Sun and Moon and Stars

"Good evening" - Raw Deal

Loup Soup (8)

    
   "Loup Soup (8)"
  
   Jasper wasn't completely lost.  Still had a bit of sanity.  FM Radio.  Knew if a werewolf might have been in his fridge, for there would be footprints in the cheesecake; alas, he had no fridge; thus, no problem.  Anyway, Boxer came home, burping up a mouse; next, he gobbled it up again, and Jasper knew he had to get back to work that morning.
   Harnessing the Grey Wolf's quicksilver speed, he swiftly ran through the heavy snow in his cheap moccasins, letting his feet get cold, but blocking out the freeze with werewolf red.  It was all he could do--use the hues.
   When he entered the comic shop, Buster was there, reading a Green Lantern comic book.  Too, he had liked the movie.  The whole cosmic cop thing.  The meditation on the power of vibrant colors healing and fueling man's best, not his worst.
   As if telepathically, Jasper picked up on the sublimity of the Icelander, though his tall and handsomely blonde boss could be a smart ass at times.  What was Schwarzenegger told in the movie Raw Deal:  "Smart I like; smart ass I don't."
   Nonetheless, Jasper felt warmth for Buster, feeling sorry that the Icelander had to make his own fish stew here in Nebraska.  Then, he made a mental note to get some spicy mustard and albacore for Boxer and him on the way home.  
   The daystar blossomed brilliant as the day moved forward, and the roads were losing their inviolate white.  By closing time, he was positive he could pilot the Ninja 300 home, after a stop at the local gas station for the spicy mustard and albacore; plus, to taste the French pastries made by the hot lady from Toulon.  You never know--love can ignite with a splendorous spark for even the most bizarre of folk.  

Endurance by Shine

   
   "Endurance by Shine"
   
   As a wayfaring punk, though I used the invention of the wheel, having been from the Atlantic to the Pacific by the time I was eighteen, and on my own during most solo journeys, hitting the asphalt realm at the prodigious age of sixteen--no fear, talking to truckers and cops, but always urinating and defecating in the bushes or behind dilapidated structures, due to great fear--this anxiety would be greatly relieved if they put those sparkly blue or pink mints in all toilets.
   But during my 29th year, again--death was upon me.  Not just from the start, incubation for a protracted period, inability to speak properly until the age of five, a speech pathologist of the angelic kind giving me the gift of vociferousness; moreover, tubes shoved up my urethra, night terrors, you name it.  Then, in your prime, bleeding to death, the emergency room nurses cackling as I would mercurially scramble to the restroom, hooked up to so many incoming fluids, being told I had less than half the blood in my body, and a naughty, unethical night-shift nurse telling me that I should simply give up.  Yup, I should not fight, and just let myself perish.  I didn't.
   Furthermore, attorneys driving me to attempt suicide, and my biological matriarch contemplating driving off a cliff because a non-blood relative bullied her with relentless rebellion of the Satanic kind; plus, getting her hooked on benzos. These people wrapped up in mammon, divided, bravado-fueled, pornography-hiding hoodlums--secret chambers proving their shame of it, wrapped up in a warped world, where giving up seems the best option--unless of course it's their bacon, or their children's.  
   I know suffering.  Chastity and poverty are easy--I'm talking disease and disorders; plus, infiltration from secret sources.  They speak tough, but have never put on the pads and taken a hit, while I've been set on fire, lacerated and received numerous stitches, multiple surgeries, yet the others are all lost in the game of gaudiness, lacking the love and mercy of the mystical and uncanny, thinking they forged themselves, and life is nothing but a flux of atoms, yet I've seen the face of death.  My biological patriarch saw it as well, before fighting with shine until his time.    
    If you want to kill an ugly or asymmetrical person--get sick yourself.  See if you'll try to hold on, like you do with your pride.  Loss that arrives through the entrance of electric love into any of your perforations; next, you'll try to hold on, because you intrinsically know:  "You've not been honest, sincere, played football, but merely mumble the mumbo jumbo--and there's nothing like losing a pint of blood to get a good night of sleep, laying down and innocently throwing Staubach's HAIL MARY into a Virgin's nurturing ear."   But you won't know that until you are on your deathbed or driven psychotic; then, we'll see how you talk, even if your tool gets shot off.  My money says that you will try to hold on, and I don't even have any.  

Barney Miller Werewolf

Loup Soup (7)

   
   "Loup Soup (7)"
   
   Jasper's effluvious self was both sweet and spicy, making the only pussy he ever knew scatter away; indeed, Boxer was on the move, mousing, so to say--to get away.
   Zoanthropy is not common, not even for cats that are beyond and yet within this world; however, neither is celibacy; thus, the fear of the Virgin Mary, and the hatred of Christ.  Regardless, while the King James Version offers Saint John speaking of dogs not going to Heaven, he meant the humping and monstrously malodorous kind, stinking from an unclean spirit.  Pope Francis set us all straight on that one.
   So, Jasper felt the wolf pulse within; specifically, the lack of a heating system in his remote garage building offered him an allegorical coat of meditative insulation from the frigid air.  It was all he could do.  It's all some people can do.  And once heated, he dug into a can of beets, tearing them open with his teeth, further making himself lean and cleaned out.  Darn, he wanted that spicy mustard and some albacore.  Maybe that's why Boxer was really upset, making like Tom and taking a cruise.   
   

Loup Soup (6)

   
   "Loup Soup (6)"
   
   Indeed, like PREGO pasta sauce--it's in there.  Ninjutsu/Catholicism; plus, MKUltra and the Men in Black, controlled by non-sons of men; regardless, who was going to believe Jasper?  And he totally knew it.  Worked at a comic shop; moreover, could harness the abilities of the Canis lupus--it would be seen as bullshit.  But had buried documents, hand-crafted, all over his region of Nebraska--they would be unearthed someday, and priceless.
   In his crummy yet beloved garage building where he resided with his self-owning cat dubbed Boxer, he rubbed his Black Tourmaline, which was an approximate 7.5 on the Mohs scale, absorbing electromagnetic energy; however, he possessed nothing more than a scanner and transistor radio.
   Maybe he should tell Buster.  Guy was good-looking; thus, he should have no envy or jealousy, which drives the adders in angelic clothing to hate; nevertheless, they could have gotten to the Icelander.  They get to all of us, but not back when Lincoln was at the helm, though even he dabbled in pseudo-clairvoyance to help predict the Civil War's outcome, more than myriads of Yankee men perishing to free enslaved people, and they are never remembered.  Only the South still cares about that war--curious.   Ah, piss it all on an electric fence, like his teenage friend's father did, a Green Beret in Nam.  Had to get circumcised after that.  
   Jasper just started paging through his comic books, knowing nobody was to be trusted, or you trust who you have to.  Scrappy-Doo was never jealous of a bigger creature, or a smaller one.  Just had spunk and spirit.  Lucas' metaphor of Star Wars, yet we still don't listen.  

