Parch's Steeple in Lac du Park

fig.1) impromptu dutch injected work sheet 

Smalt has been used by the economists for their bluest of blues for a really long time. It’s hue is from the cobalt ions that are suspended in the delicate shards of ground glass. The problem with using smalt in a vehicle like oil is that it can degrade and shift its appearance years after something’s been considered old. So what’s dutch, well it’s a cheaper ash glass. That’s what dutch is, it’s like smalt but it's manufactured in Rocky Mt.
In a series of mock trials Dutch ceramicist Cory van Lincoln discovered that dutch could be used to isolate blue on the cheap. It quickly became one of the necessary steps for birthing green from a yellow born into captivity. All of this was very hush-shush until Monstre Throop lifted the process from a drunk Ottomian cowboy later found in a muddy canal. It was quickly determined that dutch could be easily produced with the rich deposits of caustic potash hidden deep below Lac-du-Platz.
The envelope looked neither warm nor fresh. It was sliced open along the top crease revealing a folded sheet of yellow paper inside. She's seen it before so its not a surprise when Stanley took it from his pocket. He asked her if she had seen his glasses. She looked at him over the tops of her own spectacles, Jen didn't like what she saw.
Stanley was a caveman of rigid thoughts. His shoes were tight and his brown shirt rode up over the hairy ball of his belly. Stanley was stern, being the son of Monstre Throop and Monstre Throop's fixation for common science will do that. Stanley couldn't help but to share his father's faith in the properties of action and the outcome of measuring things. When she found him performing social science research with a sandwich in his pocket, she just shook her head. All that Stanley could say was, It's something like economics.
Jen usually thought of him as fish like and hammer dull. I arrive late and I linger at the bar. It's not a crime Jen, he said to her.
She replied that his penis was like a tarnished clock on an old woman's mantle. It was often alone and frequently enjoyed pretending that it was being wound by a bright and quiet feather duster. She quietly added that she wished the rest of him could acquire some feather duster like qualities. 
Tonight the large moon is reflected in the perfect stillness of an early summer’s lake. The water intake cribs are festooned with bright colored bunting. 2 large bore cannon have been shuttled far out into the lac and now wait on the crib's flat stone landings. Later as the armada passes alongside the guns a barrage of flash and bang, devised to illuminate the ships to all of the revelers in Lac-du-Park will explode with complete indifference to any trout huddling in that ribald bloom of sewage.
On the south end of Lac-du-Park below the din of the rocket’s splash is Parch's Steeple. A stone and brick tower that's handsome blue but not the tallest thing around it. With its dark ceramic facade pointing enthusiastically skyward it's glowing clock face stands just eight flights above Lac-du-Platz. The remainder of the building is a conduit navigating the extremities of both blue and boredom with all the texture that blank can assemble. 
The Steeple’s entire 4th floor is a famously empty tube of parenthetical nothingness. Constructed shortly after the Dutch was completed it's since been converted into a dormitory for the Auxiliary. Above nothing but underneath the clock is where Jen's room is. Her bed is awash in an unending deluge of truck sized ticks and tocks. She's standing on a metal in the plaza with the Steeple's 2 enormously heavy copper doors behind her. The metal plate that reads,
Ta-Da future Monstre, From all of us Nude Robot's of Shape cast into the Great-Pit of the Beyondniks. From all of us simple and sweet consumers of Socks-n-Roxx in boxes brown and boxes rotten...Dope est Das, Host of Delinquents,
Monstre tu, Monstre vous
(Of The Canterbury Branchz)
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