Existence Womb (28)

   
   "Existence Womb (28)"
    
   Dr. Luke, Miriam's biological father, let us call him Luke for now--he was on mercurial scatterfeet; indeed, being on the long-running lam was no easy job, but he had an innate compulsion to not be captured; next, incarcerated in the sub-culture-like underground, and tortured to a controlled acquiesce by the so-called Men in Black.  So, he had shot his mouth off--big deal; Trump does it all the time, and look how he is killing in the political polls.
   Too, in his hidden cerebral capacity, Luke knew Buck Pewter, the Catholic Werewolf, forged from the time of antiquity, protected by the Catholic Church for his violent labor in hunting down morphine-dreaming vampires, like a narcotic blood lust they had, saving the Vatican from a pre-fabricated Reformation of Biblical misinterpretation and retardation, or better yet, lack of adjusting to even a minor asceticism; anyway, he knew--the dude would protect her.
   Hence, thankfully, Luke knew Miriam would be shielded from any iniquitous reptiles by Buck, his telepathy potent enough to repel any type of mental probing; plus, dude could shift into fangs, fur, and fright, damaging the corporeal aspects of almost any creature--even fallen angels, them perpetually stuck in the shape-shifting form of a reptilian/human gel.
   So, Luke needing to contact his asshole attorney, which would cost a fortune; plus, put him on the front page of some bullshit rag and in front of the firing line known as mainstream media, held his breath, wishing he didn't scrap his cell phone, but knew--since the Bush Administration--everybody, mostly, is tracked, unless of course they're just downloading the garden-variety slop and sludge of Internet porn--all he knew was that he had to find a phone booth. 
   Sauntering cautiously through the streets of a big city in the Mid-West, he ultimately saw a payphone booth, but it was occupied by a menthol-smoking African-American making an imperative crack deal.  Good Lord--he knew crack was a necessity for some, but his daughter's quasi-Messianic Life was in danger, and he had to interrupt; thus, he knocked on the bacteria-laced door with his bare knuckles, politely asking:  "Excuse me madame, but I really need to get on the horn."
   The angry and responsive answer was:  "Who the fuck you be?  Clark Kent?  Black women hold a grudge--now get the fuck on outta here."
   Luke kept moving.