"This will make no sense: TOUCH"
When you're a Priest or Nun, cause you get none, and are celibate--it's called a discipline. When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics and are not merely anal--it's a blessing. Proof of the Illuminati's existence is that television physicians on the propaganda channels tell college girls not to douche; specifically, that the vaginal cavity is a self-cleaning oven--HOGWASH. Gotta clean that sucker out sometimes, at least monthly, and use the kind without fragrance.
I sinned this week, thinking about carnal activity, but I cleansed and sanitized; next, went back to my angelic essence, and told it that I would listen, for I have friends, as did William Blake have breakfast with Arch-Angels every morning. The fox condemns the trap, not himself--remember.
My Grandmother's sloppy kisses, so clean as a whistle; plus, my Serbian Pap's beard scratch on my arm to make me laugh; moreover, my biological father's whiskey fresh scent hugging me with monstrous strength, and my skinny ass couldn't even breathe; next, my biological mother calming me as a youth by scratching my back, and my Golden Retriever giving me her belly to rub--this was TOUCH. Like the Eucharist--Christ touching you, so softly and lovingly. We all need touch. We die without touch. We may not all be social animals, but even a skunk needs touch. Heck, even a golf ball needs kissed by wood.
I miss my biological Dad. If it wasn't for phobias and people's exploitation, though--through my fault, I would've been at his side every moment, happily allowing him to kick my ass. I miss, most of all--his fatherly TOUCH.
"City of Angels & Gumshoes--back in the day, baby!"
Joe Mannix got his butt whooped every week at the pier, and thrown into the water, but he always came back for more. In the words of Guns And Roses: "I'm on the Night Train--I never learn."
But Joe Mannix shouldn't have learned. He was a rare breed. Liked taking an ass-kicking, for he had Health Insurance. As my biological mother said of my biological father: "When he played college football, he used to hypnotize himself and let the other players put out their cigarettes on his back--just to get him pumped up as a running back, like a little John Riggins."
Back before LA became a sanctuary city--there were private eyes, rock and roll, and still during today: The Rand Corporation. But as the crazy guy says on Fox News: "Would you want Dirty Sanchez living in your daughter's bedroom? How's that gonna work out for your sanctuary?" And my freaking family were immigrants, but the Serbs learned how to speak English, took the Pledge of Allegiance, and only spoke the Slavic Languages among themselves.
So, don't be a cop. Go old school. Be your own man. Be a private eye. Drink beer, smoke a Lucky, nail a dame you love and wanna engage in matrimony, and say the OUR FATHER after some hicks roll you like they did Jim Rockford. Get your ass kicked for the hell of it.
Too, don't carry a wussy 9-millimeter and spray prey with the high capacity, but go all cowboy, having a single action revolver. But what the hell do I know? I still watch cartoons, and 50 is knocking on the door.
"Thoracic Animus (22)"
Over the monstrous-sized continent of Antarctica, in an undisclosed region, Doc took the modified and classic B-25 Mitchell low over the glacial geography, and as the Nordic rune Isa enchants with a gleaming glow of beauty, frost can be slippery; moreover, traction lost, and Mutt looked down below to see unearthly laser fire from a tall blonde woman taking hits from teleporting lizards, but the crazy cowboy Doc defensively buzzed the violent scenario; next, as all reptiles strike angrily, a giant reptile-like creature was standing behind them in the cockpit, attempting to strangle Mutt, yet Doc simply pulled out his old-school, single action .357 Magnum, a Ruger--pointed it backwards, and blew the creature's head off, Mutt able to breathe again.
Doc was like: "In my last life, Texas Jack Vermillion taught me how to shoot, boy--and he was faster than old Doc Holliday."
Mutt screamed: "What the hell was that!?!"
Doc like: "That's hell on Earth, boy."
Next, Doc cried out a "Yee-Haw" and buzzed the lascivious lizards, opening up his own can of butt whoop with a "Puff the Magic Dragon" scatter gun jury-rigged under the plane's nose, taking out all the hellions on the offensive against the blonde angel, her looking skyward, and saluting the twosome in the antiquated yet re-styled aircraft.
Mutt was like: "She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen--like a dream."
Doc replied: "That's Miramaxus. She's a tunnel bunny. Does covert work for the Nordic Confederacy, operating in singular style, cause she's got the agility of Spider-Man, son."
All Mutt could think about was holding her war-torn shape of angelic essence in his arms, and never letting go; next, Doc smoothly landed on the ice, and she approached with a swift stride and glimmering smile.
"Thoracic Animus (21)"
Miramaxus was a tall blonde from another world--not of this world, fighting with the Confederate Nordics in Antarctica against the leprous lizards. Anyway, she was an angel, but had a guilt complex, for angels are fallible. She attempted to arouse a married essence, due to the horrors of hostile war wearing down her loneliness, making her yearn for, or in the least, have communication with another soul of the opposite gender--in galactic terms.
As a result, knowing many divine humans practiced mortification of the senses, she wanted to punish herself, for her sin, maybe scald her face, to stay inviolate and pure. But as she attempted to burn herself with a flaming torch, the Great Nazarene super-positioned Himself in her direction, saying: "Peace be with you. As this is not your world--neither was it Mine, as you know, but you are rolling out the red carpet for My return; thus, fear not and look upon My cross, even as I willed Myself to die; next, willed myself to live again, in a transfigured state."
Miramaxus didn't attempt to argue, but mourned the history of Calvary, yet accepted the Nazarene's obedience unto death, though cheating its sting, knowing He was the LIGHT, and will share it with the chosen.
Therefor, Miramaxus got her laser rifle, and soldiered back up, into the macabre horrors of the angelic wars.
"Thoracic Animus (20)"
Doc had ignited the internal cockpit light, and having jury-rigged an auto-pilot off of his Smart Phone, adapting it further to take voice commands, he escorted Mutt into the fuselage made into a small dining area, where he had fresh salmon and sweet and sour glaze, going for the macrobiotic nutrition; anyway, after popping open a few Dr. Peppers, the feast began; then, the twosome burped up the carbonated colas.
DOC
Ya, Dr. Pepper is healthier than Coke, for it has the name Doctor in it.
MUTT
How long before you can make the jump to light speed?
DOC
Boy, what the hell you saying?
MUTT
Sorry--just always wanted to say that, and the time feels right.
DOC
Oh ya--like that old Obi-Wan in STAR WARS. But boy, we going to Antarctica, not Han Solo's frigid Hoth. And it's like that 1980's sci-fi flick, THA THANG.
MUTT
You mean, THE THING.
DOC
Don't give me that Yankee vernacular boy; I'm taking you to see angels and demons. Hell, it's better than a John Wayne Western.
MUTT
I was always partial to Jimmy Stewart--he was a wiry scrapper.
