Yearning Apotheosis (8)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (8)"
   
   Britt Flynn still harbored such unearthly feelings of uncanny guilt over his mother that he found no sweet solace in silent slumber, yet disturbing visions of watching her spike his Dad's drinks with antifreeze, before floating on her forces of freakishness into his bedroom, where she would bully his meacock soul into sinister sexuality; moreover, scold him afterwards if a dumb smile had not been painted on his puzzled countenance by her having ridden him like a creepy cowgirl on the not-so-sure saddle of a primordial yet loyal beast.
   Thus, Britt Flynn burst into tears upon waking, along with fulminating screams of anguish and bobsy-die.  The workers at the government-housing restrained him, as usual, and he felt weak for having no verbal attic salt that might suavely save him from the binding restraints.
   What could he do?  How could he live?  Where was Daddy?  Why hadn't Daddy slapped that bitch, and yes, you should be allowed to put your hands on a diabolical woman, as Clint Eastwood showed us in the cinematic display of movies way back in the 1970's.
   No one deserves hell on Earth, but unless armed with the falsehood of bravado, or working for reptiles, or one yourself--you will suffer, as did the Son of Man, due to his altruistic rebellion against the in-charge demonology of it all.  Want a target on your back?  Find God.  You will be hated and mocked till at least an allegorical crucifixion.