A Protestant attempts to get into Catholic School

   
   "A Protestant attempts to get into Catholic School"
   
   Brothers, us sons of men shouldn't fight.  Northern Ireland eventually grew.  As a Catholic kid I was baptized as a baby and had taken the Eucharist before adolescence--I figured I knew my place; next, I got sent to Southern Baptist School, where the King James Bible, lacking the Apocrypha, was the order of the day.  First hour of school, heavily read, though stumbling upon Luke's First Chapter, where the Virgin Mother proclaims:  "My soul doth magnify the Lord."  Next, She goes onto say Her Holy Soul will be remembered for every generation--and She is correct, sir.
   Anyway, they would always talk about Catholics, and especially Mary, with heavy suspicion.  My biological mother was on the horn every night fighting for me, and a teacher would take me outside of the classroom the next day, telling me that all Catholics aren't bad.
   Anyway, I still read the King James Bible for the poetry of it all.  But I eventually made it to Catholic School, and a kid from the Baptist School attempted to get in as well, for it was the most-respected school in the city of Little Rock, at the time.
   So, this very shy, Protestant kid goes into the chain-smoking Priest's office--Priests that smoke always keep their vows of celibacy, in my opinion.
   Anyway, the kid was nervous, not understanding the rituals and rich tradition of Catholicism; hence, he asked the Priest:  "Uh, what do I call you?"
   The hardcore Priest was armed with an ascetically wild sense of humor; moreover, he looked down upon the boy, his Roman Collar glistening in the light; next, he said:  "Boy, you call me God."
   But, in the end--we all got along.  

The Thing (1982) - The end?

Loup Soup (5)

   
   "Loup Soup (5)"
   
   The snow was falling in a mercurial whirlwind, and Buster decided to call it a day--no freaking customers either.  He gave Jasper the keys and told the dude to lock up; next, smiled as he offered him luck on navigating his motorcycle through the growing layers of snow.  Jasper didn't blink.
   He remembered Connery in Highlander, telling the Scotsman:  "Feel the moose!"
   Therefore, Jasper would "feel the wolf" so to speak, having dog in him, and knowing it.  A Gray Wolf (Canis lupus) has a smooth muscle system, and the cardiac muscle is linked to it; moreover, that spirited-heart has, sometimes, contractions that are tireless and fully automatic, keeping the wolf's heart beating at 120 beats every minute, so to speak.  And like most mammals, armed with a four chamber heart--it wasn't difficult for Jasper to tap into the loyal yet suspicious pathfinder; hence, he left his motorcycle anchored, knowing the Japanese machine was resilient enough to endure a brave snowfall; plus, no soul around here was going to thieve it away; as a result, he turned on the speed of a 40 MPH sprinting wolf, running through the snow with Saint John's spirit, the Disciple Christ loved, him outpacing Saint Peter to the empty tomb in a foot race, yet humble enough to wait for the ROCK before entering the site of a Holy Miracle.  
   Jasper was home swiftly, and made the Sign of the Cross over himself; plus, a bit pissed that he forgot to pick up any spicy mustard.  Too, Boxer the cat would not be happy.    

Big Trouble In Little China: It's All In The Reflexes

Loup Soup (4)

   
   "Loup Soup (4)"
   
   Buster was watching diligently as the snow fell outside of the comic shop, as if a man with eyes stuck in a glued-glare at the aquarium containing many fighting fish; nevertheless, able to multitask, his Icelandic brain remained with his buddy Jasper, and he asked him:  "You still combining Ninjutsu with Catholicism?  Getting the power of the Okami, though more crafty like the Kitsune, which of course would make you a Canis latrans--ya know:  an American Coyote."
   "Why do I tell you my secrets?"  Jasper thought as he paged through a Power Girl comic book, noticing her buxom barrage of beauty.  
   Buster continued:  "I know, Apollo Creed never told Rocky all his secrets when preparing him to battle Clubber Lang, but you howl quite a bit; still, you own a cat, which is very weird.  And that crescent moon necklace--all the signs are there Jasper.  I think you're a Meta-Dog."  Then, Buster cracked up a bit, turning away from the snow, continuing to pester:  "Come on Jasper--take me on one of your adventures, I'm not stupid, and you just act it, but I spy you munching on beef jerky; plus, all that nomadic motorcycle romance you're engaged in."
   "You're rambling."  Jasper added.
   Buster dropped his head:  "I know dude.  This place is just so boring, and no fishing spots.  I miss my homeland, but I am sincerely glad to be an American.  I know you like the French pastry at the gas station that the weird lady from Toulon makes.  I just wish something cool would happen."
   Jasper was like:  "Just believe.  Don't will it too hard.  Just easily believe, and it will.  And yes, I do have a bit of dog in me.  So, throw me a bone, and order some Werewolf By Night comics from the 1970's."    

Loup Soup (3)

   
   "Loup Soup (3)"
   
   Jasper dismounted his Ninja 300, took off his protective helmet, and did not yield to the oncoming winter wind, yet hoped for snow to fall politely and for the four winds to be silent; next, after hypnotizing nature, or himself, with vivid imagery, he slowly sauntered through the brisk Nebraska conditions until entering the town's little and only comic shop.  They still were without any copies of old Werewolf By Night; plus, Squirrel Girl was a rare character to be found within the plethora of super-heroes being sold on printed ink within the store.  
   Buster, a tall and handsome blonde; specifically, an Icelandic immigrant without the trace of an accent, for most of those crowned within the Northern European communities are suavely multilingual.  Anyway, Buster was like:  "Hey man.  Just got the original Iceman limited series that got spawned after that wacky Spider-Man Show in the early 80's.  I think he looked liked Freddy Jones from Scooby-Doo--what do you think?"
   Jasper, stoic in response:  "Possibly."
   Buster continued:  "Anyway, digital shit is killing us.  Hell, print media is practically dead--thanks to the old and faithful for still having love and archaic appreciation, right?"
   Jasper changed the subject:  "You like spicy mustard?"
   Buster rubbed the dirty-blonde stubble on his chin; next, offered:  "It's good on sardines."
   Jasper nodded; then, noticed a unique snowflake fall outside.  Soon, more were to arrive.  

Loup Soup (2)

   
   
   "Loup Soup (2)"

   "Choose not to be harmed--and you won't be.  Leave other peoples' mistakes where they lie."   Jasper put down the quotes from Marcus Aurelius, finding Boxer the cat phasing in-and-out between this world and the Otherworld, meowing for some albacore tuna with a dash of mustard to protect from feline thrush.  Verily, once Boxer tasted mustard--the cat could not get enough of it, and Jasper felt the same way, though he had dog in him.  
   Didn't mind the skinny and scrawny comments, for like a coyote--he was lean and keen.  Wasn't going to mention their diabetes attraction, or that male genitalia ornamented in red pubic hair was like a girl waiting for the Great Pumpkin that never would arrive with a dark brow--so sexy to the ladies.
   Jasper gave a damn, just knew--when your adversary has his arms up; next, that's the best time to go into him, and very low, putting the Dim Mak right up into where it belongs--their fragile and unprotected urethra.  He was a peaceful man, yet knew liberalism was a disease, as was the other direction of bullying, both directions putting you in a depraved ditch; plus, a diabolical den of demonic devils.
   So, Jasper went to work at the comic book shop, piloting his Ninja 300, easing the high RPM level with a smoothness untold unless experienced, though knowing:  experience is useless, unless met with the identical experience; thus, he would try some spicy mustard tonight.  

