She was Explosive
She was explosive. A real ring dinger. Cheese fries, you know. The kind of explosive that goes good with ranch. It just melts when you breathe on it–cries like the sun settled in the bottom-pits of your stomach. Tears of searing, fired pain too gravitationally encompassing to vomit. Ka-boom. And cool all over. Tingling, but still like ranch, but kept at a ripe 33 degrees Fahrenheit, like in the cooler of a restaurant or some guy’s dirty fridge.
Aye aye hot sauce. She rhine ponied a tippy’ time or two. Three. Eighty-five. One-hundred proof eye spray, punched in the gut and stomp headed right for the trainman. Rhine pop poonies–salt beach sandsploding sea beastial grout meat. Poo poo. Come claim your unclaimed. Clean your spleen. It’ll be a long five-six night. Seven as the crow flies. More if she flies slow. Depending on the ranch.
The dust settling.