Weredog Tart (18)

   
   "Weredog Tart (18)"
   
   Siria attempted, or made a brave and courageous attempt to revive Lance and her Dad from drunken and melancholy slumber, with the smell of scrambled eggs, bleeding yellow, but mixed with the green goop of kosher relish, and a little ketchup from the state of Pennsylvania, rhyming with Transylvania, and she didn't even want to think about Bram Stoker's Irish guilt after penning such macabre bloods-sucking, before an American Bowie Knife offered heroic culmination, or so it seemed in her wacky world of cognizant reality.
   Shit--how was she supposed to explain to Lance that she bit his Dad's face off?  Loyalty from a Golden Retriever mixed with the Canis lupus Totem?  Bullshit.
   Regardless, Siria knew she was a meta-human now.  A hybrid already, yes--gentlemen prefer blondes, of course, but her arctic-blue eyes and mousy brown hair made her appear almost girl-next-doorish, but she was better than that--didn't lie, or better yet, give false testimony to cops about a pseudo-harassing neighbor, when she would be the one harassing, if it was solid gold, allegorically.
   So, toasting sourdough bread to architect further the egg sandwiches, she contemplated the mix of America.  The South importing minorities; next, pissed after Ulysses and Lincoln kicked ass; moreover, the divide of history, and what made America.  Not people.  Not drunken Paine and the astrological signs being a metaphor for the Twelve Disciples of Christ, but the actual Holy Spirit of 1776, when the first flag was forged from General George's illicit crop, and the history books leave that out too.  Summer school--more shit.
   Then, a hard, Irish knock at the door.  Her pineal gland knew.  That Third Eye highlighted by canine keen.  Oh, further shit.  And it wasn't even Steeler season in Pittsburgh.  Gotta be a Pirate 2day.