Werefox Vaquero--hunting by singularity

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--hunting by singularity"
  
   The Moon was waning, not completely meaning dim things; on the contrary, a kind culmination; moreover, resulting in possible transformation--Ela really didn't give a darn, for anything at any time resides on the horizontal horizon, like getting mugged in an alley if you're in your 20's and living in Washington during the grunge rage in the 1990's, having gone into that alley in order to puke up some carbonated alcoholic beverage ordered from the lesbian beer princess before she is nowadays more generally accepted--perhaps we have made progress as a country.
   Ela didn't blame the two teams in Washington, nor the Special Interests, for there was always a spark of hope, and she was glad tax dollars went to pay for a NASA toilet seat--she liked astronauts.
   But the American West, the way of any ideal, even Asian Monks without revolvers, buzz-cut, and armed to the max, wearing maybe perhaps a shiny shuriken on a silver necklace under their STAR WARS t-shirt.  American Indians harnessing the Earth.  Cowboys and quick-draws.  A Miner with a pony.  A Banker.  Bar Owner.  Prostitute.  Franciscan Priest.  Dogs on dirt streets.  A pharmacy where you could get anything, yet more importantly--what you needed to survive.  Sure pharmaceutical companies ban natural substances that heal with more medicamental swift than chem-lab constructed drugs, both which can kill--though some less than others, yet finances and money usually dictate the legal protocols, and we brag of capitalism, yet it all seemed like a bad idea to her.  Though knowing the Western Parks still stood, and that America gave a Bill of Rights to all people--it seemed, honest after all.
    Conflict and counterpoise.  A perpetual struggle.  Impressing.  Ashamed corporeally, in any way.  She just knew to look over her shoulder, for everybody is wacky and weird.
  She stripped down, gently.  Morphed into the Kit Fox.  Scrambled on all-fours, making a mercurial adjustment.  Found a mouse.  It saved on groceries.  

Werefox Vaquero--Han and Chewie

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Han and Chewie"
   
   Jeremy didn't give a rat's pseudo-royal ass about indoctrination and falsehoods--as long as you lived the Multiversal energy that you are, more or less. What--he never pondered?  Cause they call him a midget with short limbs--appendages made for the characters of Lord of the Rings?  Throw that damn ring away--you stupid hobbit; indeed, that was Jeremy's philosophical gripe.  But he knew:  ask any Bush League cop or cotton-picking attorney, too lazy, unlike Grant and Sherman, to pick their own shit, if they know the Ten Commandments?  Mostly, no cops or attorneys residing in the United States of America can quote the Ten Commandments, nor the Beatitudes, yet proclaim to be law enforcement--what, unjust law?  Of course.  What, are you Harvard Law?  Nope.  Berkeley?  Even Philip K. Dick dropped out of Berkeley to work @ a record store, and wrote the greatest of science fiction in a weird hippie era, after being hit by a pink laser beam, so he claimed, and still he transcends the mosh-pit of modern humanity.
  Put theoretical physicist Michio Kaku on any stand in a courtroom--in this not so free america, kinda/sorta limp--and he will tear any phony lawyer to pussafied pieces.  What--there is everlasting to everlasting?  Ancient Hebrews that accepted True Law and made a Divine Exodus from slavery?  Like Moses, what is your problem?  Get your older brother Aaron with the topaz breastplate, and we can get the hell out of here--I'm tell'n ya.  Infinite possibilities, AND BEYOND--IMPERATIVE!  
   Jeremy knew there was no hope.  A twisted, phony America.  Paul Ryan--a prep-school brat.  And Rand Paul gets rolled cause he's a Libertarian, not into the phony bologna?  He stood up, while the gremlin attorney general camouflages vociferous acts in a rear-view mirror?  Jeremy wondered if it was legal to ponder truth.
   He cleaned his tire iron with a baby wipe.  Headed to the Suzuki motor-scooter, of sorts.  Cranked the dual-exhaust to a sputtering life.  Next, gone, and alive--for now.  Like Han and Chewie, smuggling for gangsters, cause the Empire is crooked as shit.  Thank God for Lando.  He even was a guest-star on the Jeffersons.  A damn fine show.  Ya know.  

Star Wars Episode IV - A New Hope (1977) - Han Solo - Bounty Hunter (Har...

