THE TWIN RED LINES

The massive firewall of sodium ascorbate zinc, K95 masks, 70% solution ethyl alcohol and self-induced demophobia was breached when Agent SARS-CoV-2 exposed the MILF from Bakal 2 as the woman with just one navel whose sultriness ignited a slight itch in the throath and a minor cough that failed to raise a mediocre sisig and leftover rellenong bangus from the aftermath of Super Typhoon Karding.  

Everything is confirmed --- from PR 521 to an expected reunion with Phnom Penh's refurbished Frangipani Royal Palace Hotel and Spa, to K6 105 for a much anticipated weekend bike tour in Siem Reap --- when two thin red lines manifested prior to a morning shower and the bus ride to Manila triggering an alarm that locked all the doors of the house in Bakal 2.

The Gentlemen who owns all cannabis farms in the United Kingdom: "The carrier is fortified by a super strength skunk that the airline pilot from business class smuggled into Suvarnabhumi Airport's Miracle Lounge". 

The Perfumier from Germany without a sense of smell: "The source is a vial of love perfume whose seductive power was unleashed by the flight attendant of PR 736 who intentionally crushed her pubic region into the arm that dangled from Seat 32H".

Lou, a renegade CIA operative who disappeared somewhere in the Pacific Northwest: "It's the Golden Girl whose son puked on the aisle of Golden Bee Bus 0112 or I'll shot myself in the mouth, Sherrif Rankin too and all the deer in Orcas Island".    

Such is A Jazzman's Blues when time passes through a computer screen in Hopewell, when the world slowly spin from a barred and screened bedroom window in Georgia, when three shots of Hexetidine Bactidol plus two puffs of Salbutamol + Ipratropium Bromide and a dose of Montelukast Levocetirizine make up for the cheap brandy and extra strong beer of Tuesdays and Thursdays in Bakal 2. 

Santo, after being unmasked in Madrid as a prominent transgender in Salvador de Bahia under the name of Barbara: "I Used to Be Famous in London. I ride my bike every morning, I go to the market every Sunday, I drink with my neighbors every now and then. Now, Netflix is my only window to the world".  

Meanhwile in Paris, a firestorm consumed the howling mob of Athena but spared The Shack and the people who talked in whispers on how Frangipani's breakfast sausage was wrapped in an Outcome Harvesting Report and delivered by bicycle to a Friday videoke party at Pub Street where lyrics on just energy transition and inclusive business were harvested as digital tools against two fading red lines...