Weredog Tart (10)

   
   "Weredog Tart (10)"
    
   Justice is a dish best served cold, so Siria figured, and she liked a piece of spiced, refrigerated beef jerky, or a cold meatloaf sandwich with hot mustard; still, she figured to let it go--the pseudo-gifts of care-taking ignoring her matriarch's needs, her own back torn to pieces, but now as a weredog, put back together again, and there goes the myth of Humpty Dumpty, but he had high cholesterol and large amounts of glucose running through his egg-like veins.
   Siria was just happy to be watching the Cubs play, even though the Pirates whooped them a few days ago, and of course, born in Pittsburgh, she had that sense of neon nepotism, getting schooled and adored by the supernatural in Steel City.  Her father moving down from southern sour mash to Iron City brew, and her always sneaking a few.
   Plus, there was Lance McGee and his emerald-green eyes focusing in on her dreams, not enchanted or besmirched by her beauty, but taking it seriously, ready to let her off the leash, for she would always stay close, and never run away from true love.  Was it?  Yup.  She knew in her fast-beating heart that a guy with such glacial history would only adore her, frigid to the nonsense of Internet porn and girls with vaginal cavities the size of buckets, soon to be in need of tans-vaginal mesh due to all the coitus-craving partying and nonsense of not having a spiritual life.
   Next, Siria kissed her Dad on the forehead, and by instinct, buried a piece of beef liver in the backyard, keeping it blessed by Terra's regenerating tomb.