Loup Soup (1)

   
   "Loup Soup (1)"
   
   Like PREGO pasta sauce--it's in there.  Jasper knew this well.  Possibly, maybe too well.  He never said shit or damn or hell or offered up any profane vulgarities with vociferous announcement--instead, he kept it inside, like PREGO pasta sauce--it's in there. 
   Jasper lived in Nebraska.  He was tuned into the native formation of the landscape.  He collected Canadian silver coins, preferring the kind with canines ornamented upon the mint.  He was a strange fella, and would tell you he was stupid, and he was, but wasn't.  Like PREGO pasta sauce--it's in there.  
   He had a cat named Boxer, but didn't own the cat.  Nobody did.  The cat walked between both worlds, owning itself, and a bit of the spiritual realm.  But nobody believed.  Plugged into machines and driven by stones crafted beyond their purity, it was all goofy, yet Jasper liked linguine, the narrow ribbons, and was a French pastry taster for the local gas station, the attendant, right from the geography of Toulon.  

Huck Finnegan (3)

   
   "Huck Finnegan (3)"
   
   Huck and Peanuts finished an odoriferous day at the dump, and he wondered why William Blake had compassion for the fly.  Regardless, he did his dirty duty, went home to some noodles and kidney beans, light red; next, drank some ginger tea and evacuated his bowels.  He could hear Sally's husband pestering her in his head.
   Huck took Peanuts out for a quick sniff and leg-lifting urination on a life-giving tree, it imbibing the liquid-like force of urine, forever marked.  Then, Huck went into his quiet, little house and played some records, really fancying Dean Martin, even though he knew the guy was a playboy, but hey--if you were friends with Ronald Reagan, all was not so bad.
   Huck blessed himself, said his prayers, and lit himself up inside, so that any invaders would feel the light of Christ--all in a day's work.  And that was his life.  Not ostentatious or to be bragged about, but getting by, his trusty crossbow always next to his bed, along with a copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth, for Mr. Finnegan knew the shinobi art of hiding in trees and graciously granting himself a better life-force, and he told God he loved Him, further praying:  "And not even at death will we sadly part."  Just sweetly simple and so ever close to God.  That's it.  Too, Sally birthed triplets.  It was a hayride after she started church-going.       

Huck Finnegan (2)

   
   "Huck Finnegan (2)"
   
   Huck loved his dog Peanuts so much that the dog got testicular cancer; as a result, perhaps now, the canine's name should be Peanut, but he kept it kinda/sorta plural, as if tempting.
   Huck didn't love much save the dog and God; plus, the Holy Family.  Loved Peanuts at first, so much so, that THEY pinned him down and made him submit the dog's name; hence, the cancer in the social beast's scrotum.  But the dog lived, thrived, and went beyond the normal state of health, Huck knowing now to let him off the leash a bit; moreover, to consecrate himself to God, for nothing can hurt God, the Christ, the emanation of the Holy Spirit, and the Virgin--or God would give them the Godsmack; therefore, Huck had no attachments save Peanuts, and mastered chastity by way of releasing the seed through contemplative energy, so as not to get seminal backup.
   His sister was a fancy banker named Sally.  She loved EMFs, not knowing the hidden dangers and toxicity, and Huck wore a quartz-powered watch; also, he humbly worked at the junkyard, Peanuts alongside his wiry weird.  He worried about Sally's evolution into a numbered robot.  Tried to cautiously warn her.  Tried not to love her too much.  Was hard on her.  Would give her his total and forever life.  Would keep them guessing.  But not about the Trinity and the Virgin.  He was always down with the everlasting jazz to proclaim his lunatic love for something indestructible.  
    

Huck Finnegan (1)

   
   "Huck Finnegan (1)"
   
    Sally didn't like that; moreover, mama don't like that; nevertheless, Huck said:  "Datum est."  And with sincere and total love.  Sally got wise, asking:  "And Huck Finn is more real than me, huh?"
   Huck explained:  "His name has been mentioned more in reality than yours as an investment banker.  He's been studied, put in schools, on book shelves, read, talked about--way more than you; thus, how is he not more real than you?--I doth proclaim; indeed, he exists more in reality and truth than you do.  You may think, therefore you are, but he exists and outshines your existence."
   Sally went back to her cornbread.  Thick, greasy, bad for the colon, and without taste, but she loved it--so absent of reality, but she loved it, fueling her closer to diabetes.  
   Huck munched on the high vibrations of his Rainbow Chard, not thinking Nordic, but knowing that God transcends the Fates and Norns, if you accept death and suffering beyond the stars' authority of ALL things.  Next, he tuned into a old radio show on his double A-powered radio, listening to the croons of those gone, but so alive; indeed, so alive, much more than you, and still, yet, beyond the stable and hay of it all.   

Crystalline Cool (50)

    "Crystalline Cool (50)"

   Duncan returned home, the 2-cycle KX 200 leaving him with severe shakes and tremors after the protracted and mystical journey, following the Canis rufus, which disappeared into the Otherworld as he put the Kawasaki on the kickstand and slowly sauntered towards the entrance of his humble habitat.  He noticed the El Camino but not Dad's truck; plus, looked back, and the lime-green machine was absent.    
   Upon entering the less than modest house, he felt no presence of corporeal humanity, nor was Roadkill around--and it had all been like a dream.  But as every dream offers an awakening, he intrinsically knew the truth.  He had not traveled to the North Pole, nor had a Dad, nor been at Saint Vincent Island, nor met a beautiful girl named Aimee; furthermore, Dad had died alongside Mom, having perished himself due to cardiac stress, and Duncan had always been alone, without a dog, and castrated by the grief of every scenario in his life, abandoned by brothers and sisters, being a bizarre eunuch digging ditches for less than minimum wage, unable to afford anything save crackers and tap water, no electricity in the house, just a car/truck hybrid and a shovel with a singular pair of pants and a few work shirts and some gloves.
   He examined his blistered hands, realized it was Christmas, gave thanks to the Christ child, and continued on, as all the poor in spirit do, hoping to inherit the Kingdom of Heaven, and quickly; hence, he muttered to the Christmas Spirit:  "Lord, make haste to get me out of here and into Your Family's embrace."
   He received no immediate response; thus, dug a ditch, went home, slept on the floor, as always, and talked to the scrambling rodents, his only friends, wisely knowing--others had it even worse.  
   This is the way of those targeted due to crazy faith, yet steeled by dreams into the Divine, wending beyond hope, into a perpetual state of desiring everlasting grace.  

A Charlie Brown Christmas - Scripts

Santa's Sleigh--a V-8

   
   "Santa's Sleigh--a V-8"
   
The 2015 Chevy Camaro ZL1 has a V-8--here are the stats:

6-speed manual.

6.2 Liter helping produce 556 lb-ft of torque.

0-60:  4 seconds.

Top Speed:  184 MPH.

