Kooky Lucy Frost (23)

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (23)"
   
   Kooky Lucy was back in her house, chatting it up with Pap in an almost manic state about how she had kissed Conor on the asphalt ballet of the suburban sprawl, but no tongue, just a mere peck--the first time she'd kissed a guy in over 13 years.  Too, she said he didn't taste like rancorous adultery, but was minty fresh.  And she rambled on about this without the slightest of a radish's blush.  
   Pap was cracked up, ignited his coffin nail with the spark of sulfur, and exhaled his happiness, being merry for a flaky grandchild, her never realizing her awesome beauty, as if innately protecting it due to an act of persevering for the perfect guy.  Pap knew of Conor.  Some bad seeds in the neighborhood had called the guy a gimp, a skeletal freak, him having hyperactivity of the Basal ganglia or some technical shit that gave him funky motor skills due to playing football in high school @ the position of free safety, having taken many head on collisions from larger, though slower guys--the damn Irish were crazy, Pap's internal Serb thought, but he knew Conor was no drunk, just a guy that lived with his parental units, kinda like Lucy, having a mild job as a janitor for the Catholic Church, paying his taxes, and taking no shit, as the Irish don't give a damn about what people think, but only of what God thinks, and as the Burgundy of the situation metaphysically goes--a just war is honorable, just control your power.
   Thus, Pap told Lucy:  "Interesting that after Twain penned his Saint Joan of Arc book, saying he never gave a damn about writing anything else, the Western Rite offered her Beatification; next, made her a Saint a decade later.  She fought though was of God, and you too Lucy have to fight.  You are incarnate, and a true old school guy will always look after you, especially if they have the intangible steel of a hardcore spirit.  And I know of Conor--he is a loner like yourself, nearing fifty, and would treat you as a delicious dame through all the dastardly deeds of this modernized world gone screwed by more machines than spirit.  He sings from the heart, and I think you should pursue your interest."
   Lucy was like:  "I do really like him Pap.  Even though we're of the Eastern Rite."
   Pap blew a smoke ring:  "Our Priests just get to have facial hair and have sex; otherwise, no significant difference."  
   Lucy chuckled, and Cleveland howled happily, somehow knowing . . .