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.