Instantly the poet pistola was on the ground and watched as the wolves fought tenderly for the coveted lap-seat. It was, after all, very cold outside and the sun watched his arm-watch, impatient for the dusk. Arriving to distant Finland was too much of a far-fetched idea in this conditions. It was getting frigid, also. Freckle had the most courageous idea, a stroke of genius, a master brain-ejacul: "WE will stay here and live with the wolves, by the fierce steppe, under the star sheets. And our souls will only dictate our march, the wolves the direction of our food. We will not forget any fruit." That she declared, with the most flagrant smile while stroking a blunt yet gentle muzzle, who dabbled in search for a thin hand. The slender yet puffy specimen (i.e. wolf, not freckle) was on his back, yapping for more stroke and the poet could not help to be moved by the image that was taking on the most beautiful passage-seat to exist upon those unimpeached regions.
"It is settled then! I will erect the yurt, I happen to have a rather reliable manual on yurt construction on the trunk. If we begin now..."
"By thunder! Silly poet.. Don't bother with such a task. The wolves will guide us to their home. Their furpuff will become our pillows, their thick tails our sheets to oversleep in. They have told me this."
"They have? I haven't heard a thing!"
"Salvadoreans don't know how to translate the yaps. It is quite laborious but you'll get the gist in no time. Look! his tail is telling us the way. Let's follow and keep the pace of their footpads."
So they did. They left the unusable red vehicle lying there, as an open carcass, in the unbearable wait for the crow. The poet carried his mango bag on his back and followed Freckle who rode a wolf and seemed very content with her new friends. He wasn't really accustomed with those furry guys by the name of "wolves", he loved dogs but these were of a much more large and he was rather ignorant on their mating techniques. He trusted freckle, though, and he followed through the snowy fields, while the sun arrived in the other-wordly flowerbed. Half-a-circle nightingale.
They arrived in quite a pleasant cave, to the poets surprise, which was inexplicably warm and and.. Good gravy! a lit computer was on the back of the very depths of the cave, assumably with decent wifi coverage. The heating was coming from some man-made crevices and a voice said to them, breathing on their necks "10 krones per person minimum. Put your wet dogs on a fucking leash, please....
OKEY, okey! Then I have to leave poor Freckle and the rabious-guys halfway to Finland and go back to Granada.
