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?