Jazzmin Flush (39)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (39)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush nastily, in nagging fashion, knew, as Rascal socially retreated for a much-needed pee break--doth thou knowest; hence, resurrect and revamp the vivacious vixen.  "My gosh my man Thomas!  What is that hungry-eyed girl doing with you?"
   Thomas smirked sardonically.  "She's helping us.  Come on Jazzmin--I'm practically a monk here."
   "Yeah, and she wants to sacrifice you sexually, selfishly spilling IT into her eternal longings."
   "I can't help it if I've got the animal, magnetic pull of it all."
   As if, as if, Jazzmin Flush was pushed and pulled with a monstrous bit of dominance over Thomas, never knowing love might morph wrongways, but remained converted to submission towards the sublimity of God's Good Ghost.  "I'm silly, and a stupid girl.  If you want a chance to decide--you freely have it."
   Thomas was awesomely amazed at Jazzmin's almost wicked insight into tomorrowland, but resisted carnal fantasy with curvaceous Rascal within the theater of his monkish mind.  "I have decided Jazzmin.  I actually decided the instantaneous moment that I had the cool courage to gaze into your innocent eyes.  I love funny, goofy, good-hearted Jazzmin--that's YOU, by the way.  Yup, I love ya, and always will."
   "Then what's this synergy with Rascal you have, I suspect?"
   Thomas locked his orbs into hers.  "She's like a sister Jazzmin.  She's a coydog."

Jazzmin Flush (38)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (38)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was so flushed with anxiety, too weak of a word, to coolly cope with watching Girthy Gilda's grave vacuum; as a result, she grabbed a Lucky Strike out of the beautiful, old lady's midnight-black garter belt, sauntered outside and ignited the cherry with waxing willpower; next, saturated her fuchsia-hued lungs and exhaled prayers heavenways.  It did offer a bit of weird, wavelengthing soothe, but then, then, her inviolate-white flower of decency evolved into the controlling passion of a black rose when seeing her guy--Thomas approaching with a brunette beauty smiling sparkly incisors and sprightly breasts bodaciously bouncing; next, it all got too close.
   "Who is this?"  Jazzmin Flush proudly blushed.
   "Rascal is the name my quintessential California girl."  Rascal blurted, extending a very solid, almost steel grip in Jazzmin's stupefied direction.
   "G-r-e-a-t."  Thomas muttered, never thinking that his Catholic werewolf would loudly spark such frisky and feline fury.  

Jazzmin Flush (37)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (37)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was regally royal, always.  Anyway, Thomas was thriving life and back in his khaki pants, zipped and couth, glaring at the female, scoundrel beauty known simply as Rascal.  She was smiling unpure breeding in his white, arctic direction.
   "You ever read the American Dictionary?"  She asked.  "Like chisel on my fizzle, but don't ya dare get any drizzle?  Thanks to progressive politicians like Teddy Bear allowing creative birth.  We are not English in America, after all.  But God Bless 'em."
   Thomas was cool and curious.  He liked Rascal.  And that spawned considerable trepidation within his velvety paw pads.   

Jazzmin Flush (36)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (36)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush and soul-searching Fredrica and her ultra-humility guarded Girthy Gilda while new and improved, wolfy Thomas wended cityways, searching for the organic tree medicine and its resistance to tick bite.  Thomas turned and trollied, minus the intoxication, sniffing out, in human form, an old mechanic's shop that repaired solar-powered cars, back before Exxon purchased the luminous, free Sun--remembering that he actually had a mercurial kiss, once, barely, from Miss Jazzmin Flush--this tingling his toes, putting muster in his mojo.
   Entering the shop, greeted by metal glam songplay, he spotted a beat up Tesla car, vertically viewing a brunette with cupcake cleavage wrenching it to life.  He spoke:  "Excuse me?  Do you sell medicine on the side?"
  The brown-haired girl dropped the wrench and swiftly stripped, revealing a body beyond muscle, purely gristle; next, she magically morphed into a carnivorous coydog, leaping at Thomas' shock and surprise.  He was getting his butt kicked; thus, turned on the arctic magic, yet got stuck in his clothing, wrestling himself within a pair of khaki pants.  Upon noticing such similar magic, the coydog girl recycled herself human, gawking at Thomas' hind legs stuck in his pants.
   "Wow--you're a big one fella--I thought you were a law-breaking, stinking cop," she said.
   Thomas finally got free of the khaki pants and barked a buddy-like greeting.
   She continued, totally naked.  "My name is Rascal, friend."   

