Audience Reaction - Detention Center Shootout - Star Wars 1979 Re-Release

Lime-Green Machine: KDX 200

   
   "Lime-Green Machine:  KDX 200"
   
   When I had my Suzuki GN 250, or my two Ninja 250's, people always told me they were little kid bikes--"Bravo Sierra!"  I do rightfully exclaim.
   My Suzuki GN 250 could sprint to sixty as fast as a 1985 Camaro with a 305 small block and four barrel; plus, my Ninjas could hit sixty in five seconds and do near 115 MPH--this is not a little kid's bike, bucko.
   When I was 11 years of age, having a small Yamaha 80cc, some kid in Richmond let me drive his Kawasaki  KDX 80cc, and it ran like a little, scalded dog.  Moreover, I had the green eyes of jealousy over the Kawasaki's mean, lime-green radiance, it driving me to yearn hungrily to own one.  It has always been my dream to have such a potent enduro-type of on-and-off road cycle.
   The old-school KDX 200 is mean and alive in furious green.  It will hit sixty under seven seconds, and top out a little over 80 MPH.  I find no other cycle more aesthetically-pleasing; plus, in some cases, you're dealing with a 2-cycle, which causes superior velocity and more vibrating-energy--it offers more torque out of the hole, I'm talk'n.  
   I had an ethnically Nordic friend during my dropout of adolescence who had a Honda XR 200, and it was severely swift to sixty, but my GN 250 could take it, especially on the top end.  I had that little Suzuki up to 83 MPH on Hinson Road in Little Rock during 1988, blowing past the rich kids coming home from private school.  I was so shaken by the quicksilver of topping her out on a winding road, that after the race, I found a quiet patch of real estate and nervously smoked an unfiltered Lucky Strike, it ignited to life by a sulfur-stricken match, back in the days when they made matches--hey, it's toasted.  

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.   

I Don't Want To Be - Gavin DeGraw - Lyrics

Thoracic Animus (17)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (17)"
   
   Maybe needing Winchester the 3rd for thoracic surgery due to cardiac disturbance, Mutt bit his lips as the B-25 Mitchell hit 275 MPH @ 15,000 feet.  Doc was screaming:  "Yee-Haw!!!"
   Mutt pondered the only brave Nation in NATO, knowing Saint Joan of Arc was a noble beast of beauty on the battlefield, uttering:  "Je vous salue, Marie . . ."
   Doc was like:  "Boy, just sit back and enjoy this Millennium Falcon's thrust; I've added a few special modifications myself after the CIA kicked me out before NAM for smuggling PLAYBOY magazines to the officers who sat back, not giving a shit about the grunts.  Not their fault, society makes a strange Totem Pole.  Anyhow, we almost at Cape Horn boy--gonna get cold when we refuel and hit the Lost Continent of Antarctica.  You sure you up for a Jedi's war?"
   Mutt was like:  "Heck, I'm half a dog and a partial man at best, I'll manage."  

Thoracic Animus (16)

    
   "Thoracic Animus (16)"

   Mutt and his depressed dog had hitched it down to Texas, loving the Longhorns and Bowie knives, Big, everywhere.  At a local, bucolic gas station with a diner, near the key-locked bathrooms, his depressed dog mystically leaped into Mutt's soul-like essence, mutating his negative blood further into a werewheaten-terrier, the little, white angel dog, like out of the Book of Tobit, morphing him into a greater gravel-sniffing destiny, as if by magic, though not, a form of love united, like these here States of America, and Mutt knew he didn't need the Full Moon to morph into a 150 pound werewheaten-terrier; therefore, he sang:

The joyous werewheaten don't know defeating--
The enduring werewheaten gives merry greeting.

   Next, getting his clothes, or rags would be wiser, to fit again, Mutt went into the diner, sitting at the bar-like area, and after eating some eggs and toast, a bush pilot with a wiry nose cranked up the conversation, after introducing himself as Doc.

DOC
I'm headed down to Antarctica to get involved in the mysterious war.   Got a B-25 Mitchell that can make it to Cape Horn; next, land on the Southern Pole.  I'm on an idealistic crusade.  You interested in following old Obi-Wan, though I get my name from Steinbeck's Cannery Row, published in 1945.

MUTT
I've got fur that can endure; plus, fangs now, why not?

DOC
Gotta love blondes; then, we'll CLEAR PROP!  

MUTT
Every man's dream, of course.

   Doc smiled, and gave Mutt a slap on the back.   

Thoracic Animus (15)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (15)"
    
   Harry departed back to his inter-dimensional craft, and blasted off; then, Mutt awoke next to the orange glow of the campfire, his Uncle and Tanya still snoozing sweetly. 
   Mutt had felt a visitation of sorts.  A need for change.  An acceptance for his hypersensitivity, not in a political sense, but all the locomotion and commotion of Internet and people traffic, since women can't keep their legs together, and men can't make their own love, innocently.
   Therefore, Mutt woke Buckwheat from his depressed and restless slumber; next, the twosome made an exodus from the woods of Eastern Dakota, knowing Tanya and Uncle would be just dandy, doing what they wanted to do in life--you should always do what you want in life, unless it's sadistic.
   So, Mutt and his depressed dog thumbed it back into town, and he decided to investigate newspaper delivery, even though print media was dying, but the smell of dead squids and freshly cut lumber always inspire the most remembered activity to get spirited within, and do something about this shitty world, like take the Eucharist, and get a crossbow for the Brown Bear's sometimes curious kill factor, especially if it's a migrating Kodiak.