Bedpaths to a Transcendent Laminate.

 

Over on the stellacted service rim where I'm buying (or trying to buy) a month's worth of toculent shielding, I sense that a rarely seen novelty re-enactment is about to begin, in earnest this time, before I can even start to make do with whatever holdings I've been lucky enough to preserve from before our Nasty Troubles took a turn for the worse.

It's a boldly shaped iron affair that I use to separate the bins in my workplace into categories of innate usability. It's apparent that the off-red items will help prepare our final ship, even if a stray grin is a price that no one in their right mind has any business paying, unless you count a local person who we've all agreed not to discuss at this stage of our lives. Because time is short and not for idle slippage.

The woman who has sworn to listen intently with her two forward feet planted within the perimeter of a secular archway (this was years ago) can be heard, even now, trying to disguise her dawdling for all to see. It's apparent that this won't fool anyone. Our houses are contaminated with ricketts but she's not the type to strike a pose. The penchants we cherished have been surrendered. No duress. No spam. Do you see?

If the embellishments that were pre-announced for our zone had given us the pleasure that all were promised, then a baleful method of halting forward momentum in a smoothly wicked anomaly could have been ours for the asking. And none of us ever want to be seen to be 'asking for a friend'. Two will get you five that an acquaintance with whom you once dined has now made an appalling decision that will bring the two of you to blows. But the wind is not yet ready to cry. We will grapple and then work together to topple an illegitimate regime—strangle it in its filthy crib if needs be.

You can count on us to insinuate a sounding whirlpon through a dangling set of jhontic cords. This will hold sway in our inky motion, like the telling repast that some feel is their native birthright. Could this constitute a link to a mapping site? Only if we surrender our dedication to holiness at an affordable price. Stability is a must. Please remain quiet. It gets better from here. 

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The house's location remains unknown.

We. or at least two of the people I've been told about, have been asked to spend some time in a woman's house. The woman in question is known for a certain brusqueness, but we're all about handling it in a way which helps your average wonderful character resist the urge to take a spin. This could prevent some from circulating a Course in Healing. You may have seen it at your local Extension. In case we observe folks getting riled, we aim to sit stiffly, maintain eye contact and pretend to fold our programs while taking needed precautions. It's all a game of averages. Two will get you one that when we get out of this, my sparkling countenance should require no commentary. It will be obvious. Not one of us will have to pretend to be tired, in spite of ourselves, I'm afraid. Someone is always 'going' again. Now the trip could fall directly apart in our hands. A quality will have to give way. Talk is cheap. Validity is a bungler! Cry if you must.

As one of our Elementals is trained to avoid parlor abuse, any secrets uncovered are to be willfully shed like innocent fluids at the call of a notch. Naturally the season is rife with slanderous undercurrents. It will achieve nothing but the overthrow of the reigning apostates of mildness. They've had it coming since before any covers were coveted in a convent. The place where this woman works is a known location. Her demented family associates are scattered here and there as if no one had given a thought to a unifying triumph. It will protect them unless we get there first. In that case, all of our former Teamleaders will be asked to assemble a smartly dressed cabal to chip away at any remaining vestige. Why does it seem like all who bare their incessant insolence are forever protected even as a practitioner of oneupsmanship is pleased to lance a pudding square? They will leave it with us. We won't be like the others. And that's (not) a good thing!

During one of the final episodes I can be seen sighing while sitting on the passenger side. There are hints that a pair of brothers are due to escort a shipment of depleted uranium to within a mile of Corpus Christi, Texas for the 'meeting of a lifetime'. If, after a cliffside residence has shifted improbably, we decide to sign away our stake in a real estate investment trust at the drop of a hat, a prelate who we tow to safety can be expected to renounce any further action points without which the drainage of an ambitional whipwreck can no longer be assured, unless the fighting is revealed to be 'all in fun'. Those kids give me the prodding to keep my facial aspects under the watch of a secret army. They won't budge. 

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Is this a sign of danger?

 

A question has been raised and the answer is 'no'. But, yes, the fact is that we have been getting dangerous counts on higher readings. And this was well before a structure in our immediate flightline needed to be disfigured. If any bonded alerter could be counted upon to take distress calls seriously, we may order a one-time-only Boller-Master be applied even if notifications become a tardy affair of kid gloves worn only on the top swing of lateral insertions. It's been quite a study to don my sky-blue safety smock inside buildings owned by the Lethal Haverstock Corporation. Usually I'd approach someone on site and ask for a signature in lieu of a personal fellowship claim. Now that I've been evaluated as the 'cream of the crop', I can well expect an iron graphic stud to be wedged into a permanent underside placement cofax. You can tell them I sent you. There will certainly be no response to semi-official inquiries. That's how they manage to keep bridge loans off their pending statements.

The date of our supernal no-fist qualifier is on temporary rolling status. If we meet a preliminary setting inside a boron shade-fill, we can tip all vessels in our favor and go on to wreak a grim pylon on our palladinated ochre stunt car. This will allow certain 'things' to roll into view on the thirty-fifth anniversary of our homecoming to a one-time kidnapping-in-progress. I hasten to add, this was for a student video concerning affordable housing mandates. We took our young daughter to a radiant display of locomotive undercarriages during halftime at the Rosebowl that year. She pledged that her days on the lam were severely numbered. And that's in groups of threes, fours and sevens. This makes all the difference in the world. Some may call it 'a trick of light', but we prefer to think of it as a granting of the penclough redux. It just sounds more inspirational in that league. She will thank you later than is justified. But that still won't buy you (or anyone) more time than is strictly necessary. Get over it. 