Jazzmin Flush (35)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (35)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush fabulously floated off the anti-gravity flight, actually holding Thomas' hand with a loving, non-lustful grip--though they hadn't even so much as shared a sublime smooch yet; still, the twosome were truly in love's meshed embrace.
   After getting the info from one of the editors at the L.A. Derelict, Jazzmin Flush put the great, literary news behind her for the moment, and eagerly allowed Thomas' canine nostrils to sniff the way towards Girthy Gilda's rude pickle.  First, they picked up Fredrica from Jazzmin's basement, fed her some oil-soaked sardines and soda crackers along with a cold glass of white and green tea infused, all while Jazzmin was loving on whisker-twitching Swiss, much to Thomas' lack of amusement, him rolling his eyes.  "We've gotta get to Girthy Gilda's place Jazzmin.  Now put the mouse down before I gobble him up."
   Jazzmin Flush shot scimitars at Thomas with hurt eyes.  "You wouldn't dream of it babe."
   But all was soon forgiven as the threesome found their trio of energy in Girthy Gilda's modest shanty--her all alone and sadly singular, lost to a family's abandonment.
   "Girthy Gilda--we've been so worried!"  Jazzmin Flush weeping wet tears of torture and joy at viewing her beloved boss sitting in odoriferous fecal matter, barely able to claw her Lucky Strike, her feet scissoring and club-like.
   Fredrica and Thomas cleaned her spotless while Jazzmin brewed the relax of chamomile tea; next, Thomas noticed a red spot resonating--a bull's eye pattern on her high thigh while putting on a fresh, powdered diaper.  "That's Lyme Disease--it totally offers neurological trauma if untreated for years."
   "How do you know?"  Jazzmin Flush being interrogative.  
   "I'm practically a dog Jazzmin--I know ticks--it is in me to be cool and keen about such things. Okay, you girls stay here--I'm gonna go get some Otoba Bark."
   "Is it a cure?"  Jazzmin Flush continued with pondering aloud.
   Thomas was like:  "When a person gets a neurological disorder and has bodily bending--if the neurologist is a true textbook with a soul; then, they'll check for Lyme Disease, syphilis, everything, unless they're a soulless textbook with a Bush League education."
   "That's a better education than mine."  Fredrica admitted.
   Thomas snarled.  "Learning is not because there is esoteric information only available in the classroom--that's hogwash.  Just ask Gore Vidal."
   Jazzmin Flush turned to Fredrica, blurting:  "Gore Vidal was really weird or something--I think."
   Thomas left to get the medicine.    

Saint Raphael, Tobias, and Baseball

   
   "Saint Raphael, Tobias, and Baseball"
   
Saint Raphael, arch-angel; specifically, medicine of God--
Thanks to you for offering healing balm, and Tobias was awed;
Moreover, imbibing a veggie dog and watching the awesome Angels play,
Does smoothly soothe the rancorous root of demonic dismay.

  

Jazzmin Flush (34)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (34)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush got the nefarious news from Thomas as they strongly strolled into Alberta's Galactic Spaceport.  Fortunately, he had sniffed out some precious gemstones and traded them for funds to fuel their flight back to the lovely City of Angels.  Jazzmin Flush was considerably crushed concerning Girthy Gilda's dilemma; moreover, genuinely angered about the taco truck being sold and Fredrica's homeless status; however, Thomas had communicated with his ultra-cool sister, and Fredrica was now residing in Jazzmin's basement, watching out over Swiss and his semi-furry friends.
   When seated in the angular spacecraft, Dean Martin crooning over the internal fuselage speakers, an elderly man with silvery-gray hair spoke to her, him completely alive and billowing bright with a pair of star-spangled eyes.  "You are Miss Jazzmin Flush.  You write those pamphlets for the homeless." 
   Jazzmin Flush, more than curious.  "How does anybody know that?'
   The gray-haired man smiled gently.  "When you write, and weirdly, no matter what the scale--someone is always reading.  Anyway, I'm an editor with the L.A. Derelict.  I think you should and could assist in writing our obituaries.  I'll put in a word."
   Jazzmin Flush blushed.  "Paid to write?  But I didn't go to college."
   The old man continued with his meek smile.  "Neither did I, or Hemingway, or half of the most keen and brilliant bards."
   Jazzmin Flush turned to Thomas.  "Are you listening to this?  He wants me to be a cub reporter, for real.  Can you believe it?"
   Thomas snorted, half asleep.  "Don't be freaked.  You're just pretty is all--that's why you're going to get the job; plus, when you open a can of poetic worms, don't be surprised if you catch a fabulous fish."
   Jazzmin was like:  "Now I'll be able to afford Dodger tickets.  Holy Lasorda!  I've always wanted to taste a delicious Dodger Dog."