Liberty's Sparkle (43)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (43)"
   
   Before the angel of death carried Tom into the Loving Father's Arms, he confessed to Liberty:  "I've always felt so lazy and guilty.  Bizarre thoughts I never wanted, an inability to gel with society, and compulsions to hate myself."
   Liberty responding:  "Their ignorance Tom.  You had neurological problems--a basal ganglia gone hyperactive since birth; next, a tumor, making things worse.  How can you teach a man to fish with no arms?"
   Tom died shortly thereafter, shaking uncontrollably; then, into the Otherworld, where those that mourn are comforted.
   Wanda's husband Jacob felt a twinge of guilt for not helping, but he was obedient unto a manipulative, cruel spouse--her afflicted with the demons of self love.
   Faye assisted Liberty with the cremation, the twosome not being able to afford a proper and righteous burial.  They never heard a word from Wanda or Tom's other sister, writing him off as a sluggish loser.
   Liberty wept.  Faye too.  Spanky observing sadly, all due to sinister circumstance that drove them to poverty, due to nothing save illness and lack of mercy.
    "What will we do now?"  Liberty asked Faye with tears running down her face.
   Faye embraced Liberty with love:  "Continue being hated by the masses.  Their opinions and ignorance based only on pride."  

Liberty's Sparkle (42)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (42)"
   
   Liberty sought out the honorary Monsignor at Our Lady of Good Counsel.  There, after writing the Church a small check for twelve dollars, she was allowed a theological symposium with the holy man, him wearing the Roman Collar, and having a face more chiseled than Rock Hudson's--a strong jaw, dark brows, and a mane of coal-black hair--very thick.
  
MONSIGNOR
You have Nordic genes--fully evolved you are.

LIBERTY
Huh?

MONSIGNOR
No matter; anyway, you said your husband Tom has a type of brain cancer or something, and that you want to learn how to pray.  Well, "All men's faces are true."  That's from Shakespeare; specifically, Antony and Cleopatra.  And as Christ knew:  "They that are whole have no need of a physician, but they that are sick."

LIBERTY
Are you saying that I don't need God to heal him?

MONSIGNOR
Sparkle Liberty!  That's what you do.  Us humans make up the Multiverse along with the Celestial Hierarchy; however, we all live in separate Universes, yet united.  Infuse your sparkle into your husband Tom.  Willing it naturally, with mirth and much glee.

LIBERTY
That's it!?!

MONSIGNOR
I'm no healer.  I drink sour mash and smoke cheap cigars to deal with my celibacy--the drinking there to extinguish my carnal cravings.

LIBERTY
So, just be myself?

MONSIGNOR
That simple, and the simpler something is; next, the closer it is to God.

Liberty's Sparkle (41)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (41)"
   
   Marty sweetly enabled Tom to undergo cranial magnetic resonance imaging, which ominously displayed a right temporal lobe tumor extending to the basal ganglia.  Obviously, this was part of Tom's tics and suffering.
  Possibly radiosurgery could be performed, but Liberty and Tom were tapped out financially.  Wanda had heard the news, and cackled to her husband Jacob:  "I always knew that my little brother was a mutated freak."
   Jacob, so genuine in his caring, responded:  "We have to help him--to pay for treatment."
   Faye's face turned crimson, as it often did, her responding:  "And rob our retirement account?  The money we've saved for our future children?  This is Tom and that quixotic bitch Liberty's damn problem.  Let them find a way to fund his freakish needs."
   Jacob bit his tongue.  He wanted to slug her, like might the Catholic Sinatra, knowing Christ's words:  "If your brother sins against you--rebuke him."
   On the flip side, within the sublime poverty of the mobile home, Tom was shaking as he laid on the futon, Spanky eagerly watching him, as if knowing his master was sick.
   Faye and Liberty were outside, in the approaching autumn winds, both smoking cigarettes, their hands shaking, and their souls gone weary.
   Liberty was like:  "We can't afford the surgery."
   Faye stated:  "There's always prayer."
   Liberty chimed:  "Everyone thinks I'm so sweet and nurturing, but I've never really prayed, not even when my Dad was sick; we never discussed politics or religion."
   Faye smiled sadly:  "Hell, those two topics are the most interesting.  We gotta find a way to help Tom.  So, start praying Liberty, for just as your soul healed me--it may restore Tom too."
   Liberty cried:  "Why do my friends think I'm so great?"
   Faye grabbed her arm with loving intensity:  "Because you are girlfriend.  You truly are."  

Liberty's Sparkle (40)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (40)"
   
   Faye got the name of the house-calling physician Tom was seeing, an altruistic type, hellbent on driving away people's internal demons--his name was Marty, and he always expected his patients to call him that.  Marty worked Pro Bono for the low income types, out of love for healing.  He met Faye at her apartment, it having had a metamorphosis from immature Goth, to a more elaborate type of classical Goth, her having picked up many Catholic statues and such for her surroundings.  So, as he sat, the conversation began.

MARTY
You said on the phone that this had to do with molestation.

FAYE
Yeah, my crummy father was a real screwball.  I don't blame him anymore, but for years, all I wanted was the attention of guys.  Creepy guys too.  Did anything to get it.  But then, I met Liberty, Tom's wife.  After meeting this wondrous girl everything changed.  I took all my piercings out of my face, and I want to remove my tattoos; plus, I haven't had sex in months.  I'm looking for real love now.

MARTY
So, what's the problem then?  Having trouble relaxing, sleeping, eating?

