Sun and Moon and Stars

"Good evening" - Raw Deal

Loup Soup (8)

    
   "Loup Soup (8)"
  
   Jasper wasn't completely lost.  Still had a bit of sanity.  FM Radio.  Knew if a werewolf might have been in his fridge, for there would be footprints in the cheesecake; alas, he had no fridge; thus, no problem.  Anyway, Boxer came home, burping up a mouse; next, he gobbled it up again, and Jasper knew he had to get back to work that morning.
   Harnessing the Grey Wolf's quicksilver speed, he swiftly ran through the heavy snow in his cheap moccasins, letting his feet get cold, but blocking out the freeze with werewolf red.  It was all he could do--use the hues.
   When he entered the comic shop, Buster was there, reading a Green Lantern comic book.  Too, he had liked the movie.  The whole cosmic cop thing.  The meditation on the power of vibrant colors healing and fueling man's best, not his worst.
   As if telepathically, Jasper picked up on the sublimity of the Icelander, though his tall and handsomely blonde boss could be a smart ass at times.  What was Schwarzenegger told in the movie Raw Deal:  "Smart I like; smart ass I don't."
   Nonetheless, Jasper felt warmth for Buster, feeling sorry that the Icelander had to make his own fish stew here in Nebraska.  Then, he made a mental note to get some spicy mustard and albacore for Boxer and him on the way home.  
   The daystar blossomed brilliant as the day moved forward, and the roads were losing their inviolate white.  By closing time, he was positive he could pilot the Ninja 300 home, after a stop at the local gas station for the spicy mustard and albacore; plus, to taste the French pastries made by the hot lady from Toulon.  You never know--love can ignite with a splendorous spark for even the most bizarre of folk.  

Endurance by Shine

   
   "Endurance by Shine"
   
   As a wayfaring punk, though I used the invention of the wheel, having been from the Atlantic to the Pacific by the time I was eighteen, and on my own during most solo journeys, hitting the asphalt realm at the prodigious age of sixteen--no fear, talking to truckers and cops, but always urinating and defecating in the bushes or behind dilapidated structures, due to great fear--this anxiety would be greatly relieved if they put those sparkly blue or pink mints in all toilets.
   But during my 29th year, again--death was upon me.  Not just from the start, incubation for a protracted period, inability to speak properly until the age of five, a speech pathologist of the angelic kind giving me the gift of vociferousness; moreover, tubes shoved up my urethra, night terrors, you name it.  Then, in your prime, bleeding to death, the emergency room nurses cackling as I would mercurially scramble to the restroom, hooked up to so many incoming fluids, being told I had less than half the blood in my body, and a naughty, unethical night-shift nurse telling me that I should simply give up.  Yup, I should not fight, and just let myself perish.  I didn't.
   Furthermore, attorneys driving me to attempt suicide, and my biological matriarch contemplating driving off a cliff because a non-blood relative bullied her with relentless rebellion of the Satanic kind; plus, getting her hooked on benzos. These people wrapped up in mammon, divided, bravado-fueled, pornography-hiding hoodlums--secret chambers proving their shame of it, wrapped up in a warped world, where giving up seems the best option--unless of course it's their bacon, or their children's.  
   I know suffering.  Chastity and poverty are easy--I'm talking disease and disorders; plus, infiltration from secret sources.  They speak tough, but have never put on the pads and taken a hit, while I've been set on fire, lacerated and received numerous stitches, multiple surgeries, yet the others are all lost in the game of gaudiness, lacking the love and mercy of the mystical and uncanny, thinking they forged themselves, and life is nothing but a flux of atoms, yet I've seen the face of death.  My biological patriarch saw it as well, before fighting with shine until his time.    
    If you want to kill an ugly or asymmetrical person--get sick yourself.  See if you'll try to hold on, like you do with your pride.  Loss that arrives through the entrance of electric love into any of your perforations; next, you'll try to hold on, because you intrinsically know:  "You've not been honest, sincere, played football, but merely mumble the mumbo jumbo--and there's nothing like losing a pint of blood to get a good night of sleep, laying down and innocently throwing Staubach's HAIL MARY into a Virgin's nurturing ear."   But you won't know that until you are on your deathbed or driven psychotic; then, we'll see how you talk, even if your tool gets shot off.  My money says that you will try to hold on, and I don't even have any.  

Barney Miller Werewolf

Loup Soup (7)

   
   "Loup Soup (7)"
   
   Jasper's effluvious self was both sweet and spicy, making the only pussy he ever knew scatter away; indeed, Boxer was on the move, mousing, so to say--to get away.
   Zoanthropy is not common, not even for cats that are beyond and yet within this world; however, neither is celibacy; thus, the fear of the Virgin Mary, and the hatred of Christ.  Regardless, while the King James Version offers Saint John speaking of dogs not going to Heaven, he meant the humping and monstrously malodorous kind, stinking from an unclean spirit.  Pope Francis set us all straight on that one.
   So, Jasper felt the wolf pulse within; specifically, the lack of a heating system in his remote garage building offered him an allegorical coat of meditative insulation from the frigid air.  It was all he could do.  It's all some people can do.  And once heated, he dug into a can of beets, tearing them open with his teeth, further making himself lean and cleaned out.  Darn, he wanted that spicy mustard and some albacore.  Maybe that's why Boxer was really upset, making like Tom and taking a cruise.   
   

Loup Soup (6)

   
   "Loup Soup (6)"
   
   Indeed, like PREGO pasta sauce--it's in there.  Ninjutsu/Catholicism; plus, MKUltra and the Men in Black, controlled by non-sons of men; regardless, who was going to believe Jasper?  And he totally knew it.  Worked at a comic shop; moreover, could harness the abilities of the Canis lupus--it would be seen as bullshit.  But had buried documents, hand-crafted, all over his region of Nebraska--they would be unearthed someday, and priceless.
   In his crummy yet beloved garage building where he resided with his self-owning cat dubbed Boxer, he rubbed his Black Tourmaline, which was an approximate 7.5 on the Mohs scale, absorbing electromagnetic energy; however, he possessed nothing more than a scanner and transistor radio.
   Maybe he should tell Buster.  Guy was good-looking; thus, he should have no envy or jealousy, which drives the adders in angelic clothing to hate; nevertheless, they could have gotten to the Icelander.  They get to all of us, but not back when Lincoln was at the helm, though even he dabbled in pseudo-clairvoyance to help predict the Civil War's outcome, more than myriads of Yankee men perishing to free enslaved people, and they are never remembered.  Only the South still cares about that war--curious.   Ah, piss it all on an electric fence, like his teenage friend's father did, a Green Beret in Nam.  Had to get circumcised after that.  
   Jasper just started paging through his comic books, knowing nobody was to be trusted, or you trust who you have to.  Scrappy-Doo was never jealous of a bigger creature, or a smaller one.  Just had spunk and spirit.  Lucas' metaphor of Star Wars, yet we still don't listen.