Jazzmin Flush (93)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (93)"
   
   Simply dubbed:  Jerry Dingle--he was not your grandmother's vampiric entity; specifically, there is no "one kind" in the biological architecture of vampirity, for like humanity, individuality eagles beyond the plausible possibilities; regardless, Jerry Dingle was a blood-sucking bum, thirsty to drink from between the juicy thighs of a curvaceous booty, waaaaay near the labia, them pinkish-hued lips that open for babymake.  Yup--Jerry Dingle was a sicko, without a Master and had a crazy craving for Kentucky Fried Chicken, where he'd hang with the garden-variety werewolves--all these quasi-naturals embraced by protective acts from the futurity of the American Machine.
   Anyway, there were laws in place, and folk kinda like Thomas couldn't cruelly slaughter a group of horndog teenagers at an android whorehouse, that flowing blood attractive to the hungry guts of werecanines, except Spirit Wolves; thus, Jerry Dingle could not simply suck anybody to the grave--a dilemma for him, indeed.  Yet when he passionately observed Miss Jazzmin Flush eat pizza near the cool San Francisco Bay, the drippy mozzarella dangling from her pink lip gloss--how could he not want to explore her golden thighs, and beyond? 
   Too, he sensed his corporeal aspects (looks) were more ethnically-defined and symmetrically angular than Thomas'--the arctic wolf being an obvious mix of the Europes--we shall say.  Thus, Jerry Dingle began to stalk Jazzmin and Thomas out of the pizza parlor, and would, even to the Omega of the Earth.  
   In the back of his mind, Thomas crafted thought:  "I hate vampires."