Jazzmin Flush (34)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (34)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush got the nefarious news from Thomas as they strongly strolled into Alberta's Galactic Spaceport.  Fortunately, he had sniffed out some precious gemstones and traded them for funds to fuel their flight back to the lovely City of Angels.  Jazzmin Flush was considerably crushed concerning Girthy Gilda's dilemma; moreover, genuinely angered about the taco truck being sold and Fredrica's homeless status; however, Thomas had communicated with his ultra-cool sister, and Fredrica was now residing in Jazzmin's basement, watching out over Swiss and his semi-furry friends.
   When seated in the angular spacecraft, Dean Martin crooning over the internal fuselage speakers, an elderly man with silvery-gray hair spoke to her, him completely alive and billowing bright with a pair of star-spangled eyes.  "You are Miss Jazzmin Flush.  You write those pamphlets for the homeless." 
   Jazzmin Flush, more than curious.  "How does anybody know that?'
   The gray-haired man smiled gently.  "When you write, and weirdly, no matter what the scale--someone is always reading.  Anyway, I'm an editor with the L.A. Derelict.  I think you should and could assist in writing our obituaries.  I'll put in a word."
   Jazzmin Flush blushed.  "Paid to write?  But I didn't go to college."
   The old man continued with his meek smile.  "Neither did I, or Hemingway, or half of the most keen and brilliant bards."
   Jazzmin Flush turned to Thomas.  "Are you listening to this?  He wants me to be a cub reporter, for real.  Can you believe it?"
   Thomas snorted, half asleep.  "Don't be freaked.  You're just pretty is all--that's why you're going to get the job; plus, when you open a can of poetic worms, don't be surprised if you catch a fabulous fish."
   Jazzmin was like:  "Now I'll be able to afford Dodger tickets.  Holy Lasorda!  I've always wanted to taste a delicious Dodger Dog."