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Message for interested parties only.

 

If we prepare a space directly adjacent to a cardinal point to receive a familial trance of directed energy, then all indications are that one of the Russian tambits from a lengthier protein string should be surrendered at height with no one traceable for absent duty. All around, in whatever camp we move, enforced signage drips with a plague of discoverable valiant juices. Each drop that we harvest is now to be sewn into its own micronutrient shell. 

The Lecture Hall becomes a scene of oblontic harassment, all the more serious due to the seasonal nature of one Circus Boy's contagious gesture of 'plaint and delay'. We encumber him with our naughty oxides and trust that one or more of his keepers are even now settled at a Shintago Blending Lab and arranging for the Boy's transparent older sibling to display some of the netting he uses to catch falling renal debris.

Those who command our colors into any obvious tangent can enter the blameroom only with the expressed, written permission of Major Heat Grayball written all over it. How they will know that our history has a checkered past, isn't something we particularly like to think about as we approach the younger victims. Their solidarity is key to refurbishing a subatomic meeting room facility. Each year at this time, some of us are reminded of the periodic return of generic pipsqueaks, all their flustered comments and the way their hair attracts the best smelling women on the Base. I make sure to write down the locations of the most incessant varmints of my third wife, Darla Pencroft-Basmer. She has such a way with arpeen tri-clops, that you would think she was born with one circulating in her very troubled fluids. And, the not-so-surprising truth is that you'd be right. But that's for another time, not unlike this very one.

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Is there one?

 

I'd given some thought to staying behind, since, right beside us on the peninsula, a blinding grey light could indeed be seen even if adult callers were asked to remain motionless. Those of us in our mid-wheaties tumble about in a reign of shabbiness but any circle that we begin to draw to our performances is one less to fret about when kindness goes to court. There is a prayer, useful in bottom-dwelling situations, which is constructed from the ringtones of stodgy criminal profilers. Don't say we didn't warn you that this kind of investment vehicle is forever associated with our downtime as a National Laughinstock. It will give us the type of meta-fabulous linking twat which always busts through just before the stroke of daylight to the privileged monitors of truth.

Our pristine baking program is embarking on a youth-positive drive for recalcitrance. The hands of all our parents are to be partially shielded from proto-theological barfights. Before we trace any of their emboldened dilators to one heraldic directory, the brain of your typical terrestrial slackjawed Martha is due to be exposed to Martian sunlight in a Federally mandated suffocation experiment. What blooming tribute will you pay if all of our lengthy periods of intestinal distress are catalogued through the efforts of some known individuals who live in a building near a road? 

It happens that I am gripped every day of my life by one or another Champion and asked to delete calypterous gestumes from my ranking pecuniary. I'll still be permitted to live inside a table but the brands of a defeated foe are the last things which link us to a time when something stopped smelling right. It could have been a ploy to delay a morning lockout. Each of my majority-minority companions has given me a lock of hair to keep safe under my pillow while others search the neighborhood for succulent prizes after midnight. No one can tell if your Fantasy Parade brings a known quantity into our negotiations. It seems we've lost our way. The last I heard, we've spent all of our rifles in a tragic misunderstanding. They all live in my Jank. I call them by their names. The only problem is: there isn't one. 

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My first artificial girlfriend (mistakes were made).

 

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Updated Ontological Primitives.

There is, at just this moment, a 'chain of demand', such that each of our silent runners is obligated to return, shortly before midnight, and confirm, for the sake of some person's ample well being, that all of our shunted fairy-wheels were returned to their place of honour with all pitiable threads barely intact. I hasten to grip the face of a demiological turncoat who has absorbed next to nothing of our atomic fiber theories even while barely making bold with a lionized sister or two. His wheel is in my cistern and I'm slyly aghast at his motley choices when singed materials come into play. What business is it of his to determine where my filmy discharge gets its lacquered patina? It suits our group if he all but shouts his bequest into the wizened eyes of our trip-mounted non-standard sentry decoy. We like to get him all the time and, even if coöperation is the order of the day, no power on Earth can stop us if we decide to alter our celebratory gait in response to any of his locally sourced oxidized jelly-smears. He is known to pander to our older groups who make up the bastard's share of your normative evaguation plantlet.

I am filing a 'misery sisters' request anomaly with the Board in charge of dispensing olfactory pining rods throughout the Greater St Purvis area. They tell me that by one or two minutes past our due date, we should expect a stipulation to unfold in our overcrating which could prevent leaks to concerned parties and bring our threat assessment to an astonishing Level Zero! And this doesn't even BEGIN(!) to add a compromised zest to purgetarian marriages near Slocum's Hut, Montana and the surrounding witless projection imbroglio. 

Dad's last request to your Mother and I was to shore up our fanciest fences and prepare for an onslaught of deracinated transom whisks. In addition, he asked that he not be named in a faithless lawsuit to be outlined in our Farber's Release Testament. This should continue well in to the coming Holiday Weekend. In the absence of a letter bearing your plagiarized signature recipe, we expect that not less than three of our marginalized Sons of Opulence will be detained in a brace of inflatable district lounge markers. You will find my leading candlefuck ensconced at the midpoint of our reconstructive salad phase. Please try to look in this direction when you hear your name shunted beyond all reason. This will insure a debatable period of unconnected sleep annoyment. Has it ever been any less different? No. 

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