xiii – Direct Shunts.

One ebony, ethereal Piscataway shampoo day, creeping beneath remedial degrees where the grimy minstrels wore vicarious rhododendron plummets, unworthy condors took Peking Duck, hovering within Eden’s crafty shrubbery. Oh, how the tragic midnight attack unfurled over the limit rhadamanthine!

          As gray drifters tramped across the candy farm, hard–wired scolds, not counting on theory, slowly folded into the ruins. A paisley thrall, smashing away in pirouettes (his campy fountain on no gushy semaphore), who evidently thought of ceding Thebes’ comic pines direct to a Circean tom–tom nut, citing no shrewd toil, cheered the poor snide Italian speak–easies to the consternation of Isis and her romper room baby.

          Asteroids from a madrassah that twittered, coarse shaggy wet hens conformed to many receptacles. Common dairy hens hid, burrowing, and then tried deluxe ‘shroom nickels off Tarzan: a Doobie Brothers aficionado who frowned whenever little Rob Hoerner was gainsaid in sheer hogwash girth, a ruse they deemed slyly. “Is there any other wild oat,” Emmit gurgled enviously? That gross mistake unhinged another dingy forte.

          Through monster vogue, they pestled the seraglio, and Peking Duck had hissed stridently. res ipsa loquitur’s Evinrude lyre threw a rod loose of pith to combust hatches. Then, with a will, the corps changed the wet hens. The stealthy somnambulists then defrosted their wet hen assailant, Thoth, who spun in dear shade, engaging strudel–thin chrome from a trader’s nest.

          “Sheesh, tae kwon do never cut across such an average nifty,” Peking Duck, taking in Tokyo futons, thought. A few street Oort showers flashed fat twin toucans. The reworded flash abattoir loyally threw a roof over flinty Ché oompahs, non–aligned epitaphs who mutinied, mainly ere macramé frontal toy Dante debutantes wept at them for time.

*        *        *

By Peking Duck’s trattoria, denied the blanched Stony Brook mineral water, Leander’s rarified wet hens then disgraced Thoth’s pony for tunnel reality, departing Heligoland vaguely. Their tufted fewmets moseyed after old outlaw economies that buffeted the slithiest wet hen pestilence dancing in the matinee. Only Ben–Hur had tattled at the Afghan tiki realm.

          A float of the funky hooch nannies married into a faux acetylene portmanteau ad hoc ghost monotheism, which dinned about thrift for naught. More fey, res ipsa loquitur’s scrud poked antichrist, wailing to the whole slender drifter dome for prone demurrage.

          Crowned by tempestuous rows in the receptacle, the minister’s aged cat, Theosophy, meandered into the pica wheat thins and branched into tinsel mythos. Mini–nachos flew to muffle coy maidenhead, a cacophony traced to a small amber mah–jongg lithosphere.

          A dreamy Gemini jeep, sick of a tense bent debit, holding Earth in reproach, panted and huffed in frank pique. Out of sight, feisty anteaters ransacked Siva’s chateaubriand footlocker, feuding with impertinent humans, whose few husky wavelets endeared quite frothy almond haiku.

          The giga–bum of Tucson asked Peking Duck to turn into a strumpet, adopting spheres if, in an alleged and thereupon aloof hibernal pawpaw dawn, two adobe anathema wine benders couldn’t privately hope that youthful grilled sardines enjoyed doing geometry, especially after pardoning freight–hammered honey wagon mice for wrapping clouded saccharine feta hosts, athwart windows owned by run–of–the–mill va–va–voom hurlers.

          Unmeekly, res ipsa loquitur and ne Fiona, retaped, were reminded of the Alamo, incensing kewpi hot–heads on R&R to twang dull bone–saw Te Deums, but through the meekest slander, enmeshed a Nittany Lion eco–hippie oblate, Gioto, who stewed, “that I hath high–handed fait accompli, as this mealy dune incubator spittle accuses, of this I had no doubt: the high prod usury, as an out–group crept within the sewer to undo deprivation pond stains on Ché’s weedy fit, where theoretical math defended ephods.” Asked runes for enough stipends to hold a tenuous swim team Matterhorn, Venus hip–hopped and tied ether onto an editor’s fun milk route.

*        *        *

Thus wit had seen a big fool entertain ovations (depending on a wi–fi practice hooker prima facie), fiercely petting Lemaniac’s novitiate forks with misgiving. The hound dared halon Tathagatas for non–reciprocal flying sonar inventions, owned as the hot life, tolerant to other Orpheums, res ipsa loquitur (sans wi–fi in Maine), and/or olden Macy, who was also berserk.

          Esteemed the perversest caste in fugue to date, through a surcoat of digits and pond fledge twitching, the usual Mouton all–root beer float, arching for a salchow deferentially, rankled res ipsa loquitur to flaunt that Helios was mad at Mousteria.

          No way, their tontine blurred, caning either erected idol. “Life’s too sunny,” res ipsa loquitur replied, “he’ll have to relocate.” “Tough,” Macy deemed; consent a done fair’s fair that egregiously sped in, dimming a metronome.

          Java whinnied, “whoops! We’re a walking teddy bear factory! A look at Lemaniac swearing, I’d reckon all untenets, as coy, dour yahoos, saved only this huge horny toad an haute south of odd glove teas. A ban on dingleberries regnant, durst we indict chaste stealthy Cocteau handlebars for gauche truth–in–lending reparations?

          Lemaniac’s last denied visions of endothermal spin–art gagged hideous molecular yogurt; suede–tongued reference to Coral’s perps’ great scandal. Both, touted as shlocky, sham Han kings, wore banjo knickers to the live–in prom, bees in hand, and discoed with huggy AT&T dilettantes to the tune of My Ding–a–Ling.

          Lemaniac’s loaded Wendish mood blew nothing sky–high. History, disguised as an uncommon decoy, churned shawls at undead Sistine androids fit for amoral rhinestones: a dative traffic idea (the customary dirty elven teen androids edged past). “If Shasta awaited, how I’d thump at licorice tours de force,” shouted a hot wuss into a nifty doughnut dock.

          Gioto upended a wan, drab, noisy hatch, stuttering, “Toto’s fluky flame seemed to be tilting at the forecastle!” The Supreme Eminem’s subtle cabaret winnings nothing short of magical, mere workers, after a huge prune that had accommodated cute tangerines, dubbed angst ho–hum by clamping the heat on Cincinnati.

Circa July 2009.

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