Jazzmin Flush (41)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (41)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush sweetly swooshed around some loose cilantro within her yummafied oral cavity--a fresh, minty tongue getting the Mexican parsley to smoothly slide down further into her intestinal tract, where, as most herb-like things do, it illustriously illuminated the process of digestion.  Rascal was across from her willfully working on a chewy chimichanga, dripping the drool of hot cheese from a fanged bite.
   "What kind of dog are you?  I mean coydogs are half coyote and half domestic dog, mostly--so what's your genetic breed?"  Jazzmin Flush probed with question.
   "My great, great grandma was a Pomsky back when the Federal Government began recognizing anomalous humans--or freaks, whatever.  At least the brilliance of Uncle Sam gave us the protection we secretly craved and needed.  Yeah, there are a few monsters in the mix.  But most of us were, and still are--just scared is all, ya know."  Rascal replied.
   Jazzmin Flush, noticing severely, admitted:  "You're really pretty.  Like foxy."
   "Are you fishing for a compliment back at ya--California girl?"  Rascal getting instinctive, then:  "I'm sorry.  I know your pack is pretty weird, and I too want a family.  But I'm lousy at making friends."
  "We need all the help we can get."  Jazzmin Flush solidly said, washing down the remnants of a soft shell taco with the bubbly fizz of Dr. Pepper, knowing it was healthier than Coke, for Dr. Pepper kind of has the word Doctor in it.