Jazzmin Flush (44)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (44)"
   
   Thomas was a bit twisted at the moment, yet beyond billowing blood flow concerning Rascal's hearty scent--it was all terribly tragic--the raunchy roller-coasters of peaks and valleys in life's perpetual ping-pong game.  And as Jazzmin, Fredrica, and Rascal entered into Girthy Gilda's modest shanty, Thomas was protectively shielding the elderly Saint with his transfigured body, glaring at the female threesome, having washed his hands in obsessive scourge before closing the dead lady's eyes and placing coins above for the ferryman.
   Rascal blurted, "She knew, I surmise, that everybody's poop stinks.  Never shamed by others."
   "More than that."  Thomas spoke solemnly.  "She simply cared about the little guy.  The hobbits and hoboes spinning the wheels of life by little yet respected labor.  Hers was the pigskin scramble by fast-footed Flutie over the Canadian tundra, adoring the great games played by the underdog so much that she gave good will to the non-deserving.  Folk like us."
   "Why put us down?"  Fredrica pondered loudly.
   Thomas looked his sister in the eye, saying, "If you never fall down; then, you'll never know how to pull yourself up.  Every battery needs recharged by the tragedies of life.   The Cubs will win--one golden day."