Radiant rubber or not that coarse # 16 sandpaper voice rasped the baby angel right out of bliss and back into a dirty old Dodge Caravan for an unwelcomed reunion with Buster and a consoling communion with a two yet free wheeling cycle named Paz.
Wuz it good for you, croaked the frog with the princely hands to the winged victory prone now in defeat amid the pine cones, needles , and other prickly detritus from life in a clown's van. The stunned baby Angel stammered her way back into consciousness with a series of grunts, groans, huhs, whoryas, wheramI's, motherfuck, shit, shat, shut your raspy trap, pagliacci. but do you know that from the sweet lips of the BA even a vart...oops wrong lips...even a burp was a fresh breath of baby angel's fragrance.
The star crucified couple finally found themselves upright in lotus position with joined hands and still pretty bleery eyes locked on the other's pair.
BA: We're back in the van?
B: Seems so..
Paz: Let's cut to the chase , cuties. A series of time-space continuum travels or some of your crusty clown's shrooms produced the last few chapters of this hellish tale in which my bicycle-self appears hopelessly trapped. But true to my nature as Paz in tierra, I have no choice but to guide you back onto the broad and crooked path that will eventual write your fates straight.
B: I didn't know the cycle speaks
BA: Did the cycle spoke
B: Look fine to me
BA: Stop flirting
B: with wheels?
BA: with wheels, sprockets or bells on, stop it! Just because I planted a big wet one on your sandpaper cheek that is only slightly rougher than your crankcase voicebox...
B: You did!?
BA: Don't remember
B: Thought it was a fantasy...
BA: NO! Those were the sexy stuff that your raunchy dreams are made of
B: And the massage?
B: But just the mention of it got me hard and there are still feathers between my fingers?
BA: Let me see? Not that ! Your fingers!
And despite a lifetime of lies the oft plastered Punch, held out his shaky , alcohol needy hands to reveal the slightest small whisps of the kind of feather stuff that fill the world's pillows upon which troubled heads find the peace on earth that squirrels them away from the waking nightmare of history. Fingers some feathered and some delicate as bird's hair locked despite the better judgment of wrists, arms, elbows, shoulders and the nerves that are supposed to follow the orders of the big logical brain as a bike called Paz gave out an enigmatic sigh...