Jazzmin Flush (31)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (31)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush waited patiently, incisors salivating, kinda, as Thomas went out on werewolf safari, wrangling up some whale blubber--he told her it was welcome to the tummy if cooked well-done, for humans of course, but he preferred it raw, clinging to some nutrient-packed bone.  As a strange girl, as a girl regardless, Jazzmin Flush was not too thrilled about hanging out in an ice castle and eating whale blubber, but times were beautifully bizarre, and the sentient tissue of whales was definite brain food.
   Then, an energy-echoing explosion blast through an ice wall, sending obnoxious sound and crystal cubes of frozen water precipitating all around; next, a southern-sculpted man, resonating the proud face of a downward-lipped slave owner came strutting into Thomas' habitat, smiling wickedly with corn cob teeth, dastardly offering:  "Hello sweet darling, girlfriend of the ice wolf.  My name is Slippery Slim--the complete manifestation of all your impatience and worries.  I'm a hot blizzard of trouble, and I'm here to cage you Southwards.  Yep, we still be fighting the Civil War, when gray-bearded generals terrorized the precious glue of American Foundation--the South shall rise again."
   Jazzmin Flush knew peace was just an illusion, or her lack of faith, at the moment, had fibbed to her.  "Mr. Slippery Slim, please don't give me the Luke Dukes; it sounds like the stomach flu."
   Slippery Slim pulled an ancient NASCAR tire outta his wool coat and sat atop it.  "We never let women win.  Especially the good-looking ones.  Unless of course they're securely residing out West in California--land of the fruits and nuts."