The Jaguar And The Taco Vendor

The car didn't stop until the oak got in its way.  A blaring horn filled the night.  Approaching cautiously I peered inside.  Draped over the steering wheel was a naked blonde built like a brick outhouse.  A sawed-off shotgun lay next to her.  Shells and bags of white powder were strewn through out the car.

The jaguar hood ornament sat on a limb staring down at me.  My guts were churning from the peyote.  Having ingested nine silver dollar sized buttons dipped in honey, I was ready to fly.

I had to stop the horn, it sounded like Miles blowing my brains out.  Pulling the lady from the car was a pleasure, feeling the rise and fall of her ample chest.  Noticing my first observation was incorrect, she wasn't nude.  She wore ruby colored crotchless panties and matching stiletto high heels.

The shotgun was a twelve gauge Mossberg.  The white powder was cocaine, I numbed my gums to determine that conclusion.  Four kilos of uncut blow, a scatter gun with ammo, a crashed vintage Jag, and a knocked out knock out, I decided I needed to defecate.  Wiping on oak leaves, I found some moistened wipes in the glove compartment to clean myself.  How lucky can one stoned cat get?

Staring at the blonde, I tried hard, very hard, very very hard to think of what I should do.  Her centerfold breast and perfect nipples, golden mound of Venus smiling at the moon.  Okay folks, I admit it, I'm nasty.  I'll leave it at that.

Gathering the weapon and dope I went back to my fleabag hotel.  My job at Taco Bell wasn't all that exciting anyway, especially after the talking Chihuahua commercials.

Looking from my window I saw seven crows sail down through pure white clouds and turn into griffins, as day traded night.