Loup Soup (5)

   
   "Loup Soup (5)"
   
   The snow was falling in a mercurial whirlwind, and Buster decided to call it a day--no freaking customers either.  He gave Jasper the keys and told the dude to lock up; next, smiled as he offered him luck on navigating his motorcycle through the growing layers of snow.  Jasper didn't blink.
   He remembered Connery in Highlander, telling the Scotsman:  "Feel the moose!"
   Therefore, Jasper would "feel the wolf" so to speak, having dog in him, and knowing it.  A Gray Wolf (Canis lupus) has a smooth muscle system, and the cardiac muscle is linked to it; moreover, that spirited-heart has, sometimes, contractions that are tireless and fully automatic, keeping the wolf's heart beating at 120 beats every minute, so to speak.  And like most mammals, armed with a four chamber heart--it wasn't difficult for Jasper to tap into the loyal yet suspicious pathfinder; hence, he left his motorcycle anchored, knowing the Japanese machine was resilient enough to endure a brave snowfall; plus, no soul around here was going to thieve it away; as a result, he turned on the speed of a 40 MPH sprinting wolf, running through the snow with Saint John's spirit, the Disciple Christ loved, him outpacing Saint Peter to the empty tomb in a foot race, yet humble enough to wait for the ROCK before entering the site of a Holy Miracle.  
   Jasper was home swiftly, and made the Sign of the Cross over himself; plus, a bit pissed that he forgot to pick up any spicy mustard.  Too, Boxer the cat would not be happy.    

Big Trouble In Little China: It's All In The Reflexes

Loup Soup (4)

   
   "Loup Soup (4)"
   
   Buster was watching diligently as the snow fell outside of the comic shop, as if a man with eyes stuck in a glued-glare at the aquarium containing many fighting fish; nevertheless, able to multitask, his Icelandic brain remained with his buddy Jasper, and he asked him:  "You still combining Ninjutsu with Catholicism?  Getting the power of the Okami, though more crafty like the Kitsune, which of course would make you a Canis latrans--ya know:  an American Coyote."
   "Why do I tell you my secrets?"  Jasper thought as he paged through a Power Girl comic book, noticing her buxom barrage of beauty.  
   Buster continued:  "I know, Apollo Creed never told Rocky all his secrets when preparing him to battle Clubber Lang, but you howl quite a bit; still, you own a cat, which is very weird.  And that crescent moon necklace--all the signs are there Jasper.  I think you're a Meta-Dog."  Then, Buster cracked up a bit, turning away from the snow, continuing to pester:  "Come on Jasper--take me on one of your adventures, I'm not stupid, and you just act it, but I spy you munching on beef jerky; plus, all that nomadic motorcycle romance you're engaged in."
   "You're rambling."  Jasper added.
   Buster dropped his head:  "I know dude.  This place is just so boring, and no fishing spots.  I miss my homeland, but I am sincerely glad to be an American.  I know you like the French pastry at the gas station that the weird lady from Toulon makes.  I just wish something cool would happen."
   Jasper was like:  "Just believe.  Don't will it too hard.  Just easily believe, and it will.  And yes, I do have a bit of dog in me.  So, throw me a bone, and order some Werewolf By Night comics from the 1970's."    

Loup Soup (3)

   
   "Loup Soup (3)"
   
   Jasper dismounted his Ninja 300, took off his protective helmet, and did not yield to the oncoming winter wind, yet hoped for snow to fall politely and for the four winds to be silent; next, after hypnotizing nature, or himself, with vivid imagery, he slowly sauntered through the brisk Nebraska conditions until entering the town's little and only comic shop.  They still were without any copies of old Werewolf By Night; plus, Squirrel Girl was a rare character to be found within the plethora of super-heroes being sold on printed ink within the store.  
   Buster, a tall and handsome blonde; specifically, an Icelandic immigrant without the trace of an accent, for most of those crowned within the Northern European communities are suavely multilingual.  Anyway, Buster was like:  "Hey man.  Just got the original Iceman limited series that got spawned after that wacky Spider-Man Show in the early 80's.  I think he looked liked Freddy Jones from Scooby-Doo--what do you think?"
   Jasper, stoic in response:  "Possibly."
   Buster continued:  "Anyway, digital shit is killing us.  Hell, print media is practically dead--thanks to the old and faithful for still having love and archaic appreciation, right?"
   Jasper changed the subject:  "You like spicy mustard?"
   Buster rubbed the dirty-blonde stubble on his chin; next, offered:  "It's good on sardines."
   Jasper nodded; then, noticed a unique snowflake fall outside.  Soon, more were to arrive.  

