Thoracic Animus (23)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (23)"
   
   As Doc and a bemused Mutt exited the modified B-25 Mitchell, Mutt swiftly forgot to process the insidious snakes, for the tall, svelte blonde woman called Miramaxus approached with her laser rifle in a firm grip, and besides the symmetrical features of her chiseled face and her sunshine, cascading blonde; plus, full kissable lips and aqua-emerald eyes--he noticed her legs exposed from between a pair of white snow boots to a furry pair of what could be described as exercise shorts--her legs were tan, muscular, and extremely golden with a kiss of glisten like glitter, and as a werewheaten-terrier, he felt a bit nasty for wanting to hump, but immediately got control, having enough empathy to know that this angel deserved immaculate love--nothing less.
   The threesome made their salutations, shared a few chuckles with Doc's humor taking the lead, and then Miramaxus glared into Mutt's puppy dog eyes, saying:  "You deserve a bone after those cool heroics."    
    Mutt honestly replied:  "I didn't do anything, and was freaked."
   The angel further said:  "No, I mean for hanging out with this crazy cowboy."  Her pointing at Doc; next, they all chuckled again, and it felt like home for Mutt's depressed dog inside.  

Martina McBride - Independence Day lyrics

Jonah Hex | Trailer US (2010)

This will make no sense: TOUCH

   
   "This will make no sense:  TOUCH"
   
   When you're a Priest or Nun, cause you get none, and are celibate--it's called a discipline.  When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics and are not merely anal--it's a blessing.  Proof of the Illuminati's existence is that television physicians on the propaganda channels tell college girls not to douche; specifically, that the vaginal cavity is a self-cleaning oven--HOGWASH.  Gotta clean that sucker out sometimes, at least monthly, and use the kind without fragrance.  
   I sinned this week, thinking about carnal activity, but I cleansed and sanitized; next, went back to my angelic essence, and told it that I would listen, for I have friends, as did William Blake have breakfast with Arch-Angels every morning.  The fox condemns the trap, not himself--remember.
   My Grandmother's sloppy kisses, so clean as a whistle; plus, my Serbian Pap's beard scratch on my arm to make me laugh; moreover, my biological father's whiskey fresh scent hugging me with monstrous strength, and my skinny ass couldn't even breathe; next, my biological mother calming me as a youth by scratching my back, and my Golden Retriever giving me her belly to rub--this was TOUCH.  Like the Eucharist--Christ touching you, so softly and lovingly.  We all need touch.  We die without touch.  We may not all be social animals, but even a skunk needs touch.  Heck, even a golf ball needs kissed by wood.
   I miss my biological Dad.  If it wasn't for phobias and people's exploitation, though--through my fault, I would've been at his side every moment, happily allowing him to kick my ass.  I miss, most of all--his fatherly TOUCH.  

City of Angels & Gumshoes--back in the day, baby!

   
   "City of Angels & Gumshoes--back in the day, baby!"

   Joe Mannix got his butt whooped every week at the pier, and thrown into the water, but he always came back for more.  In the words of Guns And Roses:  "I'm on the Night Train--I never learn."
   But Joe Mannix shouldn't have learned.  He was a rare breed.  Liked taking an ass-kicking, for he had Health Insurance.  As my biological mother said of my biological father:  "When he played college football, he used to hypnotize himself and let the other players put out their cigarettes on his back--just to get him pumped up as a running back, like a little John Riggins."  
   Back before LA became a sanctuary city--there were private eyes, rock and roll, and still during today:  The Rand Corporation.  But as the crazy guy says on Fox News:  "Would you want Dirty Sanchez living in your daughter's bedroom?  How's that gonna work out for your sanctuary?"  And my freaking family were immigrants, but the Serbs learned how to speak English, took the Pledge of Allegiance, and only spoke the Slavic Languages among themselves.
   So, don't be a cop.  Go old school.  Be your own man.  Be a private eye.  Drink beer, smoke a Lucky, nail a dame you love and wanna engage in matrimony, and say the OUR FATHER after some hicks roll you like they did Jim Rockford.  Get your ass kicked for the hell of it.  
   Too, don't carry a wussy 9-millimeter and spray prey with the high capacity, but go all cowboy, having a single action revolver.  But what the hell do I know?  I still watch cartoons, and 50 is knocking on the door.  

MANNIX [1967-1975]

Thoracic Animus (22)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (22)"
   
   Over the monstrous-sized continent of Antarctica, in an undisclosed region, Doc took the modified and classic B-25 Mitchell low over the glacial geography, and as the Nordic rune Isa enchants with a gleaming glow of beauty, frost can be slippery; moreover, traction lost, and Mutt looked down below to see unearthly laser fire from a tall blonde woman taking hits from teleporting lizards, but the crazy cowboy Doc defensively buzzed the violent scenario; next, as all reptiles strike angrily, a giant reptile-like creature was standing behind them in the cockpit, attempting to strangle Mutt, yet Doc simply pulled out his old-school, single action .357 Magnum, a Ruger--pointed it backwards, and blew the creature's head off, Mutt able to breathe again.
   Doc was like:  "In my last life, Texas Jack Vermillion taught me how to shoot, boy--and he was faster than old Doc Holliday."
   Mutt screamed:  "What the hell was that!?!"
   Doc like:  "That's hell on Earth, boy."
   Next, Doc cried out a "Yee-Haw" and buzzed the lascivious lizards, opening up his own can of butt whoop with a "Puff the Magic Dragon" scatter gun jury-rigged under the plane's nose, taking out all the hellions on the offensive against the blonde angel, her looking skyward, and saluting the twosome in the antiquated yet re-styled aircraft.
   Mutt was like:  "She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen--like a dream."
   Doc replied:  "That's Miramaxus.  She's a tunnel bunny.  Does covert work for the Nordic Confederacy, operating in singular style, cause she's got the agility of Spider-Man, son."
   All Mutt could think about was holding her war-torn shape of angelic essence in his arms, and never letting go; next, Doc smoothly landed on the ice, and she approached with a swift stride and glimmering smile.