Santa's Sleigh--some approximate specs:

Pulled by 8 reindeer, typically.

Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Comet, Vixen, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen--like a V-8!!!

Yet sometimes, Rudolph--for extra reindeer power!

Moreover, with the mystic power of belief, reindeer power outshines horsepower!!!

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer- Santa sings to Rudolph

Santa's Secret Elves

   
   "Santa's Secret Elves"
   
   Out of love, driven by a mirthful passion for family, children, the elderly, and all that jazz--this fueled by charity and sincerity of heart; plus, good will, well--this births gifts, as did Saint Francis birth the Nativity Scene, a wondrous and mystical gift, it spreading across Italy; next, to the entire world.  Merry Christmas!!!

Crystalline Cool (49)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (49)"
   
   Rudolph had informed Duncan that he was leaving; specifically, the lead reindeer with the cherry nose said:  "I cant half-ass my care of all the naughty and nice; indeed, I gotta help Santa deliver the goods, for there's a big arctic freeze, and he needs me."
   Duncan was not happy to lose such a friend over the Christmas season; nevertheless, he understood that duty, including mercy and justice, as mentioned by the minor prophet Micah, was sincerely imperative; thus, he embraced the reindeer, causing Rudolph's nose to beam a brilliant-red glow out of love; next, his friend flew away from Saint Vincent Island, back to the North Pole.
   Duncan continued to pilot his lime-green KX 200 and dig ditches, not having enough money to send Dad a gift.  He was a bit blue in a non-metaphysical sense; however, as he sat at home, drinking spearmint tea and pondering his future, a Canis rufus entered his shanty, as if walking through the thin walls with a super-phasing ability; next, the wolf/coyote hybrid spoke telepathically to Duncan, saying:  "I am the pathfinder--so to speak.  We will walk and ride over water, back to Oklahoma, so that you can be with your biological father for Christmas.  Follow my supernatural path, and all will be well."
   Duncan did not argue, but put his few possessions in a backpack; then, jump-started the Kawasaki and followed the path-finding canine homewards.  Dad would be pleased upon his arrival.  

Crystalline Cool (48)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (48)"
   
   Duncan had a bizarre feeling Dad was worried about him; thus, he approached Rudolph--the sparkly-nosed reindeer had been residing in the shanty's den, where the floors were covered in hay, yet incense burnt to keep the critters from infesting.  And he asked the lead reindeer:  "I think my Dad is worried about me--is this true?"
   The reindeer's nose lit up a cherry divine; next, he looked lovingly into Duncan's eyes, stating:  "Of course Little Wolf is worried; he's your biological father.  But you worry not.  The Lord is your refuge; hence, no harm will come, no matter how great the corporeal pain.  So, raise your frequencies in a positive direction.  Laugh, use the antiseptic color, and the color of health, the promise of the rainbow, and read and listen to music that proclaims Christ with chanting and love.  Too, buy distilled water and canned foods, get a crossbow; plus, save medication and vitamins.  Be prepared.  Also, She may already be here in hiding--your Mother; my Mother.  Nothing is more powerful than that which is pure.  A lamb, a virgin, and a Canis lupus arctos that lays down with the lamb."
   Duncan dropped his head, feeling stoic like Dad, and asked:  "Why is life so much of a struggle?"
   The joyous reindeer voiced:  "Like John F. Kennedy said--life is not fair; regardless, be full of mirth and glee in your chastity and poverty, doing the lowest of labor.  Never lose faith, even though it totally may seems you're at the bottom of the Totem Pole, for all will be reversed when the Lord manifests His might--and justice and peace kiss."
   Duncan gave Rudolph a gentle touch between the antlers, further running love down the reindeer's furry back, and the mystical beast smelled good too.  

Crystalline Cool (47)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (47)"
   
   The Apache elder dubbed Little Wolf saw the Vatican had proscribed invocations to angels not listed in the Catholic Bible, which includes the Apocrypha; thus, he still had a chance to ask Saint Raphael to heal his son's eyes from witnessing the cruel and insidious world--poverty and chastity were enough for the boy, him having dug ditches in solitude most of his life, but as of now:  Flying around with the lead reindeer and viewing injustice.  Poor kid.
   Thus, the Chief chanted to Saint Raphael, blazing aglow with vibrations on a certain electromagnetic frequency.  Then, Dad wondered when he read that article concerning the Vatican, but nobody has more Christian perspective.  And while Dad held firm in his heritage; nevertheless, he saw how synonymous it was with his son's Catholic beliefs.
   Roadkill puked on the floor again, getting into Tony the Tiger's Frosted Flakes, and Dad cleaned it up with patience, not scolding the dog, but assisting the tame beast with some distilled water, which Tesla was fond of drinking.  Curious--they Canonized Joan of Arc not long after Twain penned a biography on her.
   Dad believed, but was just going to trust from now on.  Stay away from new gadgets and devices, watch his black and white with rabbit ears, and monitor the cops with his scanner, which was fueled by communicative crystals.
   Roadkill burped a smile, and Dad hugged the dog, holding onto hope for his son and the entire world.  
    

Tormentors and Bravo Sierra

   
   "Tormentors and Bravo Sierra"
  
   Hole in the soul?  And the sons of men and all the rest attempt to fill it with accolades and perishable achievements; nevertheless, it is never enough, and fancy folk seek more and monstrously more--this metaphorical mammon.  But only the Holy Trinity, One God can fill the hole, lighting it up with an everlasting light.
   What man hates more:  Sharpton or Duke?  It's a double-edged sword, the intensely false Queen of weaponry.  And they plot revenge; as a result, they must dig two graves.  God is never mocked, especially by those not filled with His Spirit, them controlled by the stars.
   Elderly people should be adored.  Yet people are psychology freaked by the ill and old, as it wends against the glamour displayed in the pop-culture genre.  Therefore, people run from the ills of disease as it burns them like fire, and they have not the steel to embrace the flame, cooling it down with luminous light.  Even Saint Francis was initially disgusted at disease, but finally admitted:  "Where there is darkness, let me put light."
   People that come into the homes of the elderly can be serpents in sheep's clothing.  Making hallucinations for the neurologically-damaged worse by their negatively-charged ways.  Showcase twisted imagery or cackle at suffering, be flat out lazy and sloppy, which is neglect; furthermore, hack into their computers, thieving privacy with contempt for the weak, and offer false testimony on their deeds, such as attempting to poison the family pet; thus, true family needs to SEE, and unite for truth.  For the lame cannot shake things off, so to speak.
   People don't pick up their Cross, but nail others to it.  But what you sow is what you reap--in the end, and life is over in the blink of an eye.  Thus, be a rebel against the rebellion caused by pride and arrogance.  
   They say the Russian media lies.  Look at ours.  And now Trump has conquered, and they swim like schools of fish to lick his boots.  From his political genesis, they said he had no chance, brainwashing us.  
   The Lord is my refuge.  Christ is good.  Saint Nicholas of Myra's spirit cannot perish.  But if you want to be in the venomous valley of the viper, you are a free agent to do so, but they say he doesn't exist, for that would make the sons of men fear God, which would be the ruination of the prince of this world.
   Like with Freud, knowing.  Yet Solomon wisely stating:  "Hearken unto the father that begat you, and despise not your mother when she grows old."  Moreover, Christ running away from His Mother to find His Father.  And She, His first Disciple, proclaims:  "Do as My Son says."  And His kindness towards Her expressed to Saint John while on the Cross:  "Behold your Mother."
    So, turn your Christmas lights on, or light it up like Judas Maccabeus.  Fight like Joan of Arc for the ignition of innocence for your country and family.  

