My name translates as Stormclouds Gather As He Walks. My friends, referring to my temper and the effect sudden thunderstorms have upon young dogs, transliterate this into "Puppy Scatterer." Wasichu, those who are not Indian, call me simply: "Storm." I am a warrior among my people. Or as close to being a warrior as a man can be these days. During what the Wasichu refer to as "working hours," I teach computer science at the local junior college. Most of my students are from "the Rez," young Indians eager to learn the Wasichu technology so it can be utilized to assist in the fight against Wasichu ignorance and intolerance. I spend my free time participating in ceremonies and wandering the back reaches of the reservation. As I am doing this Friday afternoon. Wandering, that is. An old blue, flopped hat--complete with eagle gallories of teens in bikinis nonude teens feather--protects my head from the sun. A hiking staff, decorated with buffalo fur and owl feathers, and topped by a carved blue Grandfather Rattlesnake, assists me keep my footing over the rough and broken ground. Faded jeans and jeans jacket, a denim shirt and blue leather boots complete the picture of a modern Indian searching for meaning in an ever-changing world. Several months ago, I found a little used trail and followed it to a shaded meadow near a clear stream. I erected a (modern) teepee here and laughingly refer to it as my "hunting camp" - though I have yet to take any game, or even fire a shot. This is my eventual destination. "Damn! Hot today!" I pause to drink from the canteen at my hip. "Wonder what I'll find out here this time?" I shift the knives in their piggyback sheaths to a more comfortable fuck babes nonude teens position, replace the canteen, and continue deeper into the Rez. It is late in the evening when I finally approach my campsite. "Something isn't right! I think I may have visitors." The Plymouth Voyager parked nearby provides the clue other eyes might have missed. I approach the vehicle cautiously, pistol in hand. It isn't a rez van - too new. It has to be Wasichu, and that usually bodes ill for us reservation inhabitants. Too many kids joyriding and shooting up the place; too many drunken rednecks wanting to assert their macho image by driving through The Rez and picking fights. As I approach, I notice three things. First, the car carries tags from the local state university. "Oh, shit! Another damned anthro!" Second, from the size of the oil stain on the ground, the vehicle isn't going anywhere. Third, the rounded buttocks under the soft nude teens dildo nonude teens skirt sure as Hell