FAYE
No--none of that.  I just want you to help Tom more.

MARTY
I can't discuss other patients.

FAYE
I'm not stupid; I know that.  But this guy is a mess, and Liberty's enchanting soul hasn't healed him like it has healed me.  Please Marty--help Tom.  Do everything in your power to make him the man he deserves to be.  Liberty tells me all, and we're both really worried about him.

MARTY
You are a nice friend Faye, and don't worry--I'll do my best with Tom.

FAYE
Thanks Doc, uh, I mean Marty.  

Liberty's Sparkle (39)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (39)"
   
   Tom was vibrating like a 50 cent milkshake held by the hilarity of SpongeBob, squirming and moaning in wacky weirdness, having fits beyond bizarre, convinced he had a severe neurological disorder.  Going home to Liberty and Spanky, he spilled the lovely beans about what the elderly gentleman had told him; next, the conversation ignited.  

LIBERTY
Tom--he was just an old fool, probably.

TOM
But what if I'm going to get Parkinson's?  It could happen.  And you know about willing someone to get sick, and I know in my gut that Wanda wants me to die.

LIBERTY
Wanda wants everybody to die--that's just her thing; she's a wicked witch.  Wants to rule suburbia.

TOM
Maybe I should call the doctor or check myself in--get institutionalized.  

LIBERTY
And leave me baby, never.  Leans over on the futon and kisses his cheek.  Spanky licks him as well.

TOM
You're real swell and all Liberty, but I don't want you to watch me die--it will rob you of your innocent sublimity.

LIBERTY
If you are sick Tom, which you are, but if it gets worse; next, it's my duty as your wife to look out after you.  We have to stick together.  And if you think I'm so magnanimous and all; then, imbibe my energy.  Drink it deep into your heart and soul.  We can make it.  You gotta believe.

TOM
Shaking.  Okay, I will make the attempt.

Liberty's Sparkle (38)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (38)"
   
   Tom was once again in pizza action, back running the anchovy miles, finally having purchased a cell phone, using its technology to wend his way easier to each address he had to target.  The pie he was carrying, hot and steamy, was pepperoni and cheese; thus, Tom figured a normal person, so much unlike himself.
   He came upon a suburban stronghold, red bricks and a fancy white picket fence used as a perimeter to separate it from the other mini-mansions.  He put the car in park, got the hot pizza, and sauntered with a bit of a limp, a problem he was having lately, towards the front door.
   Before ringing the bell, an elderly man opened it up swiftly, dressed in a Hawaiian styled bathrobe, handed Tom a fifty dollar bill with the great general upon its green; next, told Tom:  "Keep the change kid."
   Tom handed over the pie and was like:  "But sir, this is a fifty."
   The old man responded:  "I know kid, but it looks like you got the shakes--I saw you approaching, you might have a neurological problem, and I figured a pizza boy with oncoming Parkinson's might need the extra cash."  
   Then, the old dude closed the door, but not before giving Tom a freaky smile.  Tom turned green, looked skywards and uttered:  "Oh Lord, help me with whatever is happening."  

Gallimaufry Politics

   
   "Gallimaufry Politics"
   
   Badly pieced or gelled together, much like the Clinton marriage, but who am I to judge; regardless, owned by the pharmaceutical companies seems to be Mrs. Clinton; thus, no legal cannabis, which could be taxed, and overwhelmingly pay for a real health care plan for Americans.
   "The West is the best--get out here, and we'll do the rest."  A quote from Mr. Morrison, the crooner, and possibly a sufferer of urethra cancer due to numerous penile infections from nasty women hellbent on engaging him in intercourse, due to his finely chiseled corporeal features.
   And the American West is ALWAYS 1st in sublimity and knowledge.  Ya, ya, the Ivy League and all, but the North catches up afterwards; next, the American South is always last, ultimately offering a stubborn acquiesce.  
   Lynyrd Skynyrd, named after their gym teacher, obviously takes King David's advice and imbibes the herb for the service of man, as quoted in the King James Bible.  His son, Solomon, further saying in a kinda sorta way:  "Give them wine to uplift their spirits.  The downtrodden, not the healthy, need wine."  
   But who cares.  Owned by the makers of Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, like Prozac and Paxil, Hillary Clinton will never legalize!!!  She is bought, sold, and paid for.  Bernie isn't; on the contrary, neither is Trump--they own themselves.
   Israel has like twenty strains of cannabis for the solace of those suffering, and the American West is catching up.  What does it take?  Tax Terra's green, and stop sodomizing people in the South for attemtping to get by.  Yes, people will abuse.  Screw them.  Others will use as directed, obedient unto the will of Liberty.  And don't get me started on General George and the first American flag, forged from the grass of Native Americans.  It's Biblical; it's American, and nobody gives a freaking or cautious shit.  Lock them up, probation, depression, more Prozac and Paxil, and less freedom.
   We are to be dull in this country.  Undergraduate education is a joke, especially from Bush League students.  But the system is:  get in, pay your dues, look good on paper, and that's it.  Autodidacts like Benji Franklin don't matter, yet his health advice transcends the Harvard knowledge of Dr. Oz, him being from the Land of Oz; nevertheless, there is wisdom there.  It is everywhere.  Some people need Paxil, while others don't.  It's all relative.  Just give us liberty, not bullshit.  Tax the shit, and there will be no ultra-induced psychosis, but a glee born from the Earth's sublime surface.