1990 Mustang LX 5.0

   
   "1990 Mustang LX 5.0"
   
   Ford put fuel injection in the 5 Liter Mustangs around 1987; nevertheless, every 302 cubic-inched small block always had a swift sprint, especially out of the hole, pinning you back in the seat.  Plenty of arguments arise over whether the late 80's and early 90's offered better performance in the GT or LX construction; regardless, it was basically equal, yet the ground effects from the GT models gave air drag that slowed down the gallop a bit.  Texas State Troopers started using the LX 5.0's during the late 1980's for mercurial acceleration.  Here are some approximate stats for the 1990 Mustang LX 5.0--here we go:

302 cubic inches.

Horses:  225.

300 lb-ft. torque.

0-60:  6.1 seconds.

Quarter Mile Dash:  14.7 seconds.

Top Speed:  145 MPH, and the eight-cylinders could hold that speed for more than a mere moment.  

The Name of the Rose

The Punisher knife to a gunfight

Crystalline Cool (46)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (46)"
   
   Dad, that stoic yet jovial Apache elder possessed something beyond symmetrical counterpoise, waking to his face being licked by the Golden Retriever dubbed Roadkill.  "You stupid dog--I love you, and I know a dog's mouth is hot and less contagious than a man's with wicked words."
   But as Dad pulled himself out of bed, he was filled with visions of reindeer and a biological son witnessing macabre things--this disturbed Little Wolf.  He had to wrap his patriarchal spirit around the young, crazy half-breed of a child, whom he adored.
   Remembering his son's words concerning the mighty King David, Dad said aloud to the reflective heavens:  "Let the morning bring word of Your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in You.  Show me the way I should go, for to You I entrust my life."
   Dad didn't want pain to smear Duncan.  Didn't want violence to arrive.  Didn't want to go all Saint Joan of Arc on any soul armed with toxicity towards his child.  Nevertheless, he knew we are in the image of God, most of us, us sons of men, and those that are--many tapped into by malevolent spirits that thrive on pain.  
   Dad brewed some green tea with a kiss of spearmint, moved his bowels, fed the dog; next, blew further prayers to the heavens by way of a blueberry-flavored cigar.  

Crystalline Cool (45)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (45)"
   
   Rudolph allowed Duncan to innocently mount his back, no coyote dun but pure reindeer fur, and the young man rode bareback, flying off to the reindeer's Christmas intentions.  Not far from Saint Vincent Island, to another place in Florida, where so many elderly cool off with chronic air-conditioning that it's crazy; anyway, they anchored down smoothly in front of a Spanish-styled home, where an elderly man was being tortured by his caretaker; furthermore, suffering exploitation, as in his name were insurance policies being taken out for the benefit of others, and by way of using his Social Security money; plus, the beastly pseudo-caretaker had his ringtone on the vicious vibration of:  "Motherf&*%er!!!"  And it played over and over again, driving the man to sit in his own fecal matter; moreover, endure the television demonically displaying bizarre and allegorically cruel shows, zapping away his love of Gene Autry reruns, yet when people would visit, it would be swiftly switched back to family programming; however, the cell phone conversations were thug-like in front of the elderly man when he was alone, and no "F BOMB" should be dropped on the innocent ears of those so terrified and incapable of defense.
   "What do we do?"  Duncan asked.
   Rudolph was like:  "Santa knows plenty of angels within the Divine Justice System, such as the Arch-Angel Saint Uriel, him despising manipulation and inhumanities.  Or we could just record it with this little gadget I have here and send it to the local authorities."
   The twosome exited the scene, offering justice in a Merry Christmas way.  Even Trump says he won't let any man die on the street.  But so many, locked away, with an Asperger-like inability to communicate their problems in a social environment.  
   Rudolph told Duncan to stay of good cheer and be filled with Solomon's merry mirth.  In the end, it will all be okay for those who chant:  "The Lord is my refuge."  
   Next, the twosome had some eggnog, looking up at the heavens, knowing they were slaves to the stars no longer, united beyond, to the Divine Architect.  

Crystalline Cool (43) & (44)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (43) & (44)"
  
Dad knew there was no evanescence concerning Duncan's soul,
For the zeitgeist of eternity had no hole for the holy soul;
Moreover, only does one fill and thrill with the "rat race" if living within the conception of time,
Thinking Tennyson a mere rhymester, not offering harmonic vibrations of lines gone sublime;
Furthermore, Duncan was Dad's biological son, yet not his Wonderwall,
For the Apache elder knew the Great Spirit only could receive such a personal call--
Seek first God's Kingdom;
Next, the mystical phone without discord does ring with holy hymn.

* * * *

   Duncan and Rudolph got to be pretty good buddies, even though Rudolph couldn't help him work on the KX 200 with a wrench, for he had no fingers; still, in the dark, a cherry light was to be lit, and Duncan could see and fix. 
   The twosome freaked out the locals save the holy men.  The priests blessed the beast and young man, offering praise to the eternal love of Saint Nicholas of Myra, knowing the spirit of charity still resonates, for some.
   Duncan dug his ditches and Rudolph helped with that.  Later, they would read the Bible and be considered really boring, low-grade people.  Every now and then though, they got a kosher chili dog.  

Crystalline Cool (42)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (42)"
   
   Rudolph couldn't leave Saint Vincent Island; plus, make an eternal exit from his new friend, Duncan; as a result, he made a mystical  zoom airways, back in the direction of the young man alive in glee concerning his little shanty and lime-green KX 200, it fully armed with street legal updates.  
   Duncan was changing the oil, having already dug a few swampy ditches, terrifying the alligators with his unknown potency.  Rudolph landed, anchoring down with symmetrical cool, positioning himself perfectly on all fours.  Next, the reindeer shouted:  "I'm back dude!!!"
   Duncan turned from the 2-cycle Kawasaki, facing Santa's fellowship, asking:  "My man--what are you doing back?"
   Rudolph with:  "I just can't leave a servant of Christmas with uncool quicksilver.  Remember--it is God's privilege to conceal things and the king's privilege to discover them.  But I think you need a little help.  Won't get into Nebuchadnezzar the 2nd capturing Solomon's ring, possibly, with God's real name on it, and a Walker's heritage invading Iraq for that weapon of mass destruction.  Oh, where is the crusader Oliver Stone when you need him?  Conspiracy theories and such, but isn't life a mystery; next, death is the revealed truth?"
   Duncan was a bit thrown off, saying:  "I'm not exactly picking up what you're putting down."
   Rudolph lit up his joyful and luminous nose, saying:  "Just stay cool, knowing Christ came to set the world on fire.  And did He not?  Of course--that's why I can fly."
   Duncan changed the subject:  "I think I'll start watching hockey this year.  The American South even has good teams nowadays--how weird is that?"
   Rudolph smiled:  "Weird, or a further mystery?"
   Duncan returned the royal reindeer's smile; next, went back to working on his motorcycle--the reindeer coming close, and snuggling in with true love.  

