We all got it coming

   
   "We all got it coming"
   
   From Clint Eastwood--ya know.  I run a tight ship--nobody else really gives a rat's ass.  Dishes, garbage (always wanted to be a garbage man, for real), people shit, dog shit, cooking, dishes, lifting, lifting, more lifting, even things beyond, worked and slaved to the core with no portion on paper, beaten down, no social joys save the wildlife, and can you blame me?--have you met your best friend that wants to lay your wife?  Shit has always been going down, and affects all people; however, some are chosen to be metaphorically targeted before others.  Look at politics--who'd want to be in that racket?  Let us wend way back, going retro to a Free American West.  No pollution, no heavy Federal Complex, honest law enforcement dictated by true survivalists, Native American lore and the Earth, and being non-locals, we must enter not with papers, yet with determination and steel, though, laughter alongside Trump, and a better appreciation for his Free Speech that mercurially makes for a tickle in the pinkie.
   I expect a surgical environment.  Can you blame me?  I'm taking care of two sick people, my battered self, and a dog with a limp.  If you come to help, in any form; next, help--do not fool around in front of the downtrodden, for even they can get pissed.
   When they diagnose you with disease--that's cool.  Just don't give up.  You'll get yours, but fight for now.  What the hell else can you do?  Life is not meant for the wicked or wimps, and the wicked only bring grief, false testimony, and accusation, without telling the guy at the bar--how it is.
   Have a beer--shit, you're going to die anyway.  A while back, my Mom seeing visions, and she blurts out:  "Not today."  Moreover, 600,000 people fade into nowhere every year.  Maybe they get out, somehow.  But not all to a good place--me thinks.  

[ESB] Meeting Lando (HD)

Voltaic Junkyard--Watching the Oldies

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Watching the Oldies"
   
   Just with the black and white, Carter Era rabbit listeners, and you can still tune into the tube; plus, hook up a VCR and watch Captain Solo blast Greedo before he fired first; next, cowboy saunter out of the Galactic Cantina with a toss of some heavy metal, well--enough to pay off leaving a dead bounty hunter behind.
   Sheila whimpered at the thought of society, enforced without the Western aspects of cowboys, thinking STAR WARS a type of Space Western before the Space Samurai theme set in.  She'd been arrested for tagging a local park ranger after getting tongue-lashed by a lewd enforcement chick with a "I hug trees" badge; still, she didn't have to throw dead dogs into a furnace like they made some do in Arkansas after getting snookered into a state of probation; indeed, a shoot-out for survival in the Outer Rim seems not ridiculous, and that outer-space justice system seemed appropriate when people are pitching tents in America, and the water has morphed toxic in so many places.
   Sheila owned no firearm, going old school with the wandering monk weaponry tucked underneath her feminine frame, as if she was dainty, but Earth's energy, spawned on her own set of ideals, having her character alignment matched with a set of principles for all of her purposes, never magically shape-shifting though, but remaining cloaked in her own wardrobe of wondrous armor.
   She took a random muscle car out and bought some RANCH PRINGLES at a local gas station that had a Pac-Man video game in the corner; plus, a washroom that housed a crusty sofa.  Go figure.  

You know what Ol' Jack Burton always says...

Voltaic Junkyard--Roger's Visit

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Roger's Visit"
  
   ROGER ON THE STREET LEGAL KX 200, THINKING MAYBE IT WAS A TWO-CYCLE, AND WHILE THAT MADE YOU BUZZ AND SPIN ON THE DISMOUNT, THE NEON-GREEN GAVE HIM FORTUNATE FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY--YET MAXIMUM POWER MUST BE USED TO PRODUCE A GOOD CROP.  SO, ROGER AND ADAM IN THE TIN BOX.

ROGER
Your sister is very talented.  Is she single?  Don't be a bodyguard brother, nor let me have her easy.

ADAM
Holy crap, that's my sister man!  We got an alliance here, two weird guys down on the dumb, and you can't go making time with Sheila--she'll take no garbage or bullshit; she sees through it all.  Says I'm too passive and unsure.  That young lady is a war horse.

ROGER
How did she get those chiseled arms and legs, yet not fatty, just tone and like a model?

ADAM
Prayer, vitamins, and no stress from society.  All she has is the junkyard and that wacky dog.  It's her mission to make the junkyard a temple, of sorts.  She knows everything is real--inter-dimensional things, phantoms, saints, angels, truck drivers, hookers, firetrucks, alien craft, and that comical guy back in the 1970's that bit potato chips and made a crunch or something.  Are you lifting up what I'm laying down?

ROGER
You may be more like her than you think.  

Voltaic Junkyard--Boss 302

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Boss 302"
   
   Sheila didn't have time to poorly ponder her brother's trepidation concerning the stalking--screw his accusers, for look at all the horseshit they dropped on the range.  So, after curing the manor, for the junkyard had a circular perimeter, meaning a grassy barrier, before the red-painted fencing; next, all the automobile industry that had been broken and forgotten, and Sheila was the physician, healing her mechanical patients with TLC, now:  working on a 1969 Boss 302, jury-rigging the intake over the carb, making sure the upgraded four-barrel sucked in more of the race in front of her.
   She didn't go for the bling-like jazz of white letter tires though.  A bit of humility makes muscle even more chiseled.  Sheila wiped the grease off her forehead, put the wrench down, and there was a bowl of Kava Kava next to her, and as they do in Rarotonga sometimes, she imbibed the smooth relax, and felt the purest part of the Pacific offer a kiss-like breeze of polished peace.  

My Baby loves me - Lyrics