Thoracic Animus (19)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (19)"
   
   Doc was all like:  "Boy, we gonna get them snakes, those shape-shifting bastards, even into the blondes with a frenzied frequency, but the true blondes emanate clean white and all the rest.  What did Jesus tell Pilate?  My world is not of this world.  He was a Pleiadian, in a sense, and He is here, in the Holy Spirit.  Don't wait for Him to come back, but ingest His platinum presence, and He will truly be with you.  That non-canonized Gospel of Thomas the doubter is wily and weird, making yourself a duplicate of Christ, a man becoming a woman, and a woman becoming a man; plus, the Oracle of Mary--love My Mother and you love Me--more or less.  Therefore, let it be!  Engage the opposite of the Holy Spectrum, but be of not two minds, though gel into gregarious glee--you hear me Mutt?"
   Mutt was chewing on his lips again at a high altitude, wishing the B-25 Mitchell was below the frozen ocean and all the rest, but he carried the werewheaten-terrier with dignified duty, knowing he had to bite some snake ass.  For a dog, even though Saint John the Eagle spoke against them, as they would eat the dead bodies off the cross if an Orthodox Jew didn't preserve even the criminals and wrap them in spice, but a domesticated dog is no less than a man following the Koran's instructions to eat cattle--we are killing hamburgers dude, and they got pickles on them.
   Mutt just trusted in Doc's two, old-school .357 Magnums, single action; moreover, his instincts to lick and kill snakes, loving blondes, and what guy doesn't love blondes, or girls, for there is Brad Pitt on the Big Screen, and the ladies swoon over his golden locks, like Christ's chestnut mane, as described by Pilate himself, and possibly hanging in the National Library of Congress.       

Lady Antebellum — Long Stretch Of Love (Lyrics)

Audience Reaction - Detention Center Shootout - Star Wars 1979 Re-Release

Lime-Green Machine: KDX 200

   
   "Lime-Green Machine:  KDX 200"
   
   When I had my Suzuki GN 250, or my two Ninja 250's, people always told me they were little kid bikes--"Bravo Sierra!"  I do rightfully exclaim.
   My Suzuki GN 250 could sprint to sixty as fast as a 1985 Camaro with a 305 small block and four barrel; plus, my Ninjas could hit sixty in five seconds and do near 115 MPH--this is not a little kid's bike, bucko.
   When I was 11 years of age, having a small Yamaha 80cc, some kid in Richmond let me drive his Kawasaki  KDX 80cc, and it ran like a little, scalded dog.  Moreover, I had the green eyes of jealousy over the Kawasaki's mean, lime-green radiance, it driving me to yearn hungrily to own one.  It has always been my dream to have such a potent enduro-type of on-and-off road cycle.
   The old-school KDX 200 is mean and alive in furious green.  It will hit sixty under seven seconds, and top out a little over 80 MPH.  I find no other cycle more aesthetically-pleasing; plus, in some cases, you're dealing with a 2-cycle, which causes superior velocity and more vibrating-energy--it offers more torque out of the hole, I'm talk'n.  
   I had an ethnically Nordic friend during my dropout of adolescence who had a Honda XR 200, and it was severely swift to sixty, but my GN 250 could take it, especially on the top end.  I had that little Suzuki up to 83 MPH on Hinson Road in Little Rock during 1988, blowing past the rich kids coming home from private school.  I was so shaken by the quicksilver of topping her out on a winding road, that after the race, I found a quiet patch of real estate and nervously smoked an unfiltered Lucky Strike, it ignited to life by a sulfur-stricken match, back in the days when they made matches--hey, it's toasted.  

Thoracic Animus (18)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (18)"
   
   Mutt and Doc had landed in Cape Horn, it marking the northern boundary of the famous Drake Passage.  Temperatures were a bit frosty, and about to get icier as they would soon be wending their airways to Antarctica to fight in the alien wars between the serpents and blondes.  Mutt didn't get all the details, but as his werewheaten-terrier was evolving, he noticed that he could smell many feet underground; plus, had a sense of telepathy, which had replaced his usual empathy for the tricksters in life, and he smoothly surmised with telepathic truth that Doc was not only batshit crazy, but a real jewel and paragon of vivacious virtue.  They stood outside the B-25 Mitchell as a foreign-speaking man was filling her with fuel, Doc chewing on a Cuban.

DOC
This is the Big One.  Reagan gave us a soft disclosure years ago, as did the Bible and Epic of Gilgamesh, but all the kids were too busy playing Pac-Man; next, Ms. Pac-Man or whatever came out, but I always liked Donkey Kong, though it thieved my attention away from reality as well.

MUTT
So, there's reptiles and tall blondes; moreover, Russian and American troops with heavy artillery down there?

DOC
Yup, but don't worry; I carry two .357 Magnums, single action, and they have enough penetrating power to crack the block of a HEMI engine; also, I've noticed your fangs now and again--you some kind of werewolf?  It will help.

MUTT
More or less, but of the playful Irish variety.  A Poor Man's Werewolf--you might say.

DOC
Well lock and load up your hound of the heavens and invoke Saint Roch, for we gonna be in the Big One, boy.  And if you think your friend Hairy Man is going to help, well, he's sitting this one out.  But we gonna crack some skulls like Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi do down at the docks in New Jersey.   

I Don't Want To Be - Gavin DeGraw - Lyrics

Thoracic Animus (17)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (17)"
   
   Maybe needing Winchester the 3rd for thoracic surgery due to cardiac disturbance, Mutt bit his lips as the B-25 Mitchell hit 275 MPH @ 15,000 feet.  Doc was screaming:  "Yee-Haw!!!"
   Mutt pondered the only brave Nation in NATO, knowing Saint Joan of Arc was a noble beast of beauty on the battlefield, uttering:  "Je vous salue, Marie . . ."
   Doc was like:  "Boy, just sit back and enjoy this Millennium Falcon's thrust; I've added a few special modifications myself after the CIA kicked me out before NAM for smuggling PLAYBOY magazines to the officers who sat back, not giving a shit about the grunts.  Not their fault, society makes a strange Totem Pole.  Anyhow, we almost at Cape Horn boy--gonna get cold when we refuel and hit the Lost Continent of Antarctica.  You sure you up for a Jedi's war?"
   Mutt was like:  "Heck, I'm half a dog and a partial man at best, I'll manage."