Weredog Tart (19)

   
   "Weredog Tart (19)"
    
   Mandy McGee, a mystic of sorts, knew Siria was what she was, so non-Irish, yet canine-like, having a brave heart.  It didn't bother her, the difference.  For there was no fear.  Not even after the macabre death of her husband--are not most deaths macabre?
   And Siria, with that canine telepathy, backed away, Lance suddenly appearing next to her, and the weredog girl retreated with magnanimous couth, verbally offering to Lance:  "It is for you."
   When Lance opened the door, greeted by the ghost of a mother, so alive with the same shamrock-green eyes, the twosome were pulled by mystic gravity into a loving embrace; next, the silent communication of azure blue, so metaphysical and psychological, in that it is in tune with vocal verse well read, besides this asymmetrical craft of humble words.
   And he melted with sadness, yet a fire of pink encompassed his beating heart, knowing the differences of life do indeed lead to FEAR and LIES and HATE and ENVY.
   We are all constructed by God.  Yet fear and envy separate us--you fools, we all have power as humans, yet none transcends the other.  He is handsome, he is funny, he is good in bed, he is good with oral lovemake, he is stunted yet charming.  Do not be proud!  Pride is a demon's gift.  Thinking you're actually better--that is contemptuous hubris which architects fear and envy and hate and false testimony.  
   No man is better save him who trusts in God.  Him having a wise fear of the Creator--this being the beginning of wisdom, and don't let it be the end, but morph it into courage, united with the Godhead and all that wholesome gravy of superb sublimity.
   Lance burst into tears of sadness and joy--a counterpoise crafted as a matter of relative fact.  His mother held him.  And while her kind, drunken father snoozed on the sofa, Siria understood the gifts of Adamkind.