Thoracic Animus (18)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (18)"
   
   Mutt and Doc had landed in Cape Horn, it marking the northern boundary of the famous Drake Passage.  Temperatures were a bit frosty, and about to get icier as they would soon be wending their airways to Antarctica to fight in the alien wars between the serpents and blondes.  Mutt didn't get all the details, but as his werewheaten-terrier was evolving, he noticed that he could smell many feet underground; plus, had a sense of telepathy, which had replaced his usual empathy for the tricksters in life, and he smoothly surmised with telepathic truth that Doc was not only batshit crazy, but a real jewel and paragon of vivacious virtue.  They stood outside the B-25 Mitchell as a foreign-speaking man was filling her with fuel, Doc chewing on a Cuban.

DOC
This is the Big One.  Reagan gave us a soft disclosure years ago, as did the Bible and Epic of Gilgamesh, but all the kids were too busy playing Pac-Man; next, Ms. Pac-Man or whatever came out, but I always liked Donkey Kong, though it thieved my attention away from reality as well.

MUTT
So, there's reptiles and tall blondes; moreover, Russian and American troops with heavy artillery down there?

DOC
Yup, but don't worry; I carry two .357 Magnums, single action, and they have enough penetrating power to crack the block of a HEMI engine; also, I've noticed your fangs now and again--you some kind of werewolf?  It will help.

MUTT
More or less, but of the playful Irish variety.  A Poor Man's Werewolf--you might say.

DOC
Well lock and load up your hound of the heavens and invoke Saint Roch, for we gonna be in the Big One, boy.  And if you think your friend Hairy Man is going to help, well, he's sitting this one out.  But we gonna crack some skulls like Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi do down at the docks in New Jersey.