Weredog Tart (7)

   
   "Weredog Tart (7)"
   
   The blonde and brave, that Nordic-looking kid, ancestors migrating downwards, to the Emerald Isle; next, like Kennedy, caught the BOAT and came to America.
   Lance McGee was a verbal and shinobi-like scrapper.  A skinny and spiritually chiseled  type of punk, full of suspicion, yet clever enough to know a demon.  His shamrock-green eyes keen upon the approach and retreat of Siria, her sitting to his left hind quarter area of the classroom, like G. Gordon Liddy eating that portion of a rat, knowing to face your fears and confront them.
   Thus, while the rest of the school dismissed Siria in awkward jealousy, Lance would not.  He would follow, not stalk her.  Just keep his eyeballs glued to that fine set of runaway sticks she had, so golden hued in the summer sunshine, like a hot chick cranking the neon-yellow ball at Wimbledon.
   He saw her eating lunch in the cafeteria.  A salami sandwich he figured, and it looked to be lathered in the ripe spoil of mayonnaise.  How could he resist?  He forced himself, and made a brave QB pass.