Voltaic Junkyard--Ampere-Hour

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Ampere Hour"
   
   Sheila knew they were fraudulent, chicken-fried fibs, crispy and clogging arteries, and only because those arteries were inflamed, slain by ferocious fear, birthing psychosomatic conditions dubbed clinical, as the phobia increases inflammation; thus, Sheila put on her G. Gordon Liddy thinking hat:  "Make your fears afraid of you."  She actually tried out for his Stacked-And-Packed Magazine--a non-scandalous showcase of lovely ladies in their under-garments and loaded heavy with their favorite firearms.  She didn't get accepted.  Only photographed herself with a blade.  A Bowie Knife, not able to wield a KA-BAR since she was never in the War Corp; hence, go with Bowie, for the dude knew Crockett, and not Sonny Crockett, though that dude knew Tubbs.  
   Sheila was munching on the yummy of the pineapple pizza, heavy on the black pepper--Earth's most used spice.  Her dog, Wagon-Tail was wagging and chomping on some oil-infused crust--never emasculated, allowing him doggy freedom and the innocent hump of a pillow case--some people like men that are men and dogs that are dogs.  And today--most women want to be men, as if suffering from phallic frenzy, lost without a pernicious portion to cruelly stick in somebody, forgetting that they are women.  But hey, Sheila was a party type of girl.  It's all cool--as long as you're nice.
   She would amp up the junkyard, now fueled by copper and carbs.  Her Ampere-Hour was sorta/kinda unlimited, in that she knew her power source, and it resided within.  So, she turned on the lights, got the washer running, all while cracking open a cheap beer full of aluminum's sometimes hostility and heaviness.  How could she not always thank God?  She owed Him everything.  All the pain, the laughter, the fight, and knowing that her father never hated her as her uncle said, him only wanting the old man to be enslaved to a system that doesn't work, because people covet their treasure, and not spread the tune of charity as did a mere tradesman, so Divine.  And to think, when she was in her teens--she thought it was ALL paranormal activity--though it is, in a way.    
  Sheila burped the Bud Heavy.  Got on with it.  Her house would not fall out underneath her, even though built on solid ground, for Solomon knew:  "Gotta keep your residence royal."  More or less.