Werefox Vaquero--yonder yokel

     
   "Werefox Vaquero--yonder yokel"

   
   Jeremy wasn't a half-bad yokel; moreover, he wasn't a good man; however, he was a decent guy--a totally decent guy.  Sure, he had his flaws, like a protruding belly that did hang over his britches, and not in a Valley Girl bodacious fashion.  Never forget the Valley Girl.  California was totally awesome in the 1980's.  Johnny Carson--ya know.  I think the greatest talk show host always drove a Corvette, mostly.
   So, Jeremy ain't no cowboy.  Prefers a rice-burning Suzuki, merely armed with 250cc's, rather than a thundering horse gelled with a dangerous stampede of hoofs and iron.
   For protection, out in the Free West, Jeremy carried a tire iron--went old school.  Didn't even have a cowboy hat or shirt with a collar.  Didn't even like the Dallas Cowboys; indeed, he was moved by the Pittsburgh Steelers, remembering the blue-collar man forged in steel during the Jack Lambert days.
   Jeremy was an old timer as well.  Little did the pudgy paragon of bachelor butt-kicking know--he was about to get wrangled up in some live-action, playing the part of sidekick to the portion of Ela and Max.  And even though he didn't know--heck, he was ready.  Like SpongeBob, in a non-aquatic way.  

Werefox Vaquero--All the Caboose

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--All the Caboose"
   
   Ela didn't mind a wise correction here and there, for a little good counsel can keep a cowgirl's legs shaved properly; however, scat is never needed by an honest ranch-hand; thus, when this old timer dubbed Silly Willy, ornamented in a fancy Van Dyke beard, and haughty enough to display a dandy derby hat, in a laboring lady's space no less, mouthed off to her, first, vocally announcing:  "Girly, you gotta teach that piece of livestock a lesson.  Get some guts.  Tell dat bitch--you mess with the bull--you get the horns."
   Ela just shot him a canine's posturing glance, knowing the fine beast was on a hard ride to somebody's dinner plate; moreover, knew the animal was shy and frightened, deserving tender mercies, save when she needed to be pumped up by high frequency to face what's coming.
   Max came upon the scene, a lasso in his hand, and an innocent glimmer in his eyes for Ela's fight and fortitude, knowing:  if she wanted, she could've slapped Silly Willy to the ground, and just for the heck of it.  Guess it wouldn't have been ladylike.  Anyway, Max put a protective arm around his kinda/sorta girlfriend, giving her a crooked grin that was honest and true.  Yup, she dug him.  Sometimes lately--she felt like Max was All the Caboose.  Yet never invading with anything save suave sublimity.  

Brave 1980's Television Star

   
   "Brave 1980's Television Store"
   
   For the Norse gods--you get taken to Valhalla by blonde Valkyries if you show courage.  Jesus:  "Fear not."  Similar.  A good-looking television star diagnosed with bad stuff, shaking, trembling, problems with speech, asymmetrical walking gait, and I heard a radio show host mock him--the nice guy that did BACK TO THE FUTURE--ya know.
   You think maybe sometimes he doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning?  Like a cowboy having slept on the hot terrain next to venomous critters and thieving canines, he pulls himself up from the Earth, his ass having been fully kicked the day before, and he does soldier on. 
   You can always lay there and die.  And like that nurse told me when I was 28 years of age, 114 pounds, and she flipped me over in bed like a floppy waffle:  "I know when it's my time to go--when I lose control of my bowels."  She can go to hell.  And I would've laid in that damn hospital till I died, if it hadn't been for a little Mexican cleaning lady that came into my room, gawked at me; next, exclaimed:  "What are you doing here!?!  You so young.  Get out of here.  You can't be sick.  You're so young."  I had myself unplugged and left.  Thank God for that lady.
   Now, I guess it's time to just enjoy and accept being an old man.  Everything hurts.  Doctors gave me pills that cause stomach bleeding.  Great.  I feel so secure with these cranks.  
   And if you do go, just remember the words in that cool movie:  "It's better to be dead and cool, than alive and uncool."  Being uncool doesn't mean being beaten to hell--it means giving people shit when they already have enough of allegorical fecal matter on their Snoopy "Special Edition" lunch plate.   

Amos--5:8

   
   "Amos--5:8"
   
   Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night:  that calleth for the waters of the sea, and poureth them out upon the face of the earth:  The LORD is His name.