Jamming Aunt Mitzy

Blood money?

Angry people (Michael Clayton VS Karen Crowder)

A Squirrel Girl

   
   "A Squirrel Girl"

   Squirrel Girl, or so hence she took the name, not by marriage mind ya, yet through a type of spiritual adoption.  A fiction-grown character gelled into her mind, armed with a bushy tail, can crack nuts, and has a sense of tree bark, though never inhales the sap of the situation.
   She had no weapons save some jars of gasoline sprinkled with Frosted Flakes, the fumes cleansing the air, better than a purifier, it actually scalding the toxicity out, like a heated copper wire, channeling dire circumstances, in knowing that your relative has a mad crush on your daughter.  What, you don't think that kind of stuff happens?
   Squirrel girl, no--let's call her Blake, well--she knew bologna was phony, and that the system was rigged, but the allegory of Captain America out of the ice, having chilled it past tense--he liked the super-symmetry of circles, and yet nobody thought he had super-powers.
   He didn't even go to West Point and his uniform is red, white, and blue.  How can't you admire that guy?  Blake drew his name on her tennis shoes with a SHARPIE; next, fell into a dream-state, lucid enough to let her know she was beyond the heck of being overly social.  Anti-Social?  No, overly-social is much worse.  More instances of crime and rebellion against the Flag, Old Glory.  

Old man, ponytail--illegal firearms; possible child molester

   
   "Old man, ponytail--illegal firearms; possible child molester"
  
   They saw him limping around from inside the tavern.  I gave management his name and occupation.  Wrote his name on my sidewalk, maybe his initials are:  SB.  Maybe they're not.
   Still--maybe.  Possibly.
   Stalking, with guns, pot, and a halfway curved genital-fueled arousal, well--let's look at the porn on his computer, as well as that of those who paid him.  They gave him the loot.  Toucan Sam knows--if ya are picking up what I'm putting down.
   Wish law enforcement would run PTSD people through not phony checks, bu damn make sure that creeps like that don't get themselves killed for being, metaphorically, possessed by coal-colored intent to dig their own graves.
   If only business wasn't so casual, the Packers were back in the Ice Bowl, and scrambling Fran was at the helm, ready to jam out of the pocket.  Purple People Eaters at his back.  

American Cantina--Father Malachi Martin

   
   "American Cantina--Father Malachi Martin"
   
   In her 20's, Jules' father told her that her step-mother, who worked at a gun store, hanging out with snipers and government guys, was going to have one of those guys scare her--solid as gold is the bizarre truth--even stranger than fiction.
   Her step-mother would come back from the gun store smelling of Evan Williams; plus, the grape speaks the truth, telling of her co-workers using illegal narcotics while in a gun store.
   Jules never said a word.  She supported the 2nd Amendment.  It could kill her, or protect her, depending on the soul armed with the projectile weapon.
   She recalled Father Malachi Martin--America's leading Catholic exorcist; plus, a great American author, in a sense.  He wrote a book on the iniquity of step-parents; at the same time, most clinical psychologists know this is axiomatic as well.
   Too, the rivalry, even in cruel sinister fashion, of siblings.  And yet some siblings don't want to compete.  They don't want due to God being their shepherd.  Preparing a feast for her in front of her enemies.  She felt no guilt.  Pointed to a crucified Yahshuah.  Also, a transfigured Yahshuah--from everlasting to everlasting.  

American Cantina--their texts, emails, and contacts

   
   "American Cantina--their texts, emails, and contacts"
   
   Jules knew she was clean.  Not a Saint, nor a martyr.  A mere simplistic confessor--only of truth, and the American Way.
   If they looked, saw where cash, credit, and the contacts were coming from--and they have; however, competing factions; still, as Sir Charles Barkley of the Phoenix Suns admitted, a great philosopher, in a sense:  "Nobody is ever always gonna be with you.  50% will like you; 50% will not like you."  Nobody is in the clear; at the same time, the Hebrew Calendar proclaims this year:  "The King is in the field."  And He pulls the weeds, making the crop clear and clean.  
   Maybe your android is spying on you.  Maybe your android seeks truth and justice; moreover, has compassion, and hates evil, especially if it involves throwing a sick person away, and not choosing life.
   Jules had nothing to hide.  Their withdrawals, from banks, credit unions, stocks, bonds, things sold, or however; plus, their recorded history by way of phone, email, text, script, and the history of cereal, like Fruit Loops, with numbers, if you trust the Toucan.
   Who are they talking to, or getting people to talk to for them?  Who do they break bread with, or have?  And who do those people congregate with?  Their circles, and the circles of the other tribes that they are in league with?  Doesn't take a genius.  
   Jules' history on them was buried, as was what she knew, having gone through their phone, she did, and their computer, and followed them to places, as if a good ghost.
   Yet Jules knew more.  God is real.  And there is either hell to pay, or a perfect paradise, however you like, being tame, domesticated, and yet you'll be able to fly--like an eagle.
   "Praise God."  Yes, King David said to do this; next, He allows you to soar like an eagle.  But if the mad scientist has taken you away from God, just listen to all the history of His super-mundane reality and TRUE existence.  
   Jules, for her, it was:  God; next, Country.  Red, White, and sanitizing Blue.