like a sister Jazzmin.  She's a coydog."

Jazzmin Flush (38)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (38)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was so flushed with anxiety, too weak of a word, to coolly cope with watching Girthy Gilda's grave vacuum; as a result, she grabbed a Lucky Strike out of the beautiful, old lady's midnight-black garter belt, sauntered outside and ignited the cherry with waxing willpower; next, saturated her fuchsia-hued lungs and exhaled prayers heavenways.  It did offer a bit of weird, wavelengthing soothe, but then, then, her inviolate-white flower of decency evolved into the controlling passion of a black rose when seeing her guy--Thomas approaching with a brunette beauty smiling sparkly incisors and sprightly breasts bodaciously bouncing; next, it all got too close.
   "Who is this?"  Jazzmin Flush proudly blushed.
   "Rascal is the name my quintessential California girl."  Rascal blurted, extending a very solid, almost steel grip in Jazzmin's stupefied direction.
   "G-r-e-a-t."  Thomas muttered, never thinking that his Catholic werewolf would loudly spark such frisky and feline fury.  

Jazzmin Flush (37)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (37)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was regally royal, always.  Anyway, Thomas was thriving life and back in his khaki pants, zipped and couth, glaring at the female, scoundrel beauty known simply as Rascal.  She was smiling unpure breeding in his white, arctic direction.
   "You ever read the American Dictionary?"  She asked.  "Like chisel on my fizzle, but don't ya dare get any drizzle?  Thanks to progressive politicians like Teddy Bear allowing creative birth.  We are not English in America, after all.  But God Bless 'em."
   Thomas was cool and curious.  He liked Rascal.  And that spawned considerable trepidation within his velvety paw pads.   

Jazzmin Flush (36)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (36)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush and soul-searching Fredrica and her ultra-humility guarded Girthy Gilda while new and improved, wolfy Thomas wended cityways, searching for the organic tree medicine and its resistance to tick bite.  Thomas turned and trollied, minus the intoxication, sniffing out, in human form, an old mechanic's shop that repaired solar-powered cars, back before Exxon purchased the luminous, free Sun--remembering that he actually had a mercurial kiss, once, barely, from Miss Jazzmin Flush--this tingling his toes, putting muster in his mojo.
   Entering the shop, greeted by metal glam songplay, he spotted a beat up Tesla car, vertically viewing a brunette with cupcake cleavage wrenching it to life.  He spoke:  "Excuse me?  Do you sell medicine on the side?"
  The brown-haired girl dropped the wrench and swiftly stripped, revealing a body beyond muscle, purely gristle; next, she magically morphed into a carnivorous coydog, leaping at Thomas' shock and surprise.  He was getting his butt kicked; thus, turned on the arctic magic, yet got stuck in his clothing, wrestling himself within a pair of khaki pants.  Upon noticing such similar magic, the coydog girl recycled herself human, gawking at Thomas' hind legs stuck in his pants.
   "Wow--you're a big one fella--I thought you were a law-breaking, stinking cop," she said.
   Thomas finally got free of the khaki pants and barked a buddy-like greeting.
   She continued, totally naked.  "My name is Rascal, friend."   

Jazzmin Flush (35)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (35)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush fabulously floated off the anti-gravity flight, actually holding Thomas' hand with a loving, non-lustful grip--though they hadn't even so much as shared a sublime smooch yet; still, the twosome were truly in love's meshed embrace.
   After getting the info from one of the editors at the L.A. Derelict, Jazzmin Flush put the great, literary news behind her for the moment, and eagerly allowed Thomas' canine nostrils to sniff the way towards Girthy Gilda's rude pickle.  First, they picked up Fredrica from Jazzmin's basement, fed her some oil-soaked sardines and soda crackers along with a cold glass of white and green tea infused, all while Jazzmin was loving on whisker-twitching Swiss, much to Thomas' lack of amusement, him rolling his eyes.  "We've gotta get to Girthy Gilda's place Jazzmin.  Now put the mouse down before I gobble him up."
   Jazzmin Flush shot scimitars at Thomas with hurt eyes.  "You wouldn't dream of it babe."
   But all was soon forgiven as the threesome found their trio of energy in Girthy Gilda's modest shanty--her all alone and sadly singular, lost to a family's abandonment.
   "Girthy Gilda--we've been so worried!"  Jazzmin Flush weeping wet tears of torture and joy at viewing her beloved boss sitting in odoriferous fecal matter, barely able to claw her Lucky Strike, her feet scissoring and club-like.
   Fredrica and Thomas cleaned her spotless while Jazzmin brewed the relax of chamomile tea; next, Thomas noticed a red spot resonating--a bull's eye pattern on her high thigh while putting on a fresh, powdered diaper.  "That's Lyme Disease--it totally offers neurological trauma if untreated for years."
   "How do you know?"  Jazzmin Flush being interrogative.  
   "I'm practically a dog Jazzmin--I know ticks--it is in me to be cool and keen about such things. Okay, you girls stay here--I'm gonna go get some Otoba Bark."
   "Is it a cure?"  Jazzmin Flush continued with pondering aloud.
   Thomas was like:  "When a person gets a neurological disorder and has bodily bending--if the neurologist is a true textbook with a soul; then, they'll check for Lyme Disease, syphilis, everything, unless they're a soulless textbook with a Bush League education."
   "That's a better education than mine."  Fredrica admitted.
   Thomas snarled.  "Learning is not because there is esoteric information only available in the classroom--that's hogwash.  Just ask Gore Vidal."
   Jazzmin Flush turned to Fredrica, blurting:  "Gore Vidal was really weird or something--I think."
   Thomas left to get the medicine.    

