Weredog Tart (35)

   
   "Weredog Tart (35)"
   
   The Old Moon was waxing, so much so with effulgent neon-cheese glow, and Steel City underneath, within the heavenly glare downwards and easy reach of the One, True Almighty; indeed, Siria felt mighty; regardless, she pondered and attempted to fathom the cerebral insight of loyal Lance, wanting to give him the weredog chance, but would this be true Catholicism, with Saints and dogs, or Wives' Tales gone sour and old--she wondered?
   Lance approached her suburban habitat lopsided as was his ego absent--just a dude, a dude with no attitude, absent of pride and fasting on the bread of life, yet man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God, as did the Christ mention to forces monstrously maleficent.
   And as he approached, she gulped a beer stolen from Dad, not melancholy and sad, but to imbibe the brew from John Barleycorn, making her resurrected in a decision-making storm, reaching out to his pineal gland, so that he might completely comprehend and understand--he did.
   She fanged herself not for the kill, and Lance was so chill, the Iceman in him did live inside, his confidence only viewed by Mark Twain's Seeing Eye, and he took the incisors deep into his flesh, having a wolf and golden retriever mesh; moreover, all was cool now with faith and plenty, for Lance was crowned a weredog, and many would be their pups and all that jazz, no longer would their fairy tale be blue (in a sad sense) but communicative and true--so damn golden and glad, armed forever with no prose gone mad.