Voltaic Junkyard--Staubach & Hail Mary

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Staubach & Hail Mary"
   
   Adam knew Sheila was correct, sir; however, he had more folks and fairies after him than his sister, and as Darth Vader wisely instructed:  "It is unwise to lower your defenses."
   Oh well, the Datsun was up and running, a little 4-speed 240Z, and while not having the Grand National fixed up yet, the rascally rice burner still provided smooth cushion and a squirrel's bolt out of the nut-field.  
   Adam was on his way to visit Roger, a janitor addicted to asphyxiating himself with high-levels of bleach, making sure no jungle rot resided in his scrubbed toilet bowls--Roger was an All Pro in bathroom fumigation.  He was named after Mr. Staubach, the true Dodger, having invented the Hail Mary Pass while wearing the number 12, closing his eyes as the pocket collapsed on the gladiatorial turf; moreover, launching a lethal pigskin skywards and invoking the Queen of Heaven for six points.  He would've been the first QB to rush for a thousand yards if the Old Man in the hat (Tom Landry) would've let him call his own plays like Bradshaw did.  
   It wasn't an action-packed friendship--Adam and Roger I'm talk'n.  Just two loners looking lost at the neon-lit bar--two beers, getting in; next, getting out, and swiftly getting back to their habitats and locking their doors.  Adam was cool with low-key, and he had never kissed a girl that he had wanted to.  The last kiss he gave a dame was followed by a quick wash of LISTERINE, and he spit it out on his own shoes; then, had to wash them too.  It's not easy being crazy.  At least Adam felt safe with his sister.  Sheila could drop five men with her furious fists, having studied martial arts in the theater of her own mind, being born blessed with photographic reflexes; indeed, she could precisely mimic Bruce Lee, and not give a damn about the destructive damage she caused.  Adam liked that about her.  Liked it plenty.  For her fisticuffs were used only for Freedom's sake.  

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Voltaic Junkyard--Capacitor

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Capacitor"
   
   In front of the black and white with Bugs Bunny tuning it all in, Sheila and Adam, along with Wagon-Tail wagging, were all sitting on the futon, their daily duties of upkeep having found culmination--now:  a cool balm of Kava Kava soothing the senses, even the extra ones; moreover, BONANZA was on, and Michael Landon had to get more clean cut for that part; still, always a beauty with Samson-like might.  
  
SHEILA
Energy is housed within us all--just get the voltage spikes out.

ADAM
I've been reading Twain, his pen armed with simplicity, charming us like a fox.

SHEILA
The Red Fox is built to entertain.  Master of camouflage, like the Shinobi, though only living to survive and provide.  Loyal too.

ADAM
Maybe I'll go into town tomorrow and see if any bookstores still exist.  Can always order off of the Internet, but that feels like cheating.  I like to smell the squid-ink off the shelf.  Ya know?

SHEILA
Adapt Adam.  Who cares if the guy down the street is cheating on his taxes or houses an arsenal of semi-automatic weapons.  Just keep your own Temple clean, and all is well.  Okay, bro?

ADAM
This dog of yours is a real farter-starter.  Did you feed him any pizza?

SHEILA
Of course--I have a heart.  Even for dogs.  Especially the good ones.  

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Voltaic Junkyard--8-Cylinder

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--8-Cylinder"
   
   Adam's Dad told him:  "Boy, put a V-8 in any car; next, it's hard to beat."  What did Adam care, a Shakespearean cynic now, torn down by a society self-driven to copulate with artificial life, and even androids can nag you.  And while he respected his old man's energy, he wanted the super-charger on the 6-Cylinder Buick Grand National to come alive, for in the 1980's--it owned the asphalt till 60, and then some.  Good for making a playboy look cool in the city.  Everything wasn't Big Block Highway and the heavy muscle of an SS 454 breaking the pavement barrier.  
   Adam had a light-heart weighed by Divine Dogs; still, the world crushes the nice guy, and Adam had not the control of Sheila's sophisticated gel with the smooth spark.  Dude was freaked, not by things quoted as metaphysical, yet by the people, ignorant of anything around them--so internal, yet suffocating themselves with denial of all the energetic fields.  The Book says:  "We perish for lack of knowledge."  Some do.  Some know too much.  And the PRICE IS RIGHT will never be the same without a black-belt at the helm. 
   And, as if just to tease her brother, Adam heard Sheila call, and had an image of her grinning sweetly:  "Come on down."
   Ah hell, gotta spin the wheel.  

Voltaic Junkyard--Ampere-Hour

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Ampere Hour"
   
   Sheila knew they were fraudulent, chicken-fried fibs, crispy and clogging arteries, and only because those arteries were inflamed, slain by ferocious fear, birthing psychosomatic conditions dubbed clinical, as the phobia increases inflammation; thus, Sheila put on her G. Gordon Liddy thinking hat:  "Make your fears afraid of you."  She actually tried out for his Stacked-And-Packed Magazine--a non-scandalous showcase of lovely ladies in their under-garments and loaded heavy with their favorite firearms.  She didn't get accepted.  Only photographed herself with a blade.  A Bowie Knife, not able to wield a KA-BAR since she was never in the War Corp; hence, go with Bowie, for the dude knew Crockett, and not Sonny Crockett, though that dude knew Tubbs.  
   Sheila was munching on the yummy of the pineapple pizza, heavy on the black pepper--Earth's most used spice.  Her dog, Wagon-Tail was wagging and chomping on some oil-infused crust--never emasculated, allowing him doggy freedom and the innocent hump of a pillow case--some people like men that are men and dogs that are dogs.  And today--most women want to be men, as if suffering from phallic frenzy, lost without a pernicious portion to cruelly stick in somebody, forgetting that they are women.  But hey, Sheila was a party type of girl.  It's all cool--as long as you're nice.
   She would amp up the junkyard, now fueled by copper and carbs.  Her Ampere-Hour was sorta/kinda unlimited, in that she knew her power source, and it resided within.  So, she turned on the lights, got the washer running, all while cracking open a cheap beer full of aluminum's sometimes hostility and heaviness.  How could she not always thank God?  She owed Him everything.  All the pain, the laughter, the fight, and knowing that her father never hated her as her uncle said, him only wanting the old man to be enslaved to a system that doesn't work, because people covet their treasure, and not spread the tune of charity as did a mere tradesman, so Divine.  And to think, when she was in her teens--she thought it was ALL paranormal activity--though it is, in a way.    
  Sheila burped the Bud Heavy.  Got on with it.  Her house would not fall out underneath her, even though built on solid ground, for Solomon knew:  "Gotta keep your residence royal."  More or less.