Saint Raphael, Tobias, and Baseball

   
   "Saint Raphael, Tobias, and Baseball"
   
Saint Raphael, arch-angel; specifically, medicine of God--
Thanks to you for offering healing balm, and Tobias was awed;
Moreover, imbibing a veggie dog and watching the awesome Angels play,
Does smoothly soothe the rancorous root of demonic dismay.

  

Jazzmin Flush (34)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (34)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush got the nefarious news from Thomas as they strongly strolled into Alberta's Galactic Spaceport.  Fortunately, he had sniffed out some precious gemstones and traded them for funds to fuel their flight back to the lovely City of Angels.  Jazzmin Flush was considerably crushed concerning Girthy Gilda's dilemma; moreover, genuinely angered about the taco truck being sold and Fredrica's homeless status; however, Thomas had communicated with his ultra-cool sister, and Fredrica was now residing in Jazzmin's basement, watching out over Swiss and his semi-furry friends.
   When seated in the angular spacecraft, Dean Martin crooning over the internal fuselage speakers, an elderly man with silvery-gray hair spoke to her, him completely alive and billowing bright with a pair of star-spangled eyes.  "You are Miss Jazzmin Flush.  You write those pamphlets for the homeless." 
   Jazzmin Flush, more than curious.  "How does anybody know that?'
   The gray-haired man smiled gently.  "When you write, and weirdly, no matter what the scale--someone is always reading.  Anyway, I'm an editor with the L.A. Derelict.  I think you should and could assist in writing our obituaries.  I'll put in a word."
   Jazzmin Flush blushed.  "Paid to write?  But I didn't go to college."
   The old man continued with his meek smile.  "Neither did I, or Hemingway, or half of the most keen and brilliant bards."
   Jazzmin Flush turned to Thomas.  "Are you listening to this?  He wants me to be a cub reporter, for real.  Can you believe it?"
   Thomas snorted, half asleep.  "Don't be freaked.  You're just pretty is all--that's why you're going to get the job; plus, when you open a can of poetic worms, don't be surprised if you catch a fabulous fish."
   Jazzmin was like:  "Now I'll be able to afford Dodger tickets.  Holy Lasorda!  I've always wanted to taste a delicious Dodger Dog."   

Jazzmin Flush (33)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (33)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush safely secure in wolf-forged igloo, reclining in REM, dreaming of quixotic fairies pouring her the cup of life while the bells are sweetly ringing.  Thomas outside in the glacial conditions, digesting an arctic hare, blood-stained beard stoic and grateful; next, trouble telepathically finding Girthy Gilda; thus, he mystically communicates with Fredrica, his sister.
   
THOMAS
Where's Girthy Gilda?
   
FREDRICA
Oh Thomas--it's a daymare.  Her family views her as a living burden in that wheelchair.  They let her sit in urine, refuse her entertainment, changing the holo-tube onto their preference--loud gunfire and Pop-Culture Shows that freak her further phobic.  Don't they know--she needs to be rubbed with sage and herbs, fed healthy, exercised, played cards with, taken outside, and most of all--loved.  They've had her dead for four years since her diagnoses.  Her existence infuriates them while they thieve her money, thinking she's not conscious, putting it away in their pockets and insurance policies for them to one day collect and plan their selfish pleasure; indeed, champagne will be flowing when she passes.
   
