Jazzmin Flush (28)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (28)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush, her California, ultraviolet-exposed flesh glistening with glittering glow, bubbling like heated champagne in a make-shift hot tub; plus, her dirty-blonde mane luminously lathered in the loving luxury of water-blue aqua, all within the icy confines of Thomas' Quasi-Fortress of Solitude, the angelic architecture due to the Divine Sculptor of many things.  And Thomas, in human form, is watching, not rudely leering, his sweet, Miss Jazzmin Flush.
   
JAZZMIN FLUSH
Opens her long-lashed eyes.  What?  You?  You saved me?
  
THOMAS
Who the hell else lives way up here?  And I'm sorry for saying hell.
  
JAZZMIN FLUSH
You are sooooo Thomas.  This feels nice.  It's a hot tub like those ice monkeys have.
   
THOMAS
You're safe,  And I had to, by necessity, glare at your boobies and muscular butt cheeks.  But it looks like you haven't shaved your legs or pits for weeks.
   
JAZZMIN FLUSH
Is this how couples talk?
  
THOMAS
We're not a couple.
   
JAZZMIN FLUSH
Thomas--I just strutted my butt over an entire continent to find you.  Yes.  Yes--we are a couple!!!
   
THOMAS
You don't have to yell at me about it, Jazzmin.    

Jazzmin Flush (27)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (27)"
  
   Jazzmin Flush sincerely plunged deep into the Northwest Territories, snowgirl, a glacial feast of near death, fluxing Otherworldly--in and out of normal, human consciousness, driven psychotically by more than mere sexuality; moreover, a regal chance to royally indulge in true love, to innocently play, knowing that if sacred sex was a real possibility, not sloppy sport squirts and dastardly queefs, but something special and sublime--like play between two prancing pronghorn; next, it was welcome and worth it.  Too, there is no pressure in lovely play save for advantage-taking sadists.   
   Therefore, Jazzmin Flush--dead and alive, lost to a freaky friendship, having totally engaged in the friendly fantastic of mystic synergy--she collapsed into frostbite; nevertheless, got yanked around the noose-like neck of her near demise by magically forged yet chummy canine incisors from the platinum shimmer of Canis lupus arctos; indeed, Thomas had shown up!  And isn't that what life is all about?  Showing up.  

Jazzmin Flush (26)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (26)"   
   
   Jazzmin Flush knew, as she got toasty and cozy in a sophisticated shanty within the Caribou Mountains, icy twist of Green Resurrection Springing somewhere, maybe not exactly here, where she was, found nearly Han Soloways before Fett's frigid escort to Jabba, by a gorgeous soul named Anernerk, a type of native infused into the sacred land--attractive and elderly with symmetrical, artistic lines through his face, till upon a gray diadem of flowing, dead tissue.
   And Jazzmin Flush knew too--it was time for Girthy Gilda to go smokeless. Anernerk had given her some snus, a tobacco product forged by the Northern Europeans, and she decided to give the shiny tin to Girthy Gilda--if she ever made it, wherever and back, alive in body.  Then, Anernerk, smiling with hot water and cocoa mix, sat across from her on dilapidated furniture within permafrost habitat; next, deciding to be a visionary with vocal reminder.  "The Harrowing of Hell Today.  The Great Sabbath, you, Catholic Girl."
   Jazzmin Flush regally burped surprise.  "You know I'm Catholic, in a cafeteria but respectful mode mind ya?"
   "Anernerk knows many things.  Your boyfriend--a freaking dog.  But every dog has a day--maybe two, once said a great bard."
   Jazzmin Flush wished a little of the weird away today, and great--her boyfriend is a dog.  Still, she knew--I love you Lord.    

