Weredog Tart (10)

   
   "Weredog Tart (10)"
    
   Justice is a dish best served cold, so Siria figured, and she liked a piece of spiced, refrigerated beef jerky, or a cold meatloaf sandwich with hot mustard; still, she figured to let it go--the pseudo-gifts of care-taking ignoring her matriarch's needs, her own back torn to pieces, but now as a weredog, put back together again, and there goes the myth of Humpty Dumpty, but he had high cholesterol and large amounts of glucose running through his egg-like veins.
   Siria was just happy to be watching the Cubs play, even though the Pirates whooped them a few days ago, and of course, born in Pittsburgh, she had that sense of neon nepotism, getting schooled and adored by the supernatural in Steel City.  Her father moving down from southern sour mash to Iron City brew, and her always sneaking a few.
   Plus, there was Lance McGee and his emerald-green eyes focusing in on her dreams, not enchanted or besmirched by her beauty, but taking it seriously, ready to let her off the leash, for she would always stay close, and never run away from true love.  Was it?  Yup.  She knew in her fast-beating heart that a guy with such glacial history would only adore her, frigid to the nonsense of Internet porn and girls with vaginal cavities the size of buckets, soon to be in need of tans-vaginal mesh due to all the coitus-craving partying and nonsense of not having a spiritual life.
   Next, Siria kissed her Dad on the forehead, and by instinct, buried a piece of beef liver in the backyard, keeping it blessed by Terra's regenerating tomb.  

Weredog Tart (9)

   
   "Weredog Tart (9)"
   
   The bus ride was quaint and yet so cool.  Lance smelling of a spicy aftershave with a Captain Hook type of roll on deodorant, allowing him the spice of man under his blonde though hairy pits--heck, his eyebrows were yellow gold; thus, it had to be so in other places, as his khaki shorts displayed blonde-like curls as well, highlighted by a pair of year round moccasins.  
   Lance was glued to Siria as they exited the bus, him following her symmetrical tail, it being lead by the scents and smells of downtown Pittsburgh, so many delicious yet stank snorts of glee for Siria as she probed the eateries until hungrily approaching a chili dog swine-house, where they served kosher meats--no swine to be filled with demonic, suicidal activity--at least for them pigs known by the Christ, assisting in their launch downwards.
   So, Lance and Siria sat politely on a picnic-type of table, the daystar shining downwards, yet not melting Siria's arctic-blue eyes, those frosty entrances to a singular soul haunted by a weredog--and Lance and his shamrock-green stare were sincerely made sweet and subservient, making sure to wipe her canine mouth with dozens of napkin strokes.  

Weredog Tart (8)

   
   "Weredog Tart (8)"
   
   Lance sat down next to Siria with icy cool, having no lunch as he was from the wrong side of the tracks, grabbing only a can of this or that here and there.  Siria swallowed some of the white bread, salami, and extra mayo with a canine gulp; next, glared hard into his pretty boy, shamrock-green eyes, noticing his mane of sunshine yellow, and he glued his vibrant-green orbs onto her arctic-blue--the twosome caught in a game of strategic telepathy.  Then, the conversation ignited.

SIRIA
You're the school's backup quarterback.  Never talked to me once--why here, why now?

LANCE
I haven't spoken yet.  But let me say, doing school work and memorizing the entire offensive playbook, in Pittsburgh no less, is tough on a guy, and I never noticed you till now--here, stuck in the stink of summer school.  But believe me girl--you should have been noticed, my mistake.

SIRIA
You're the only one who doesn't give me creepy looks, I like that.

LANCE
Well we should make it official and get a chili dog sometime--my treat.

SIRIA
No suspicion detected.  Her instincts said he was just a nice guy; plus, smelled like cheap yet clean aftershave.  Okay.  Tomorrow is hump day, and I mean that in the cleanest sense.  We can take the bus downtown and get some meat, beans, sauce, and a bun to wrap it in.

LANCE
A puzzled look on his face.  Just like that?

SIRIA
I'm not easy; I just know a decent dude when I see one--somebody who seems to smell and act very clean.  Nice hair by the way--eyes too.  Siria got up and started to walk off, but turned around real swiftly.  After school, remember.

