Between Toomey and Starks, they found me at the crossroads.
If you’re Lakota like me, you know that makes me cursed. The orphanage named me Toomey Starks. Call me Tombs.
Please not Toomer. Makes me sound like an unsightly growth.
Behind me, Puppy chuffs at my expense. It is not the first time. And yes, he is the curse.
But he makes for great support as I lean against his broad back and soak in the warm rays on the beach.
Puppy is somewhat larger than a Shetland Pony and only slightly smaller than a Sherman tank.
And he smells like Hell.
Puppy chuffs his “What did you expect of a Hellhound?” chuff.
The morning air tastes of salt. The seagull glides gracefully above me. The wind tickles my scalp as it ruffles my hair. The seagull spots Puppy.
CAAAW! Splat! On my forehead!
Seagull shit is warm, gooey, smelly, thick, and damn hard to scoop off.
Puppy chuffs “Good Shot” to the seagull as its wings blur in its frenzied effort to go into warp speed.
Puppy could turn a wet dream of Megan Fox into a nightmare.
I perk up. Speaking of Megan Fox, two honey bunnies, wearing smiles, suntan lotion, and not much else are slowly swaying my way. I hear them laugh emptily to each other in Clueless-ese.
Blather. Calories. Wastopaneer. Blather. Synatec Tacise Diet. Blather.
I don’t mind. It’s not their intellects I’m interested in. Puppy chuffs “Big Surprise There”.
He turns to smile wide at them. They shriek and fall limp to the sands. I look for pulses. None. I glare at Puppy.
“I don’t mind you scaring beautiful girls half to death. I can comfort those. But did you have to scare these two TO DEATH?”
Puppy chuffs “Hellhounds don’t do sandcastles.”