Crystalline Cool (41)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (41)"
   
   Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, possibly; moreover, things transcend the 3rd Law, as everything is possible; still, eternal life out of eternal murder.  False testimony, a media cover-up; next, the truth ignites in blue fame, and the old Apache passed some gas.  His psoriasis under control, and he burned his last stick of myrrh in preparation for Christmas.
   Roadkill stole a gingerbread man ornamented with red eyes, a white nose, and a green smile.  Dad wasn't upset with the omnivorous canine, but offered the holy hound some distilled water; furthermore, brushed the dog's teeth with fluoride, but didn't floss, for the moment.
   He was a big fan of watching Frosty the Snowman on the tube every year, and knew Oklahoma would get some very individual and unique snowflakes, enough for him to architect his own little man of mirth with a carrot nose.
   He still pondered Duncan's crusade against reality, knowing the young man had entered into super-reality, for once, taking not the dung heap of proud men, but offering something beyond combative anthropology towards the forked tongues that dull after so much venomous stabbing--that's why Dad ate everything with a spoon. 
   So, as he enjoyed the gingerbread men, he decided not to sit and imagine the Christmas tree in his modest den, yet spend some money, buying a real one, and would put a cheddar cheese popcorn string all around, beneath an angel in a yellow crown, which his corporeally-deceased wife had bought him, her further opening his spirit to have Universal union with the reason for Christmas.  

1970 Boss 429

   
   "1970 Boss 429"
   
   I've most likely crafted words concerning this pony power in the past; however, this muscle machine is indeterminate in specs and performance, for the specters of the past haunt with muscular mystery; regardless, the potency of this pony-powered stampede is undeniable--produced by Ford in restricted numbers during the year, Ford being an acronym, back in yesteryear for:  FIRST ON RACE DAY.  
   This bodacious beast had a 4-speed manual gearbox; plus, Ram Air intake from a totally Batman hood scoop; moreover, a twin in-line exhaust system.  Here are some approximate facts concerning this mystery of muscle--like this:

Horses:  And as with a certain invocation to Saint Joan of Arc as you sing for her to ride alongside you in battle; therefore, she would be thrilled about the 375 horses this galloping pony delivered.

450 lb-ft. torque--getting that power to the wheels.

0-60:  5 seconds, if floored with maximum gravity by way of the heeled cowboy boot.

1/4 Mile Express:  14 seconds at 103 Miles-Per-Hour.

Top Speed:  We should put it this way:  Constructed For Ultra-High Speed Cruising!!!

Crystalline Cool (40)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (40)'"
   
   It's called a novella, dumb ass.  Not a little book; however, the little wolf, as Dad knew--much more dangerous, stealing fire from the gods, making you grow old to identify with sin.  
   Sister Lucia dos Santos, of Fatima, knowing:  the final battle between the Lord and the serpent-head will be over family; specifically, it involves unjust marriage--She (Mother) said it, not me.
   And I can prove ye women are angels, for you are always harping on men, as a Bishop had instructed Dad through the echo-location of a black and white with rabbit ears, getting the more amiable current before the cloud that rains mistakes, yet truth--in semi-totality.
   Pappy Boyington knew a fighter pilot having shot down his own aircraft.  In trouble, redneck whooped, for there is a REDNECK FACTOR that outshines, and a Mayberry Man full of alcohol, and you condemn as not to be condemned--interesting.  The adder slithers well in you.  
   Dad was not perplexed.  Did not live in time.  No present--no gift.  No past or future, yet everlasting eternity is where the Apache did reside.  A man can be an attorney, an artillery officer, an FBI agent, yet nothing makes him a bad ass, nothing save serving five years in prison.  
   When you've endured any form of incarceration and survived by faith; next, you are a maximum bad ass.  Any fool can carry 100 pounds on his back for ten miles, but can they endure sodomy and perpetual cruel, without a toast of brotherhood at the end of the day?  Nope.  You are infinitely and sincerely weak.  Controlled by the stars.  Manipulated by horoscopes.  Slaves.
   Yet One Man went into the Underworld.  Lit it up!!!  Conquered the axioms of man.  Dad knew; plus, believed.  And in believing, ate a cupcake frosted in high amounts of sugar--for the heaven of it, believing in Christmas.  What a joyful noise unto the Lord, wise Solomon; moreover, red-designed Son of David, wending from fire into everlasting water.  Ice on the fertile move.      

Crystalline Cool (39)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (39)"
   
   Having anchored Duncan down near a little shanty on Saint Vincent Island, Rudolph evacuated his reindeer bowels, leaving some sublime scat--if only to be remembered.  He brushed the hot cherry of his mystical nose against Duncan's elbow, telling him to keep his hands up to the Lord, as did Moses, aided by Aaron, his brother and Levite Priest; plus, a fiery, little leprechaun heavenbent on fighting for Our Lady, and without Her inviolate moves--there would be no Christmas.  Present yourself unto the Lord, and great things will happen.
   After Rudolph blasted off towards the North, Duncan noticed that next to the modest shanty was a KX 200, armed with street legal modifications, as if constructed by the altruistic loyalty of a crossbow-carrying Wookiee, and all seemed great; indeed, Santa was no Scrooge, not wanting the haunt of having sown ill will towards others, but praying that their stockings be filled with the light of baby Jesus, Him having been held in the miraculous, loving arms of Saint Anthony himself, before Ricky Bobby stole the idea.  

Crystalline Cool (38)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (38)"
   
   Duncan wasn't happy--at first.  Saint Nicholas had come to him with some gingerbread men--healthy for bowel function, and said that the young man's Christmas gift was:  to be exiled in Florida; specifically, Saint Vincent Island, but it was named by the Franciscans, and they had some red wolves (Canis rufus), which are an endangered species in the United States of America, being a mix of coyote and wolf.    
   Duncan simply asked:  "Why?"
   Saint Nicholas responded:  "To get in touch with your RED.  The South equals passion and heat; moreover, you never know--you might pick up serpents, for there are plenty of gators down there, and don't worry, Tebow played for the Gators and he's a cool Christian.  So, just chill.  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!"
   Duncan said his farewell to Saint Nicholas, not understanding; next, Rudolph approached Duncan on the launching pad, saying with a sparkly nose:  "I'll be your La Santa Maria to the New World--you can just hop on my back, and we'll have a mystical synergy that will mesh our union of safety during fast flight."
   What could Duncan do?  Get a little shanty maybe, and somehow purchase a re-designed, lime-green KX 200 that was street legal.  And are there any ditches to be dug on an island?  Oh well, sometimes you gotta listen to Santa, even though he's not God, being capable of mistakes, but possibly, driving one to make it snow in the most scalding of atmospheres.  