THOMAS
Can't they even let her watch WHEEL OF FORTUNE and take her outside underneath daystar's luminous glow.  These things relax and give spirit to the elderly.
  
FREDRICA
They despise lame existence.  They're willing her to death.
  
THOMAS
Once I get to Alberta, I'll need money for an anti-gravity, commercial flight to California.
  
FREDRICA
I'm living in a box next to Jazzmin's basement.  Girthy Gilda's family sold the taco truck.  They've got her doped up on a perpetual prescription of nerve pills.
  
THOMAS
I'm sorry sister.  I'll huff it with Jazzmin.  So, get Girthy Gilda's diary.  Like the weirdo poet did, make copies and bury them throughout the city.  Years from now, when her sublime ghost haunts the good glam of humanity as her words are unearthed--it will give delicious birth to the potent and patient losers--a cause for the individual.
  
FREDRICA
Yes.  The individual always transcends the collective nag of it all.
  
THOMAS
Always.  Because sometimes--the individual becomes us all.

Jazzmin Flush (32)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (32)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush awoke to a cruel choke, Thomas swiftly behind her, squishing her belly till the obnoxious nightmare departed, as if evaporating into the mystic quicksand of it all.
   "Holy Fire.  The Pentagram.  Southwards.  Heat."  Jazzmin Flush moaned.
   Thomas released her.  "We are ultra-sensitive to their envy.  It haunts us as it did the Poor-In-Spirit Poet."
   Jazzmin Flush pondered.  "You mean him, the weirdo?"
   Thomas nodded in solemn fashion.  "They impersonated him on the ancient Internet.  Blurred his photos and erased them.  Blocked his publications.  Hacked all his electronic devices.  Followed him and parked outside of his house, violating.  Got to his family and physicians.  Wicked women, their friends, local politicians, filthy rich.  Thanks to the Feds and their cyber crime units--the truth was unearthed.  Locals hate the Feds, unless the liberty-loving Feds dream of the Bulldog.  Ultimately, he killed himself in charismatic style, unless it was murder."
   Jazzmin Flush knew to be sane and silent.  Evil always monitoring and wickedly watching, invading freedom and souls born unique.  False education, locking you in an established, twisted system, forsaking the autodidacts like Paine and Franklin, both outshining John Adams, him secretly purchasing Paine's literature off of the Colonial Press, though he dubbed such prose as possibly anarchistic.  Whatever.
   "You should chill out a bit."  Thomas noticing Jazzmin's well-deserved paranoia.  "I'm gonna contact Girthy Gilda telepathically.  We need quicksilverish escort back to California.  Can hike it to Alberta; then, get an anti-gravity flight to the City of Angels.  For, they know we're here."
   "Hike it?  Again?"  Jazzmin Flush worried she wouldn't endure.
   Thomas grinned a sparkling canine incisor.  "Don't worry.  I'll magically morph wolfways and pull you on a sled.  What girlfriend doesn't want to tell her boyfriend to MUSH?"
   Jazzmin Flush smiled pristine platinum back at him.   

Jazzmin Flush (31)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (31)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush waited patiently, incisors salivating, kinda, as Thomas went out on werewolf safari, wrangling up some whale blubber--he told her it was welcome to the tummy if cooked well-done, for humans of course, but he preferred it raw, clinging to some nutrient-packed bone.  As a strange girl, as a girl regardless, Jazzmin Flush was not too thrilled about hanging out in an ice castle and eating whale blubber, but times were beautifully bizarre, and the sentient tissue of whales was definite brain food.
   Then, an energy-echoing explosion blast through an ice wall, sending obnoxious sound and crystal cubes of frozen water precipitating all around; next, a southern-sculpted man, resonating the proud face of a downward-lipped slave owner came strutting into Thomas' habitat, smiling wickedly with corn cob teeth, dastardly offering:  "Hello sweet darling, girlfriend of the ice wolf.  My name is Slippery Slim--the complete manifestation of all your impatience and worries.  I'm a hot blizzard of trouble, and I'm here to cage you Southwards.  Yep, we still be fighting the Civil War, when gray-bearded generals terrorized the precious glue of American Foundation--the South shall rise again."
   Jazzmin Flush knew peace was just an illusion, or her lack of faith, at the moment, had fibbed to her.  "Mr. Slippery Slim, please don't give me the Luke Dukes; it sounds like the stomach flu."
   Slippery Slim pulled an ancient NASCAR tire outta his wool coat and sat atop it.  "We never let women win.  Especially the good-looking ones.  Unless of course they're securely residing out West in California--land of the fruits and nuts."  

