Jazzmin Flush (62)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (62)"
   
   Donald Flush was heavy with cool, adorned in a gray recede and a bit of sea salt and cracked pepper goatee; moreover, Rascal on the coydog prowl, itchy and a bit with the old inflame, needing pups to nurture before she hit the dreaded thirty years of age.
   She approached the mature man, prancing up to his classic hot rod, noticing the blue-black paint job and mag tires.  "Mighty nice old man."
   Donald was like, "I've delivered more onion and mushroom deep dish than any other type of hot pie.  You want a ride?"
   Within, windows down, California wind blowing through their 8-cylinder elation, Rascal probed an "in control" man who wasn't totally interested; as a result, used her canine telepathy to let him clearly know:  "What's so wrong with me having a crush on you, old man?"  
   Donald blurted:  "Maybe rabies."