Crystalline Cool (37)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (37)"
   
   Dad blew a smoke ring as he remotely viewed a rerun of Gunsmoke on the tube, and for a mini-second, pondered why people think Matt Dillon hangs out with Emilio Estevez and doesn't fancy a high-powered Colt sidearm in a quick-draw holster, much like Han Solo's.  
   But Dad also had counterpoise in thought, reflecting upon his son, Duncan.  It wasn't total telepathy that he knew the boy would be safe as he attempted crazy crusade, but by way of the words of surfer and super-athlete Laird Hamilton, him having said:  "God builds a good car."  Yeah, Dad watched a special on the surfer.  He was bullied by the locals for a while, but learned that with a simple Godsmack--the bullies would enter into a state of stupefaction. 
   The Apache elder journeyed back to his youth as well:  a slithery member of the tribe questioned and attempted to trick the others into not allowing him to be a Chief, armed with the loyal and creative name:  Little Wolf.  Yet Dad told the trickster:  "You don't look corporeally-pleasing enough to be a fox.  So quit trying to be what you are not, snake.  And any serpent can be charmed, or crushed by a Virgin's heel."
   There are foxes though.  General Lee, the Silver Fox, getting himself pardoned by Lincoln.  Yet even the fox could not outdo the coyote, General Grant, as we know today, as time tells through its state of being relative, for approximately two years ago, the infamous coyote of New York City was spotted standing over Grant's Tomb, as if remembering a spirit gifted, and freely.
   So, Dad went back to watching the tube, blew his symmetrical smoke rings to the heavens, and raised his vibrations by chanting an Apache frequency.   

Dances with Wolves (1990) - Two Socks Scene

Crystalline Cool (36)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (36)"
   
   Dad knew he was awesomely ambiguous.  Put everything in code like Faulkner & Pynchon--the greats, yet shooting straight with his parables of stoic humor.  And he invoked Saint Nicholas of Myra, knowing internally that Duncan was alongside the charitable Santa, praying that the boy got a muscle car, but re-designed with arctic traction.  Ice is beautiful and gorgeous, but presents a heavy danger, unless appreciating the thaw; next, accepting the fertility of what is to come.
   Roadkill was watching Taxi reruns with Tony Danza, and the old man got a kick out of the Golden Retriever's high level of cerebral capacity; plus, the noble beast had a spirit that could innocently enchant, like all domesticated dogs can do, if loved.  He fed his friend a bone.  Watched as the altruistic canine gobbled it up; next, a savory lick of a furry face smiling.
   Sure, Dad missed Duncan.  But he would see his son again.  Then, thought about getting more social.  Merging with the old tribe.  But the Apache man was a loner at heart.  Liked living in the past and facing his sins, saying:  "You can't bring me down, for look what you did."
   He cranked on the fire by way of a sulfur-inspired match; next, the cigar's cherry became aglow, like a shooting star so cosmically imbibed; then, the dusty smoke blown to the spirit world.    

Crystalline Cool (35)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (35)"
   
   The old, leather Apache was feeling better; indeed, the myrrh offered a sweet and sublime solution of smooth solace.  Turn your lights on!!!  King Solomon knowing the beginning of wisdom is fear of God, and what is fear of God but light--the blue fame, the most intense part of fire, burning against pride, arrogance, and the forked tongue.
    Dad thought about Saint Andrew.  Tied, not nailed to an "X" forged cross.  The Northern Europeans understand this, as does Scotland, and more.  Furthermore, Odin on a tree.  The Abrahamic God allowing the lesser gods to mimic, and some to trick.  The 13 stars.  Virgin on the 13th day.  The blue of Saint Michael's vibrancy.  The white of Saint Gabriel singing for ALL, and soon announcing.  The red, no sense of humor--Saint Uriel and his sword of justice against manipulation and exploitation.  
   Saint Andrew saying he was not worthy to be on the regularity of a cross.  And the old Apache pondered the potency of Duncan, doing the slam dunk with them little elves, gift-wrapping glee and the birth of freedom for ALL.  
   When the brothers of Abraham unite, the shit will be wiped clean from the planet with mystical 2 ply--an inviolate white with 12 stars crafted on the purity of a Lady's Womankind--a merge of all hued frequencies, together, gelling for the Master and Maker of Intelligent Design, with a Son murdered in order to be understood, but saying:  "Your father is the father of lies and murder."
   Dad hit the peace pipe.  Took the tobacco deep into his lungs, purifying the fungus, holding it in until he exhaled and passed out--his prayers to Grandfather--and ALL people intrinsically know, if they sacrifice.  

Cowboy -Angel Mary

Crystalline Cool (34)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (34)"
  
   3 + 4 = 7.  Weird Chief Mojo Rising.  Brother against brother.  Civil War.  Suspicious and being aloof--these quasi-axioms considered within all the metaphysical aspects of numerology concerning the number 7.   
   Anyway, Dad, the pensioner or old leather man as he dubbed himself was experiencing a SINCERE ANAL ITCH; plus, he couldn't sit for a week due to pain; furthermore, when he did itch the pain, having an unearthly desire to scratch at it, or rub his buttocks on the carpeted floor like a dog--blood would flow from between his butt cheeks, not much, but enough of an amount to make him worry; therefore, he went to a modern physician, knowing all doctors are not true doctors; moreover, most are Bush League capitalists being only pseudo-physicians with a hostile contempt for ObamaCare; regardless, the old man wasn't gonna find a Princeton Graduate in this part of Oklahoma, one having boldly attended ARMY ROTC--that Ivy League School still proud of the military.
   After waiting a full hour and a half with contagious patients sneezing their twenty feet of germs across the waiting room, the former Apache Chief was called into the examining room, and after a curvaceous nurse with a nice ass took his vitals, a bulky man with a dandy mustache entered, asking him to remove his trousers and get onto the examining table; specifically, in the position of a dog, and that his anal cavity would undergo empirical investigation by way of human eyes and a potent flashlight.      
   The old man did so, and the physician entered, shockingly stating:  "Holy Fire!  Looked like you had mushrooms growing out of there at first, but that's psoriasis buddy--skin cells having accumulated into toxic scales that itch like shit.  And, do you wipe?"
   Old leather man said:  "Use 2 ply toilet paper."
   Anyway, after being prescribed ApexiCon cream and using it for a few days--the pain and itch persisted; thus, the Little Wolf loaded up Roadkill into his truck and went to see his old friend, an Apache medicine man--should've listened to his heart and went there first. 
   As it was Christmas Season, the medicine man said burning white sage into his anal cavity wouldn't be appropriate; hence, he gave him some myrrh, as did the Magi give to the Christ Child; plus, it might have intoxicating and calming effects, which is healthy when what is between your butt cheeks is on holy fire.
   Back home, not even thinking about his crusading son Duncan at the moment, the Little Wolf ignited the myrrh; next, stripped naked and squatted over the burning incense, letting the holy smoke kill the dermal demon, which was up and within, Roadkill watching in canine wonder.
   "Shut up stupid dog; I can read your laughing face like a clown selling hamburgers."  And the Chief went back to feeling the smooth cool of the archaic treatment.  

