I’m skipping rocks hwen Fenris asks me as to hwy I’ve got a green guy croaking away up on top of my gourd.
Thwip thwip thwip : the stone’s got Christ in it, more than Fenris that’s for sure.
“Cool to the touch on a hot summer’s evenin’.” My head’s clean all ‘round: no hair and with the little fella’s cold blood and all. I expect he ‘preciates the steamed sweat I’m working up. ‘Sides mom always had them towels with the frog in the name, hwat that stayed slimy and cool to your skin the day long. Figure them old folks liable to have just used the frogs they self.
‘Course Fenris is chewin’ me out about the whole deal. Disease or some such. I take the critter down with both hands and look him in his void eyes. I massage his crater cheeks. I tickle his yellow tummy. Kids done used to call me a ‘yellah bellah’, the toothless monsters. Admirin’ this guy, I think it doesn’t seem like too bad a thing to be. An American Bull. Well that’s one thing Fenris ain’t never gonna be. HA!
I meander in my ‘old pal’s direction and hwip my amphibian friend straight across his overbearin’ face, leavin’ speckles of mud and froggy slime down his forehead and the rest. You’d think that with Prince’s gunk (I named the frog mid-slap) that Fenris ought to close his mouth before this or that could seep in. But he just ogles there, all agape and lettin’ the drips fall and pool together. He seems stunned.
Anyhow, I replace my crown and I’m on my way.
Inchoate 