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Some witch’s hour.
By Daniel | January 31, 2009
The Muscle The Bone The Heart
The seen was set and the seen was thus: ice sculpturs in the shapes of well-bread K9s, lady’s with dimon earings, shandlears like Antartic glacers hanged in the air like Conan-hairs. Pure Hichcockian. Old men dressed in the nines bandied about there conversations of golf swinging, annie-lock breaks, and small sanwitches with they’re crusts cut off and throne to the garbage like so many young starlett’s hearts of yesteryore. Where they digniterys? Criminal lawyers? Or wear they mearly wolfs whereing a pure-coated sheeps’ cloths? Shape-dressed men, all in a row. Tom Cruisian.
The double-breast’d doors opened and in-stepped a man above all othre men. Laqured shoes of the finest Italian leathers? Check. A toothpick hanged nonshlantly from too chapstuck lips? Check. A snotwrag folded like orgami and placed in a chest pocket. Check? This man was a capitol M kindof a man. A Mman. His hairs were perfectly queefed; gelled up into a rapturous U-shape much like the arms of a football umpire indicating a touchdown. The femails all stood on the hairs on the backs of there necks stood in nervus attention. He was chisled like aformentioned ice sculpturs but he hath noth a skeleten of the coldst ice; no, his bones were rapped in the most strongest of all the basic metalic elements found of this God-Green earth: Admantum. You herd it right, folk. Admantum bones.
He was a killing mashine with cough-links. A true enegma. Red-roafer, red-roafer, we send Wolferine over.
—
He hubbubed amongst the mosh posh of uppities like a cobrasnake crawling thru a earthwarms’ whole in the Earth. He was collecing evidense. Licking his proverbial thum and seeng whenst the wind blow. He saddled up to the bar and dialoged with the bartend. “Give me something frothy and sprite-like.” The barhand took his order and questened how he wished for its mixing. Wolferine lowered his Ray-Bands aviation sunglass’ and intoned, “Shaken, not turd.”
He snifed at the airs. Something was afoul at this; some witch’s hour. Villins were amongst them. Wolferine smiled a smirk of endemnity and reglassed himself. Let the good times role.
—
Goldjaw was his name and pane was his gaim. Wolferine had done his homewark and new how to get into Goldjaws’ secrait lare of solace. In the librery there where books of all kinds; first-addition Hemways, Mad Magazenes, leatherbound fishing manuels. To axxess the lare you move a bookshelve and voolah you are secreted into the lions den. The walls, all aglo in victims’ teeth; shimmer shimmering like brass booties of babys passed. Wolferine had scene some things in his dase, but never a site of such magatude. The mind realed.
Goldjaw steped into his oboed and asked alowed, “Whom’s their? Could it be the Big Bad Wolv come to huffpuff and blow my housing down?” Wolferine stood up strait as bow and arrows and Snicked out his claws. “Mine what big claws you have.”
“The better to kill you with, you crazybutt.” And with that he lept into the air like a sideburned torpete-o and scizzor-clawed thru the jaws of Goldjaw. Goldjaw was shocked and odd. His jaws slid to the carpets and sparkled in the glint of the lite.
Wolferine put his Nike loafers on the blooded throte of Goldenjaw. “All that shivers may be gold but your dead.” Goldjaw was dead.
Topics: By: Daniel, Wolferine | 3 Comments »
February 1st, 2009 at 3:32 pm
havent even finished yet but must mention that ‘yesteryore’ is the new best wordplay joke in all of SoI.
February 1st, 2009 at 3:37 pm
okay now i’m finished. I love it.
February 5th, 2009 at 3:22 pm
This makes that Microsoft word paperclip turn murderous.
Wolferine is so cool.