LANCE
How could I ever forget? 

Weredog Tart (7)

   
   "Weredog Tart (7)"
   
   The blonde and brave, that Nordic-looking kid, ancestors migrating downwards, to the Emerald Isle; next, like Kennedy, caught the BOAT and came to America.
   Lance McGee was a verbal and shinobi-like scrapper.  A skinny and spiritually chiseled  type of punk, full of suspicion, yet clever enough to know a demon.  His shamrock-green eyes keen upon the approach and retreat of Siria, her sitting to his left hind quarter area of the classroom, like G. Gordon Liddy eating that portion of a rat, knowing to face your fears and confront them.
   Thus, while the rest of the school dismissed Siria in awkward jealousy, Lance would not.  He would follow, not stalk her.  Just keep his eyeballs glued to that fine set of runaway sticks she had, so golden hued in the summer sunshine, like a hot chick cranking the neon-yellow ball at Wimbledon.
   He saw her eating lunch in the cafeteria.  A salami sandwich he figured, and it looked to be lathered in the ripe spoil of mayonnaise.  How could he resist?  He forced himself, and made a brave QB pass.  

Weredog Tart (6)

   
   "Weredog Tart (6)"
   
   Siria danced and dashed to her creative writing class, needing to shoot a bull to get short, machine gun bursts of literature out on the page with squid ink or whatever.  The teacher read her dog scratched perspective:

"I'm Catholic.  Protestants scare me, for they say the Virgin Mary is a witch, and that Her apparitions are demonic, and that we worship Her.  But we only honor Her, feeling bad for what we did to Her Awesome Son--God's Son too, get me!!!  Regardless, Tim Tebow may not make it into the pro-football Hall of Fame, but the Halls of Heaven, for he got shafted on Earth's cruel turf, winning most games as a QB starter; next, turns down movies, helps the downtrodden in alien areas--I freaking love Protestants now.  Candace Cameron is cool too.  But still:  I have the Angels and Saints, and while not infallible, they truly lead to God, in mysterious ways, that Trinity, that Godhead.  That mercy upon us."

   The teacher proclaimed:  "Miss Siria--this is public school--you can't talk about that here."

   Siria howled, pulled out a rancorously spiced  piece of beef jerky, and took a yummy, uncouth bite; next, strutted out, towards a future detention.  Some kid in class went:  "Dudes, that girl is a delicious tart!"    

Weredog Tart (5)

   
   "Weredog Tart (5)"
   
   Back in summer school, within the urban decay of it all, and the boys stripped Siria with their pornographic eyes as she sauntered inside the classroom full of canine power, feeling their nasty glares, tongues sticking out, snickers, whispers, and utter envy of her beauty.  And she totally thought:  "Then God created douchebags." 
   She took her seat with eloquent sizzle through the air, crowning the public schools and their crappy pseudo-sophistication and fabrications on history by way of a buttocks finely sitting; next, opened up her algebra book, ignoring the glares of horny boys, focused on the teacher, barely able to speak English, and absorbed the synergy of letters and numbers dancing on the chalkboard--do they still have those things?
    

Weredog Tart (4)

   
   "Weredog Tart (4)"
    
   These were no longer the pangs of birth for Siria--her bleeding hand suddenly healing as she rushed inside, her Dad in a deep slumber due to the hardcore effects of sour mash; next, Siria sprinted upstairs to the bathroom, brushed her mousy brown hair out of her arctic-blue eyes, got an introspective glimpse inside her complete self, her soul, seeing the spirit that animated her body gregariously gel with a sublime golden retriever mixed with a wolf.
   She figured to herself:  "This is cool stuff."
   Now knowing she had the defense to deal with summer school, algebra, and a mother's ghost living on the outskirts of Heaven, where the grass was always green and an azure noon held fast daily.
   Siria thanked Saint Jude, this leading to praise for the Trinity, as all the Saints and Angels lead to the great galore that is God.  Yet the rest of the world, in a greedy dream about themselves; still, the pangs of birth, a galactic revolution of revelation rising upon them save the fools for Christ.
   Siria went downstairs, sat next to her Dad, taking his drunken hand, and whispered in his ear:  "I love you Daddy.  We are steel together."