Horse Feathers

The process of belief is an elixir when you're weak.  I must confess, at times I indulge it on the sneak. - Bad Religion

    Hop, skip, and jump; Chapwood slivered southeast of bronze.  Dusting off, he scrambled heartily and jogged towards ethical concerns. 

    Martha observed Chapwood’s jumbles as she audited the day’s superceding paradoxes, detailing walnuts alongside jigging flatworms.  Chapwood stumbled deontologically, at first appearing to fall flat forward, but gaining judo-like composure mid pratfall and executing twist-and-stabilization technique unflawed by invading pseudo-particulate.  Spackle-fashioned, trepidless now, he heel-kicked a nitro and thrust into instant tri-dimensionality vis-a-vis Martha’s panorama.

    Matt-painted figure invading her scope, Martha called a moratorium on her audit and pleasantried, “the vaunted Chapwood, I presume”.  WD-40 running low, squeaking pulleys cranked coulombs sub-amperically, but wakeful nonetheless.  He did not recognize Martha.  Sensing this, she responded to his unspoken grunt, “the underground frequencies serialize your plight to those imparted with receiving instrumentation".  She pointed towards the spot where Chapwood had wobbled.  "The imagined crack...like axiomatic faith under the weight of irreducibility.  Plain-faced, they gawk at their intranscendence, perpetually confused by sex and meditation.  Cure, education.  Situation unlikely.  Theosophic doofusism is hardened and militarized.”

    “Perhaps.  Then again, reality carries a hefty punch.”  Chapwood paused.  “Unfortunate it is not a smart bomb.  Shakings will be untargeted, massive caloric waste.”  Stop and start, shivering off a temporal disengagement, he detoured.  “You’re Martha.  I forgot your introduction earlier.  Quite rude of me.  Five minute major.  Please excuse me.”

    The rookie center was startled as Chapwood materialized next to him in the box.  “Howdy,” spoke Chapwood, “Chapwood am I.  Our time is short.  Let’s get to work.”