Big Trouble in Little China - Elevator Scene

Flash: The Wiry Whippet (4)

   
   "Flash:  The Wiry Whippet (4)"
   
   I would not be guilty of apostasy concerning my Master, Henry; however, from time to time--I have strayed away from him, in the dashing direction of a running rabbit on the farmhouse's property; still, I would not abandon Henry's need for solid solace, the poor widower.  A lonely old man, hitting the hard stuff nightly to engage a more dulled nocturnal state of slumber.
   Why do humans drink?  To make their hearts happy?  To speak the truth?  To erase the resonating effects of bullies absent from their modern lives yet still haunting their mortified souls?  To be cool and cowboy-like, or think themselves so?  To face their reflection?  
   Henry dropped a beer on the hardwood floors one time--I licked it up and felt better; still, there is nothing like the taste of bacon.  Hey, it's not what goes into your mouth that makes you unclean, but what comes out of your heart.
   So, I found Scooper.  Told him what old Cooter had told me.  Kids wanted to pull a Halloween prank on our Master.  As a Lab-Mix, Scooper was all too goofy about it, saying:  "Golly, are we gonna make new friends with these people?"
   I was like:  "No, this is not play.  You don't play with vandals.  Poor Henry would have to clean up all the toilet paper in the trees; plus, wash the egg stains off his old truck and the house."
   Scooper, continually optimistic about making new friends didn't see my logic, stating:  "But one of them might be nice.  A kid conned into the prank, and we could make a new pal."
   I dropped my Whippet head, royally wondering how Labs were just so darn friendly.  Oh well, I guess that's why they make great service dogs--it takes all kinds, as the humans say.  

Flash: The Wiry Whippet (3)

   
   "Flash:  The Wiry Whippet (3)"
   
   Basset Hounds provide no false truths; specifically, it is in their truck-driving DNA to admit the facts--just the facts ma'am.  But people are controlled by Principalities and such--so there is always an esoteric part of the story, dismissed as pseudo-science by the mainstream media.
   Mental Illness versus Diabolical Possession--two facts:  Someone never exposed to a certain foreign language, I mean--never exposed!  Yet they cuss you out fluently with profane vulgarities in an unknown foreign language; next, if someone knows something about you (your secret) that you never verbally, or by writing admitted, and that person knows your mind-locked secret, yup.
   Still, I trusted Cooter, the Basset Hound, for we trust who we have to; plus, I loved the sweet Saint Roch.  Too, I loved my Master, Henry.  So what if kids were gonna roll and egg the house.  But I was just a dog.  Had to bite their ankles or something canine-like.  Wasn't it my duty to not let my Master be bullied?  

Flash: The Wiry Whippet (2)

   
   "Flash:  The Wiry Whippet (2)"
   
We all make mistakes, yet have treasures buried,
But dogs generally don't get married;
Regardless, I had a bone that I loved, especially its lamb-like flavor
That made me a lover--not a hater,
Yet when the Basset Hound named Cooter came from across the street,
Telling me the kids were planning a Halloween trick--not treat,
I felt depressed, wanting candy to eat;
Thus, I listened to Cooter and his insightful ears,
Which heard the rumors that adolescents were going to make my Master Henry have great fears;
Alas, I howled in melancholy but invented my own conclusion,
Which was:  Henry would be protected by my sublime intrusion
Into any plan
That would my Master damn.   

False Testimony; plus, True Harassment

   
   "False Testimony; plus, True Harassment"
   
