Kooky Lucy Frost (20)

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (20)"
   
   Pap and Lucy were making an apple pie, using Granny Smiths, the neuroprotection of cinnamon (one of King Solomon's favorite spices) and tobacco; plus, a hand beat and rolled crust--Cleveland diligently observing in Socratic fashion, asking himself WHY, and wondering if he would get to lick his doggy chops after eating a piece.
   Lucy loved Pap so much, him having never changed to her, as some people say older folk do, not knowing they get better with time, as a baby girl changes into a woman, or a horny teenager without religion, going to orgy-esque frat parties and privately disturbing her own hymen with phallic objects like candles or by other grotesque means when puberty pugnaciously pounces upon her corporeal cravings since religion has not armed her with the strength of the spirit; indeed, the baby girl is no longer the same person, but skanky, like a mother that does not follow the Christ, not knowing that women are not the same as men, but nowadays--big mouths seem to be catching on for females as their intuition gets sucked into the vortex of the past by time travelers thieving away their innocence, but hey, they're empowered to become non-domesticated dogs, eating dead bodies off the crosses, but the Orthodox Jews would rescue and wrap their deceased criminals in spice due to the tradition of holy burial, saving them from a canine's hungry and hellish set of carnivorous chompers, after gravity came to be realized upon the cessation of crucifixion; thus, as a witness to this, Saint John the Eagle wrote of hellish hounds not inheriting Heaven in the Book of Revelation, the only Disciple not martyred, as he took care of the Holy Mother, or so it seems so obviously axiomatic, him only being exiled upon the island of Patmos, as some stories go.      
   Lucy would always adore Pap, never letting anybody touch him, laying down her life out of love, as commanded, jumping on the grenade, but in a protracted war, for she was not small fry, but enduring the dilemma of deliverance from the demons of a disorder so uncanny and unexplained that no normal mind could fathom such a furious phantom of frustration and freakishness.  
   Pap asked:  "You wanna put candles in it when we're done?"
   Lucy with:  "Is it anybody's birthday?"
   "No."  Pap said bluntly.  "I just feel like a birthday boy today, for what's more old school than a sporting dog and a forty-something little girl, who will always be my baby."
   Lucy blushed, wrapping Pap in a warm embrace, but avoiding his dancing cherry that dangled from a smiling grip of lips.