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The Zipped Down Mickey and Those Awful Trudy McPops

With a rat-a-tat-tat and a ticky-tock-tock, Florist had to paddle twice times seventy to get through the pillow wash. His flourish of king stood to rattle the tink of bongo. In the distance, too many tiny trails would find their caps and frowns being bound by mix and mush...thereby allowing the bounty town to be rounder and sound.

"My cane pillars! My cane pillars!" Florist cried up at the woodwork. With his tool shed crammed tight in his billowy pockets, he knew the ultimate savings of cream-filled delight.

Too many in the village had heart snoot of the Zipped Down Mickey with all of its bountiful winner. They swarmed like puzzle pieces never fittting yet pushing their structural damage for whatever it would crank. The mist would come down in the day but everyone always expected it to blink out in a dinky thunder. The thunder was unjust and rejected...but it always led straight down the puddle to the same old Zipped Down Mickey.

Two packaged snappers sled down the snooper resting at last on the trail of a monkey paw. The first snapper had jaw trials that had real blare. The second snapper stood nearby neglecting the nice necklace of threaded saucer bowls. Florist had seen it all before and kept his snout raised to the sky to prevent unwanted drippings. He tilted his box to the right and then it was onto the loft, the loft left by his parents who raised the rarest of all the little.

Florist knew the Mickey was within thirty miles but he did not know where the miles were. To prevent a curved accident, he pronged his future pigment with a blunt crunch. The way the crunch came down it would have been preventable and tot-like. So he ground and ground around and around until the top of the march made double snubs. The flicker and ramble of too many hags more than hopped up the tradition for formal patchy trinkets.

But Florist was no food. Nor we he sad for the wet tragedy. With a large breasted gust of fence, he gutted sister blinker and straddled the pensive rafters. Tawdry and rented, the gaseous matter made rigid mist of the tenuous gravy bob.

"For my liver and donut," Florist cried out. "And my forever bonus boogie. Thou shalt rent cheapness in the name of the fatter pig of the stout alliance."

Suddenly and without suddenly, those Awful Trudy McPops scattered in piles of rubber all over the parade. The McPops turned purple and clear, smearing their faces in the windy pattern of sculptured wood pepper. The best thing about them was that they was terrible so much that it was good and that they was so good that it was terrible. But no one in town heard nor had the chance for taking bunches of 'em out into the woods for a snatch and a wheel.

Florist spun around as thousands upon hundreds of them nervous McPops swirled through his hair and nostrils. They bled onto speed with the washing and winking of two merry niblets. Florist picked up his bucket and swung way down low. For a minute it looked like demon wimper but two minutes later it was chock full of stump-fed bonnets.

And then...just before it was begun...it was all over again. And there it was, strutting in the sunlight, the most beautiful and wonderful Zipped Down Mickey the world had ever knowed. It was all shined up and furry, just like a fishing stream that ain't yet been tampered.

Florist ripped off his shirt and belted out a yell to the clouds in the sky...for now was his time, and his timing was just about all wounded up.

 

©January 2009 dONW7

 

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