   In the early 1990's, my family and myself moved to Franklin.  I was mortified to be shelled into such a constricting suburbia.
   I had been to plenty of physicians and priests; moreover, all they could deduce at the moment was Social Phobia and Agoraphobic tendencies.  Totally, I just wanted to deliver newspapers, write, read, and be left alone with my family; however, the neighbors had other ideas.
   The woman next door would just barge into our house and boisterously announce her proud presence.  I was mortified.  Once, on my way to deliver newspapers, she just bounced on in, without knocking, and I was in my underwear, getting changed.
   Things got worse.  They wanted me to start cutting their grass.  I didn't mind mowing the old lady's lawn across the street, for she was gentle and kind, but I was not about to be anybody's yard slave.
   They tried to pay me for it.  Called me on the phone numerous times, came to the door numerous times--I hid.  And when I did encounter them--I told them that I didn't want their money, yet they cruelly persisted in making me their boy.
   Their daughter was involved too.  She came over 4 times in one day, trying to give me money; I hid in stealth-like fashion.  Was just happy being a paperboy.  Too, the girl would have a guy over when her parents were out of town--all night long.  It sickened my Catholic celibacy.
   So, to take the edge off, I attempted to push them away--the art of deception.  Get rid of their intrusive, in-your-face style of neighboring.  I wrote a 90 page poem, using references that would conjure up literal offerings of her father's alcoholism.  It worked.  I didn't force her to read it, but put it on my property, and she retrieved it; next, gave false testimony to the police that I threatened suicide if she didn't retrieve it--bullcrap!!!
   My attorney called them Nazi-like.  And I didn't defend myself.  I couldn't publicly speak.  I couldn't even urinate in public.  It was all fabrication.
   Furthermore, she harassed my probation officer--he said we should get her for harassment.  I didn't; moreover, my probation officer adored me.  But I wasn't done.  Had to cement the fact that you don't fool with an Irishman.  James Joyce was with me.
   I don't walk with pride, but am humbled by life.  Though sometimes, you have to go shinobi.  You have to understand the Art of War.  And yes, I pray for my adversaries.  And all I want is to live in peace, without the mysteries of possible temptation concerning adultery crafted by their corporeal intrusions.  Just let me live in peace.  Still considering a Civil Lawsuit.  

Flash: The Wiry Whippet (1)

   
   "Flash:  The Wiry Whippet (1)"
   
   My name is Flash.  I'm a Whippet; specifically, a sprinter, not made for endurance though, but I got me some stamina when it comes to spirit.
   I'm a descendant of the famous Greyhound, originating in Great Britain.  I live on a farm.  There are roosters.  Don't bother them.  Don't want an angry spur in my direction.  Hens too, but they're nice.
   My Master's name is Henry--he's a nice Old-Timer.  A widower.  Has a shotgun to scare away the foxes and coyotes.  I hope he never hits one, for they're kinda like my brethren.
   Scooper is my buddy.  He's a Lab-Mix.  Mixed with a little weird.  Big and goofy.  Both of us are allowed in Henry's house, but Scooper's tail always wags, in perpetual motion, knocking things off of the coffee table and such.  Henry doesn't get mad though.  He's laid back.  Likes to watch women's soccer.
   Anyway, this is just the tale, not my tail, but the tale of a haunted Halloween, when Henry had to deal with some crazy kids plotting to egg and roll our farmhouse.  But it doesn't involve him using his shotgun.  That's only for predators.  And immature kids aren't predators, mostly.  Heck, it's America--a country of second chances.  

Ash Heap Hound (20)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (20)"

   I couldn't have been happier for Zoe and Conner--my little girl, always; plus, Conner--a nice, shy kid with a sweet set of wheels, and his baggage was zipped, very tight; however, I knew that when the rest of us slept he tore his garments, was tormented, and would never have made it without the united synergy of Zoe and her American Foxhound self--and they say opposites attract, yeah, maybe to kill each other.
   It was nice too, to have Zoe home.  She didn't mean to always be the rebel and not give love to her mother before the lady passed into the Otherworld; specifically, Zoe was a hypochondriac since the conception of her own consciousness.  And when you are a hypochondriac, you have every mental and supernatural disorder in the book.  It ultimately morphed her into an American Foxhound--even my mind has bent all the spoons in our kitchen drawer, and I wasn't even trying.
   So, before you turn your back on somebody, or bully, or think you're being clever, well, go ahead--do it.  You'll get yours in ways never perceived.  And if not, maybe a family member.  Be cruel and lazy about someone's asymmetrical self, and next:  a tumor on you or a loved one's nutsack, and you know how it feels, but because you're nasty, and ultra-sleazy with a non-standard porn collection, watching young girls embarrass themselves, not empower themselves, for money, that great American prize, putting people into public office, but death awaits with a smile for those folks--yes, He loves us, but every Creator can become bitter at the selfishness of His Creations, letting you think you're winning; next, BAM!!!  It hits you, but as justice, not like the sublime trial of Tobias.  And there was a dog in his story too, gotta love it.   Then again--I could be wrong, or not.