Crystalline Cool (33)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (33)"
   
   3 + 3 = 6.  Tony Dorsett.  Dallas Cowboys.  In numerology this might mean:  Counterpoise between helping and interfering.  Tony didn't interfere, not totally.  Changed his name.  Won the grand, super game.  The old, Apache man knew his son was a great running back in high school; specifically, could take a hit; next, come back for some more.  
   Wasn't ashamed of being the frequency of supposedly red--was proud of his humble and tame coyote.  General Lee was the Silver Fox, yet General Grant was the Wily Coyote, stealing fire from the gods and birthing free man.  The modern New York Coyote stood over Grant's tomb in reverence.
   White is a gregarious mesh of all vibrant hues within the light spectrum.  White noise contains all frequencies.  Molecules have vibrational energies that are lower in frequency than aqua liquid.
   Colors are determined by frequency; then, frequencies are mixed with the seeing eye--like the hue of Indigo:  Approximately 668-789 THz--Terahertz radiation, so to speak, as Twain might argue, and freaked by his friend, Tesla.
   What did this mean for the Chief, that Little Wolf?  It meant:  God loves us ALL.  And ALL will be okay if we vibrate towards Mary's words:  "Listen to My Son."
   The old man knew Duncan was bat-shit crazy, but he wasn't stupid.  The arctic is ALL, gelled and meshed with more than mere synergy, but it ALL.  
   So, the Apache elder continued to puff away on his cigar and kill the parasites within his oral cavity.  Smokes purifies; plus, kills fungus and thrush and the like.
   Next, the old leather man put on some Barney Miller reruns, getting all the metaphors for life.

Crystalline Cool (32)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (32)"
   
Duncan gallantly gawked at Santa's workshop;
Moreover, even though beyond the tree line--there was sparkling evergreen, yet no bunny hop;
Still, Jack Frost was there, and regardless what they say--he was cool and nice,
Having the icy mien of a superhero, armed with aqua-blue ice;
Furthermore, frankincense was being burnt by wise men to make sure there was no fungi;
Plus, ultraviolet light did emanate to keep the parasitic yeast from the action of MULTIPLY,
And Santa Claus laughed with a heart full of cheer and rapid-beating jingle,
While Rudolph's red nose did on Prancer's antlers tickle.
Surely, this was the most awesome place to be,
For they had the world's most brilliantly lit Christmas tree--
A rainbow of hues and sparkly, vibrating colors,
That usurped the garden-variety mortals and their no-belief glare upon well-lit others;
Indeed, Duncan knew where he belonged,
Being next to the healthy fat of Saint Nicholas, all year long.

Crystalline Cool (31)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (31)"
   
   3 + 1 = 4.  The Co-Redemptrix.  Dad knew Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd was shot around the 13th, and lived, further placing a bullet casing in the Crown of Mary's twelve, as she displays Herself on the 13th day.  Revelation Chapter 12; furthermore, the Acts of the Apocalypse, crowned in 12.  
   Dad had his Apache heritage, yet was wise enough to gregariously gel with his half-breed son's revelation from an ill matriarch.  That Catholicism.  That medieval and archaic axiom from a Holy Virgin's mouth, proclaiming, even in the King James:  "My soul doth magnify the Lord."
   Dad lit up a hot cherry on a strawberry cigar, wishing he could afford Castro's dictating soil of finely ground bliss; however, it was cheap here in this part of Oklahoma, and all he could do was go to the gas station, unless order from the Internet and be observed by the overly-spying American government.  Let's make America honest again.  The old USA!!!
   He knew Duncan was okay, as long as the boy had reverence for the little elves, and wasn't a bad Boy Scout; next, the old leather man joked to himself, thinking:  "Why did the Boy Scout get excommunicated?  Because he ate a Brownie."  It was all laughter, cool, blue, antiseptic, Saint Michael's cure, burning away, even with laughter on higher frequencies, as do colors vibrate.
   The Franciscans came to visit Dad.  They asked of Duncan's whereabouts.  He told them:  "The white dog can spot the North Star.  Saint Nicholas of Myra and isolation to stay pure, or as King David might say--Lord, make me as white as snow."
   The Franciscans liked dogs.  As do the Dominicans and Saint Roch----if they're tame and domesticated.  It was all cool.  And Saint Joan of Arc's fiery blue, the most intense part of the flame, rising, rising, rising.  They blessed the old man with the sign of the cross, and he humbly thanked them for their meek benevolence, knowing Saint Francis might say:  "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace, where there is doubt, let me plant faith, where there is sorrow, let me plant joy, and where there is darkness, let me plant light."  It was all so everlasting and brightly brilliant.
   Dad puffed away, sending his prayers to Grandfather; indeed, the Little Wolf would never eat the baby buffalo, but obey, and be so tremendously tame.     

Neuroprotective Herbs

   
   "Neuroprotective Herbs"
   
   Michael J. Fox likes green tea--so the Internet proclaims.  Other things such as cinnamon, turmeric, and ginseng have neuroprotective properties, so I hear.  Lavender aromatherapy calms and offers relaxation. 
   But what doesn't work for Lewy Body Disease (Dementia) is Haloperidol, which increases neuroleptic sensitivity and can cause irreversible parkinsonism; unfortunately, I know a holy soul being fed and prescribed 5 Haldol pills daily, which basically paralyzed her in weeks.  Now is that malpractice or ignorance from the Bush Leagues?
   Documenting, recording, video evidence--all these things are imperative for dealing with people suffering from such chronic health issues.  So is a second opinion.  So is a third opinion.
   Too, the placebo effect of prayer and belief can be highly important, as mentioned in the newly released edition of National Geographic magazine.  If you believe--it can, and will happen.  Even if you believe for others; however, much negativity is thrown at the ill, wanting their euthanasia, which is illegal and unethical.  
   Just pray, follow your autodidact-like instincts, becoming a true erudite on all matters.  Turn over a library, and even talk to your dentist; plus, every medical and holy man. 
   And watch pseudo-caretakers like a hawk.  Many are thugs, that will neglect, abuse, poison, and play cruel music with profane vulgarities, further increasing the negative hallucinations of people suffering from terrible neurological disorders.   

Reagan Era Ninja 250

   
   "Reagan Era Ninja 250"

   Rarely changed since its conception of lean and keen muscle, this feisty and fiery little machine has deep determination to the asphalt ballet of it all; however, in recent years, it has been totally upgraded.  But during the Top Gun days of thunder, affording the smaller cc's was always wise and wily, for this bike could do it all.  Liquid cooled, dual exhaust, a six-speed shift, and an amazing 14,000 RPM that could push the bike to an uncanny top speed for its supposedly small size.  Here are some approximate performance stats--like this:

0-60:  5 Seconds.

Top Speed:  105 to 115 Miles-Per-Hour. 

How's that for a little girl's bike!?!   

   And unlike the Harley-Davidson forged with numerous cc's, them growling so loud after 80 MPH, you're shaking so hard that you can't even read the street signs, whereas the Ninja offers a smooth grip of the highway.