Tiger In The Street

Trois

MACHLI

    Jumpy jaw like the fist of hay. His jaw extended such that it accommodated contractions of confetti. Jaws trained on mutton, Joey like the cwtch seeped in trivial orangeade. Lusty limbs like the cleft of a moaning rock spanked by saucy wind. Though not as thin as the cheetah's that could make the four meet at a lurch, thereby enhancing a gigantesque dive into the callous air, yet they foster havoc. Gritting teeth as edible as the sole of a sane sequoia. Combination of all these qualified him for being a breadwinner and overseer of the park that stretched to the death of the jungle tantamount to the lawn of hell. He was just twelve but wiser than the tosses of the nocturnal nature. He almost divorced his empress before the self-made coronation of his emperorship (if there's anything like that), but consequences gnawled at him. It happened when he accosted an Indian tiger on one of his a-day tours. But he was too loyal to be dishonest, he could have had a quickie, 'cause the Indian slut was all ready. He sometimes wondered how miraculously possible it was for him to remain a responsible husband. His empress had no idea that his a-day journeys were dedicated to side-chicks hunts.

    

      MADLA

    She hadn't for once regretted being an empress, her dream profession (if that's suiting). And she wasn't just an empress, but Machli's, her crush from the first day she understood the dark disease - that makes spores and digs gores in the heart - called love. She wasn't an odd maiden. Like the lost-in-archaism kinda tiger. She was rather neat, beautiful with fiery dimples dripping like nectar from her sassy smirks. She was eight but wiser than her hubby. She used to love Machli like hell, but her love knew smithereens after she gave birth to Botha then Reagan. The Joys Of Motherhood is the successful stance a child or children assume(s). Well, her love for him kept diminishing as age kept contending with future.

     POMSY

      Aside weak limbs and spent marrow reflected on worn fleshes, craziness made league with him. His choice of creativity were often remote and dimwitted. He was quite more of an abstract than realism. Like projected shadow assuming the characters of a human having usurped magical prowess from probably a cursed god. He once thought of having a wife after the death of Clara but he was preoccupied by the nightmare of breeding a tiger which gulped his airy acumen. Being an extrinsically rich estate manager was not enough for him. He needed fame from a point of considered-to-be-impossible. He was close to it.

     LAMBZ

     Such guys that are tossed about like the nipple of the hay by money. If his choice was seeped in security, money was enough to sieve sense out of the draws. His hefty builds were not enough to outweigh the indecisions. The tainted triceps canvassed by the saucy cross-tattoo gave his arms enchanting look. His bold face with  multicolored pupils decked in their sockets. He was yet a bachelor and wouldn't understand the malady enthroned on his client's thoughts, perhaps until he falls head over heels for a bachelorette. All he just worked for was money. Mammon was conspicuously his Lord. Only that he had no idea of where to offer legit sacrifices to him/her or probably an hermaphrodite. Wildlifing was the only thing money couldn't snatch.

     SEA

    Pompsy got only this rightly. She was the reflection of her name. No better term or element could have sustained the denotative stance 'sea' maintained.  She varied all round. In characters, manners, features and sundry attributions. She was only 17, yet was thick, curvy and voluptuous. Her bazoom was the most audible feature God etched in her delicate posture. She was not only beautiful but got a list of elongated repertoire. Her last year in highschool complemented her prime birthday, her 18th. She would mark it with having a boyfriend. Her first!