Cover Girl--Joe Team, 1980's

   
   "Cover Girl--Joe Team, 1980's"  
   
COVER GIRL

Primary Military Sophistication:  Armor
Qualified Expert:  LAW Rocket/M-16

A cult character, making rare yet celebrated appearances,
Cover Girl cleaned up well for the Joe Team's defense of peninsulas;
Specifically, she was the best cutie,
Armed with armor-piercing beauty--
Better than I can crappily draw,
But I drank a Robin Hood Cream Ale in 1980's Arkansas . . .

   

Jazzmin Flush (25)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (25)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush resurrected and revisited her universal Catholicism; specifically, Saints and weird Wolves--uh, dogs too.  Saint Francis taming the torrid wolfen aspects of the carnivorous canine haunting Gubbio, Saint Patrick mystically morphing man wolfways, and of course--the glistening Shamrock, Virgin Mary eternally infused into the lovable luck of Four-Leaf Clover; next, Saint Christopher and the dandy doghead, never stick and balling billiards, or maybe.
   Regardless, there was a myriad of mojo more, yet Jazzmin Flush only had cute, 1980's cartoons in her four-chambered heart for quirky Thomas; moreover, she magically adored the dude.
   THOMAS
   SPIRIT WOLF
   SOUL:  Body and Spirit gel.
   CHRIST DIED ON CROSS:  Only Spirit departed, not entire Incarnation.
   RESURRECTION:  Remembrance of Body and Spirit mesh.
   SPIRIT WOLF:  Retains human consciousness, completely--does acquiesce to wolf survival, on minor level.  Yet, when man, a wolfen will expanded.
   Thomas, now a stallion-like stud, of sorts, as if a mighty and masculine guy with defined chin area in a romance novel about them all-too-wild werewolves, where he flings her responsive nipple with thumb digit for the elation of a reader's nastee--oh boy, Jazzmin Flush blushed--but never bestial.  

Jazzmin Flush (24)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (24)"
   
   "Scavenged whale carcass is a delicious delicacy."  Jazzmin Flush heard this within her cerebral capacity, pulsating, resonating, and sounding like Thomas mixed with a bit of "ruff ruff" growl in his telepathic vociferousness; indeed, in the Year 2019 Of Our Lord, Wikipedia listed that every canine possessed a form of unique telepathy.  So, of course!  For nobody else, especially not the Holy Family, would be hungrily informing her that whale carcass is a delicious delicacy.
   This bizarre communication from the young, wolfish man she loved, this awesome stretch of romantic, spiritual fiber formed quicksilver and competitive steel in herself--to push herself further within the unfamiliar, driving her towards the icy edges of Terra's wondrous Everland.  But, so many questions, and still--so much adoration to rain over her sweet Thomas when she unearthed that furballish friend.  Catholics and their spirit wolves--somebody should tell somebody.  

Jazzmin Flush (23)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (23)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush had not experienced and zany zombie activity as of yet; specifically, backpacking with a lime-green zombie blade loaned from the peach-rich virtue of Girthy Gilda might have heavily attracted such uncanny undeadism, yet there was nothing happening along those long lines for the venturing, California Blonde.  So, she bundled up in an Army-Tuff, green jacket, zipping it not timid but tight; next, walked her leather-crafted, oatmeal yellow boots into Alberta.  Still, it was a terrifically terrible trek, a couple local wolves along the way, and a pestering coyote that just wanted her to give it some flowery love; moreover, she still had quite a heavy haul upwards, to the Northwest Territories.  
   Thomas was smeared in glacial respect, having reverence for the unappreciated ice cube, lodged and locked in imperial-white tray pissed in by many college guys to further fuel the comedy of a girlfriend's father--him drinking the urine spike towards their personal hilarity and cruel elation; nonetheless, Thomas didn't give a rat's ass about sophomorish hijinks, now that he was the Arctic Wolf, in a very weird way, retaining all aspects of his humble humanity, not driven by the pack, living off small game, glaring the innocent, over-sexed hare right in the eye.  Hey, it was a living, and he knew--he knew:  Jazzmin Flush was on her way.  But, what of it?