Jazzmin Flush (32)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (32)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush awoke to a cruel choke, Thomas swiftly behind her, squishing her belly till the obnoxious nightmare departed, as if evaporating into the mystic quicksand of it all.
   "Holy Fire.  The Pentagram.  Southwards.  Heat."  Jazzmin Flush moaned.
   Thomas released her.  "We are ultra-sensitive to their envy.  It haunts us as it did the Poor-In-Spirit Poet."
   Jazzmin Flush pondered.  "You mean him, the weirdo?"
   Thomas nodded in solemn fashion.  "They impersonated him on the ancient Internet.  Blurred his photos and erased them.  Blocked his publications.  Hacked all his electronic devices.  Followed him and parked outside of his house, violating.  Got to his family and physicians.  Wicked women, their friends, local politicians, filthy rich.  Thanks to the Feds and their cyber crime units--the truth was unearthed.  Locals hate the Feds, unless the liberty-loving Feds dream of the Bulldog.  Ultimately, he killed himself in charismatic style, unless it was murder."
   Jazzmin Flush knew to be sane and silent.  Evil always monitoring and wickedly watching, invading freedom and souls born unique.  False education, locking you in an established, twisted system, forsaking the autodidacts like Paine and Franklin, both outshining John Adams, him secretly purchasing Paine's literature off of the Colonial Press, though he dubbed such prose as possibly anarchistic.  Whatever.
   "You should chill out a bit."  Thomas noticing Jazzmin's well-deserved paranoia.  "I'm gonna contact Girthy Gilda telepathically.  We need quicksilverish escort back to California.  Can hike it to Alberta; then, get an anti-gravity flight to the City of Angels.  For, they know we're here."
   "Hike it?  Again?"  Jazzmin Flush worried she wouldn't endure.
   Thomas grinned a sparkling canine incisor.  "Don't worry.  I'll magically morph wolfways and pull you on a sled.  What girlfriend doesn't want to tell her boyfriend to MUSH?"
   Jazzmin Flush smiled pristine platinum back at him.