Jazzmin Flush (30)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (30)"
   
   Encompassed in the Mystical Ice Castle crafted by the Good God, Jazzmin Flush and Thomas enter into a revealing symposium.
   
JAZZMIN FLUSH
What happened to you when you were younger?  I mean, why are you so dedicated to God and belief in things Divine?
   
THOMAS
Is is that bad?  I know that I'm weird--or that the world is made up of scandalous scum wearing masks, designing systems and myth to enslave those not willing to submit to creepy people.
  
JAZZMIN FLUSH
Just tell me Thomas.  Please.

THOMAS
Look, Fredrica and me had it okay.  But my Mom's boyfriend sent me to Protestant school, even though Mom was Catholic--she submitted, as always.  There, all they did for three years, before I ran away, was put down the Mother of Christ.  Gasps on their expressions when mentioning Her--as if She was a wicked witch.  But I knew--I knew that I belonged to the Holy Family--only God owned me--not a religious movement responsible for emasculating the Angels and Saints.
  
JAZZMIN FLUSH
That's it?  What about the girls?
  
THOMAS
The girls.  Holy smoke.  Coming over to my house at thirteen, getting naked and expecting me to lay with their fragile youth.  And I was curious.  This one girl took off her Carolina-Blue panties, and I wanted to smell them--a wolf thing.  Well, when I examined them closely--there was a big poop stain in the crotch area--I mean it was smeared by creamy, fecal matter.  I couldn't appreciate the color blue for years after that, or any unclean lass.  And so, after I resisted their arsenal of sexual desire, they started calling me fag, and spreading the rumor everywhere.  Fredrica was devastated.  Then, I thought I might be gay--they convinced me of it, for a bit.  But I overcame.  Instead of them blabbering about me all the time, their spurned desires and their sour grapes, they should have confessed to doctors that they couldn't stop sexing other young boys--that THEY were the ones with the problem.  Anyway, I just thought it was going to be like the 1950's.  Marry your high school sweetheart, and be a happy man.  But when young girls get denied sexually, they'll do anything to hurt you--poison you to infertility, spread rumors, whatever.  Their pride is disgusting.  Well, now, I have a true friend; I have you.
  
JAZZMIN FLSUH
I am your friend Thomas; I love you.
  
THOMAS
Fortunately for you--the arctic wolf isn't prone to ticks and fleas.
  

Baseball--now: American Underdog

   
   "Baseball--now:  American Underdog"
   
Iroquoian language forged Ohio,
And Johnny Bench might have spurned a hot dog, enjoying better a gyro;
Alas, Mike Piazza could catch and hit--maybe better;
Regardless, adore the sport--as comfortable to watch as wearing a cashmere sweater.  

Jazzmin Flush (29)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (29)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush smoothly sauntered through Thomas' Ice Castle, observing the angelic architecture and inhaling the frigid, Mystic Divine--how the Author of Life had designed her beloved boyfriend an impenetrable habitat away from the toxic spills of malevolent man--their self-hatred and jealousy, due to the circumstance of chance, driving them to damn others in life.  But Jazzmin Flush fully and clearly knew--God is willfully writing the story of existence, and yes, sometimes He includes a cruel villain; still, they too can get mercy rehab; regardless, no man has a right to construct constricting government, forbidding the fruit of the Father, or inducing man by economic threats to include himself in an unjust system.  Every human being deserves regal reverence.  Not to be owned, bullied, or reverse bullied, but adored, at least--respected for all that he is enduring.  And once people revere other human souls; next, we will easily unearth glam magic, finding ourselves at a loss of selfishness, and gregariously gel for eternal everlast, allowing sports and gaming to calm the boiling seeds and eggs contained within the hungry internal.
   "Hey.  You wanna hunt some arctic hares with me?"  Thomas, making an appearance.
   Jazzmin Flush focused on remembrance.  "Holy crap--Swiss!  I hope Girthy Gilda is feeding the rascally rodent."
   Thomas grinned, like a mystic monk full of delicious diesel.  "That old bird is full of clouds of happy love.  Swiss is okay Jazzmin.  And Girthy Gilda is attempting to cut back on the Lucky Strike."
   Jazzmin Flush knew Thomas would protect her and hers, in a weird, telepathic, wolfy way.  But would he return to Sunny California with her?  Would he exit God's Ice Mansion and forge a life fantastic with his girlfriend?  And was it proper for her to selfishly drag him away from his thrilling isolation?  As if reading her mind, Thomas grinned again.  "We should focus on sacrifice; then, maybe we can construct a solid life together.  Too, I don't have a toilet here--you can do your business out in the snow--there, you'll be able to tell how healthy your urine is by the yellowish hue of its icy self."
   Jazzmin Flush grimaced, a little.  "Sounds fun."
   Thomas lowered his head humbly.  "I promise I won't sniff it.  Or at least not while you're obviously watching."   