Loup Soup (2)

   
   
   "Loup Soup (2)"

   "Choose not to be harmed--and you won't be.  Leave other peoples' mistakes where they lie."   Jasper put down the quotes from Marcus Aurelius, finding Boxer the cat phasing in-and-out between this world and the Otherworld, meowing for some albacore tuna with a dash of mustard to protect from feline thrush.  Verily, once Boxer tasted mustard--the cat could not get enough of it, and Jasper felt the same way, though he had dog in him.  
   Didn't mind the skinny and scrawny comments, for like a coyote--he was lean and keen.  Wasn't going to mention their diabetes attraction, or that male genitalia ornamented in red pubic hair was like a girl waiting for the Great Pumpkin that never would arrive with a dark brow--so sexy to the ladies.
   Jasper gave a damn, just knew--when your adversary has his arms up; next, that's the best time to go into him, and very low, putting the Dim Mak right up into where it belongs--their fragile and unprotected urethra.  He was a peaceful man, yet knew liberalism was a disease, as was the other direction of bullying, both directions putting you in a depraved ditch; plus, a diabolical den of demonic devils.
   So, Jasper went to work at the comic book shop, piloting his Ninja 300, easing the high RPM level with a smoothness untold unless experienced, though knowing:  experience is useless, unless met with the identical experience; thus, he would try some spicy mustard tonight.  

Loup Soup (1)

   
   "Loup Soup (1)"
   
   Like PREGO pasta sauce--it's in there.  Jasper knew this well.  Possibly, maybe too well.  He never said shit or damn or hell or offered up any profane vulgarities with vociferous announcement--instead, he kept it inside, like PREGO pasta sauce--it's in there. 
   Jasper lived in Nebraska.  He was tuned into the native formation of the landscape.  He collected Canadian silver coins, preferring the kind with canines ornamented upon the mint.  He was a strange fella, and would tell you he was stupid, and he was, but wasn't.  Like PREGO pasta sauce--it's in there.  
   He had a cat named Boxer, but didn't own the cat.  Nobody did.  The cat walked between both worlds, owning itself, and a bit of the spiritual realm.  But nobody believed.  Plugged into machines and driven by stones crafted beyond their purity, it was all goofy, yet Jasper liked linguine, the narrow ribbons, and was a French pastry taster for the local gas station, the attendant, right from the geography of Toulon.  

Huck Finnegan (3)

   
   "Huck Finnegan (3)"
   
   Huck and Peanuts finished an odoriferous day at the dump, and he wondered why William Blake had compassion for the fly.  Regardless, he did his dirty duty, went home to some noodles and kidney beans, light red; next, drank some ginger tea and evacuated his bowels.  He could hear Sally's husband pestering her in his head.
   Huck took Peanuts out for a quick sniff and leg-lifting urination on a life-giving tree, it imbibing the liquid-like force of urine, forever marked.  Then, Huck went into his quiet, little house and played some records, really fancying Dean Martin, even though he knew the guy was a playboy, but hey--if you were friends with Ronald Reagan, all was not so bad.
   Huck blessed himself, said his prayers, and lit himself up inside, so that any invaders would feel the light of Christ--all in a day's work.  And that was his life.  Not ostentatious or to be bragged about, but getting by, his trusty crossbow always next to his bed, along with a copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth, for Mr. Finnegan knew the shinobi art of hiding in trees and graciously granting himself a better life-force, and he told God he loved Him, further praying:  "And not even at death will we sadly part."  Just sweetly simple and so ever close to God.  That's it.  Too, Sally birthed triplets.  It was a hayride after she started church-going.