Thoracic Animus (6)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (6)"
   
   Mutt knew, all those fostering his depressed dog had dyed red hair--FAKES!  They didn't carry the true blood, neither do most people; thus, their Wicca is wishes, and you can only wish on weird, or bet on black, or bid in blue, or SpongeBob in Orange, or gamble in green, or yellow snowman in yellow--you get it, maybe.
   And Mutt would position his wallet or other items, leaving the room, and seeing if they had been moved by these artificial red heads, and they had.
   But their control is like a fake alien invasion released.  An illusion of bologna intrusion, and the blue vests need to get smarter, or wiser, hating pride, arrogance, and false testimony.
   Mutt got his dog back, played some Poker with the holy hound.  Found the Fool Card, but there is no Western Dakota.  So, he went to the real red--Chief.  Beautiful, scorched before in truth and passion, not drinking the Kool-Aid, for his people were his people, and didn't belong to any man save the Great Spirit.  When he entered Chief's bungalow, he kept his Iroquois, but reserved his Orthodox Serb, not wanting to get ignited by vociferous voracity with another truth being hijacked hungry.