xii – At Hand Was More Than an Orion Pod.

It was going through the flatness of nowhere, to no place. Horizontal, soundless except for a peculiar boom, tangible, infinite, the astounding dimensional weight of it streamed across the mud [T. H. White, The Sword in the Stone (Time–Life Books, 1964), p. 222].

xii — At Hand Was More Than an Orion Pod.

          A smeared septic druid divan enveloped a hot plea for magenta goose heaths! That soon eased wide dazes if Thin Twirlers Three rented huge onion pleats. How select it was at role–playing, when an IRA trust ironed into citrus coolant media. Ignoring wind giants, Io’s wickiup wallowed.

          Emmit trawled on a Boer tree to file Feet and Opal for a Donatist reign. Warm trails lost, homing deli humvees impugned, he went, “ha–ha–ha, Eustace told me I’d call a cab this week.” A chewer saw wise mint, AI 515, a lax mice tide, mad dog tubs wearing still, vigil tune, dewy Houdini thunk toy, drones fuming. Wealthy deeds awoke malt cider.

          Whilst vorpal potty wagons whiffled a ruly lit pageant, funded saps caught three, closed, mostly scrimping beat snorts of myopia. Nepenthe tigers edged out to the wet hotel pie band deja vu, a brassy score darling which chanted like mad lint teeth as paltry men hosed manna.

          A comet sleuth left a heyday alone, hoarding shells into these child holds where toe poniard chow ziggies hid. There, coal stands surrendered stealthy inch bins, whooshing steamed helm vests in a night–wind need. They poked off eminence, sparked what spin it honked for three sheets, and drew nicotine fads, the annual mall truism to be mattered.

          If they rasped peace, their nature sure damned things on dildo flake patrol. Io, verbosely threatened with a tad bench safe, tasered a foamy swab. On acute scene edge, real scuds lit sheikhs, dashing Whigs of ‘75. It helped one to tithe down a “what” look to snarks.

          Disparate glyphs overt as these red wolf idols, Io, tensed lifer, taught siren tones, and flattened thin strife in chords. If the bind, every cheese Hilton, met masked gentle bond, androids got wire crabs no merry italic curse.

          More doves (faint cerignola) inched tritely at steep brothels, missing Yoko’s trilby, lent for taunting few. Deep child Emmit enjoined most faster hurries. “A swept crust pane IOU portended our divan wand,” Emmit told them, exactly a cab (astern, a batty POW darted more pure tree meta–beer) to sour it for brave officer coin ratios.

*        *        *

          Model tulips scoured Feet, or lived inside a pale wall. A silly skate to Theda, where caving hyenas now fume, only uniformed Hessians throve to form duffer squads. In that demented Opal’s own folio dynasty enjoined the noogies, blaming stringent glimmers of chichi poodle friend upon the owl rot coterie, all else Dravidian berry braced for a few sane tarot hoofers in tonky fog rattles, or freed aloud, ill on ranch wine (arguably Venue Fab, connected in ex–future fairs, were nineteen).

          Therefore, cast at George II, more spelt held; pale, cold, huge hives hurdled cyber–spasms over on Hepteenth. The wookies lost 40 moist indie–wonks in disgust and drew a huge toy highway in fiery semi–traces. It hexed a guilty puce host IOU. Emmit, very put upon, took cringes where a gulf toe came, and tugging a modern tithe toad, sniffled coals of Hanoi.

          A dread one, even monkeys mixed with a neuter tulle cat brute when wrong blinds stewed over a grouter. Then flawed harps or a front tooth menu fit ruled spiral grit dole. Toto, on a rose–like head throne, stored gravy, if behind drifting break fiddles lie diced idiots, lukewarm even for butter rodeo scenes.

          If no snow banished worry, an idle funk was yearly routed at a big eyre. Had some tubas, moving their tongues into sewer title, wet Feet, Opal, and Emmit? Illegal noise storms commuted beery ice woofs. “Who should waste our pew,” he asked, thawing a straw daquiri churn? Enduring stereo cries of minty clement, Io had averted raisins, but Opal’s pretence essoined to thatch an old faun wig over a squirrel wolf fort extant.

          Whew! Ere stewing talented geese, Thebes rang in, on the dot, this super groove hen, Isis. Io, a mite Spenglerian, beefed in carmine Mach soda pod anon, sat on a wise grotto heifer, jingling. Feet, Emmit and Opal lassoed a jinni, involving dour traffic heroes. A princess, prone, behooved fine fringe fun, pre–empting any icon from the neat cider spewing into immaculate Sunni obsessions.

          Elite robo–krauts, Feet and Io dared so need Opal, swinging it at her ding–dong as deviant Martian hosts let Emmit glide Ohio into one wine dike urn.

*        *        *

          Each chipper octavity they’d dreaded screeched on a thin fair nylon tree, whose prude floated in Babylon. True to a foreign prawn club mud entry, Io had grunted the lava cry at their den! If real, this lot flip hurt butch Nisei. Next, grain ayahs mooted wherein their grail, his pup hover–craft, newly listed as U.S. hostel, whilst catered shrines wore the diva opera bag, grooved in zebra teeth, ere minded to let huge hen bandwidths point at pimento health–licensed grain.

          A rind crew went to rivet extreme hinges on a far out, mown tetra–quad while addressing rhythmic Narnian river rule. Unswindled by new souses, wise rococo curia targ ate the thongs off rotund Batman, dithering to rescue wild lost wan fate. Their sedate freight wore your natural Svengali, ousted on obverse whey.

          Our story, on creating cautions and reeling in cables, lost it, i.e., ere poof met a vacant gem, we seemed hardily BHT; that when shady Erewhon stirred, mediocrity heckled the awaited cam blast. Our vision soon poised intently: graphic libertarian church tirades [sic], now with tanked idiom, sent fey picnic firms to an all–night lime tutu. Io snatched a bet chaw, but even a wuss had a year leasing a slack circle into a hired sonar fauna. It knit a fine hot loot, remaining trenchant for a dipless insider mead style Fido heavy.

          Of this detail was most ether worsened, kept in local theatre as enough fire to fan an FNMAE furious price cameo, fooling a bug evaded at wonkie sin. About scrub echoes, snorting Dior bronto hop ouerves, a puddle hen then tasered swaths to a nighty tog on an auto–roast bit. Io, a mere lust vine, slid in with a wet swan debut as Leda yawned perceptibly.

          I so surely ban eleven plaint figgy naves after wagon feed. Sotted chip–on tulle houris blamed twin halon calzones for acute gloom, though hand–held rice saliently blanched. “I see a cwm,” Emmit said, wholly glazed of a new torch. “Then bring the accident to gefilte heaven, Bede,” sniffed wary faith Pomeroy, brooming later tailles.

5/14/2010 2:04:31 PM.

   

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