Jem--Glam Magic

   
   "Jem--Glam Magic"   
  
She billowed with Outrageous Synergy,
Bravely battling, during President Reagan's Courageous Term, Misfit Energy;
Moreover, Goldie Gold & Action Jack--along with telepathic Nugget
Were wowed as Mike Schmidt of the Phillies did slug it;
Alas, no more paper Savings Bonds and pulp of wood bling-like things,
For opulent substance now--it soars on easily clipped, digital wings.  

Jazzmin Flush (28)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (28)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush, her California, ultraviolet-exposed flesh glistening with glittering glow, bubbling like heated champagne in a make-shift hot tub; plus, her dirty-blonde mane luminously lathered in the loving luxury of water-blue aqua, all within the icy confines of Thomas' Quasi-Fortress of Solitude, the angelic architecture due to the Divine Sculptor of many things.  And Thomas, in human form, is watching, not rudely leering, his sweet, Miss Jazzmin Flush.
   
JAZZMIN FLUSH
Opens her long-lashed eyes.  What?  You?  You saved me?
  
THOMAS
Who the hell else lives way up here?  And I'm sorry for saying hell.
  
JAZZMIN FLUSH
You are sooooo Thomas.  This feels nice.  It's a hot tub like those ice monkeys have.
   
THOMAS
You're safe,  And I had to, by necessity, glare at your boobies and muscular butt cheeks.  But it looks like you haven't shaved your legs or pits for weeks.
   
JAZZMIN FLUSH
Is this how couples talk?
  
THOMAS
We're not a couple.
   
JAZZMIN FLUSH
Thomas--I just strutted my butt over an entire continent to find you.  Yes.  Yes--we are a couple!!!
   
THOMAS
You don't have to yell at me about it, Jazzmin.    

Jazzmin Flush (27)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (27)"
  
   Jazzmin Flush sincerely plunged deep into the Northwest Territories, snowgirl, a glacial feast of near death, fluxing Otherworldly--in and out of normal, human consciousness, driven psychotically by more than mere sexuality; moreover, a regal chance to royally indulge in true love, to innocently play, knowing that if sacred sex was a real possibility, not sloppy sport squirts and dastardly queefs, but something special and sublime--like play between two prancing pronghorn; next, it was welcome and worth it.  Too, there is no pressure in lovely play save for advantage-taking sadists.   
   Therefore, Jazzmin Flush--dead and alive, lost to a freaky friendship, having totally engaged in the friendly fantastic of mystic synergy--she collapsed into frostbite; nevertheless, got yanked around the noose-like neck of her near demise by magically forged yet chummy canine incisors from the platinum shimmer of Canis lupus arctos; indeed, Thomas had shown up!  And isn't that what life is all about?  Showing up.  

Jazzmin Flush (26)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (26)"   
   
   Jazzmin Flush knew, as she got toasty and cozy in a sophisticated shanty within the Caribou Mountains, icy twist of Green Resurrection Springing somewhere, maybe not exactly here, where she was, found nearly Han Soloways before Fett's frigid escort to Jabba, by a gorgeous soul named Anernerk, a type of native infused into the sacred land--attractive and elderly with symmetrical, artistic lines through his face, till upon a gray diadem of flowing, dead tissue.
   And Jazzmin Flush knew too--it was time for Girthy Gilda to go smokeless. Anernerk had given her some snus, a tobacco product forged by the Northern Europeans, and she decided to give the shiny tin to Girthy Gilda--if she ever made it, wherever and back, alive in body.  Then, Anernerk, smiling with hot water and cocoa mix, sat across from her on dilapidated furniture within permafrost habitat; next, deciding to be a visionary with vocal reminder.  "The Harrowing of Hell Today.  The Great Sabbath, you, Catholic Girl."
   Jazzmin Flush regally burped surprise.  "You know I'm Catholic, in a cafeteria but respectful mode mind ya?"
   "Anernerk knows many things.  Your boyfriend--a freaking dog.  But every dog has a day--maybe two, once said a great bard."
   Jazzmin Flush wished a little of the weird away today, and great--her boyfriend is a dog.  Still, she knew--I love you Lord.    

Cover Girl--Joe Team, 1980's

   
   "Cover Girl--Joe Team, 1980's"  
   
COVER GIRL

Primary Military Sophistication:  Armor
Qualified Expert:  LAW Rocket/M-16

A cult character, making rare yet celebrated appearances,
Cover Girl cleaned up well for the Joe Team's defense of peninsulas;
Specifically, she was the best cutie,
Armed with armor-piercing beauty--
Better than I can crappily draw,
But I drank a Robin Hood Cream Ale in 1980's Arkansas . . .

   

Jazzmin Flush (25)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (25)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush resurrected and revisited her universal Catholicism; specifically, Saints and weird Wolves--uh, dogs too.  Saint Francis taming the torrid wolfen aspects of the carnivorous canine haunting Gubbio, Saint Patrick mystically morphing man wolfways, and of course--the glistening Shamrock, Virgin Mary eternally infused into the lovable luck of Four-Leaf Clover; next, Saint Christopher and the dandy doghead, never stick and balling billiards, or maybe.
   Regardless, there was a myriad of mojo more, yet Jazzmin Flush only had cute, 1980's cartoons in her four-chambered heart for quirky Thomas; moreover, she magically adored the dude.
   THOMAS
   SPIRIT WOLF
   SOUL:  Body and Spirit gel.
   CHRIST DIED ON CROSS:  Only Spirit departed, not entire Incarnation.
   RESURRECTION:  Remembrance of Body and Spirit mesh.
   SPIRIT WOLF:  Retains human consciousness, completely--does acquiesce to wolf survival, on minor level.  Yet, when man, a wolfen will expanded.
   Thomas, now a stallion-like stud, of sorts, as if a mighty and masculine guy with defined chin area in a romance novel about them all-too-wild werewolves, where he flings her responsive nipple with thumb digit for the elation of a reader's nastee--oh boy, Jazzmin Flush blushed--but never bestial.  

Jazzmin Flush (24)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (24)"
   
   "Scavenged whale carcass is a delicious delicacy."  Jazzmin Flush heard this within her cerebral capacity, pulsating, resonating, and sounding like Thomas mixed with a bit of "ruff ruff" growl in his telepathic vociferousness; indeed, in the Year 2019 Of Our Lord, Wikipedia listed that every canine possessed a form of unique telepathy.  So, of course!  For nobody else, especially not the Holy Family, would be hungrily informing her that whale carcass is a delicious delicacy.
   This bizarre communication from the young, wolfish man she loved, this awesome stretch of romantic, spiritual fiber formed quicksilver and competitive steel in herself--to push herself further within the unfamiliar, driving her towards the icy edges of Terra's wondrous Everland.  But, so many questions, and still--so much adoration to rain over her sweet Thomas when she unearthed that furballish friend.  Catholics and their spirit wolves--somebody should tell somebody.  

Jazzmin Flush (23)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (23)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush had not experienced and zany zombie activity as of yet; specifically, backpacking with a lime-green zombie blade loaned from the peach-rich virtue of Girthy Gilda might have heavily attracted such uncanny undeadism, yet there was nothing happening along those long lines for the venturing, California Blonde.  So, she bundled up in an Army-Tuff, green jacket, zipping it not timid but tight; next, walked her leather-crafted, oatmeal yellow boots into Alberta.  Still, it was a terrifically terrible trek, a couple local wolves along the way, and a pestering coyote that just wanted her to give it some flowery love; moreover, she still had quite a heavy haul upwards, to the Northwest Territories.  
   Thomas was smeared in glacial respect, having reverence for the unappreciated ice cube, lodged and locked in imperial-white tray pissed in by many college guys to further fuel the comedy of a girlfriend's father--him drinking the urine spike towards their personal hilarity and cruel elation; nonetheless, Thomas didn't give a rat's ass about sophomorish hijinks, now that he was the Arctic Wolf, in a very weird way, retaining all aspects of his humble humanity, not driven by the pack, living off small game, glaring the innocent, over-sexed hare right in the eye.  Hey, it was a living, and he knew--he knew:  Jazzmin Flush was on her way.  But, what of it?