Indigo Samson (11)

   
   "Indigo Samson (11)"
   
   Samson could hear his parents strongly locked in an argument over his essence; specifically, his mother screaming, well, speaking loudly, and with a hoarseness in her uttering voice, boldly proclaiming:  "That boy doesn't even know what happened to him at birth!  He was blue, like an inked indigo color."  Dad back with a short burst of non-empathy:  "And now the crank has long hair, reading the Old Testament as if it's the new wine.  What, does he really think he's a member of the Sacred Tribes?"  His mother got the last word:  "Leave that sweet boy alone--if his hair gives him comfort, why should he explain it to your sense of a dastardly Delilah?"
   Samson's SPRITE wasn't quenching his cool; moreover, his hands started to look like they were covered in indigo squid ink, him at first surmising it was due to his somewhat hobby of drawing Biblical Kings and Prophets; plus, the Judge, Samson himself.  But no.  The bluish glow on his hands would not wash off.  He got a little phobic, but no panic--he never had a panic attack, always going to God--this time he felt like the Good Lord was instructing him to purchase a pack of organic cigarettes; thus, he bodaciously bolted, hands on holy fire, the electric blue being the hottest part of the flame.
   He sauntered with a mixed quick-step to the nearby Walgreens, got a pack of coffin nails, a lighter, watched as the confused clerk examined his glowing hands; next, went out into the night, under the neon current of illumination eclipsing the big starlit glitter above, and he cranked up a smoke, the cherry dancing in the Autumn breeze; then, a fuchsia BOSS 429 pulled up.  Holy Fire!  Every guy with a sense of masculine muscle knows of the legendary BOSS 429 from 1970.  The ultimate machine of marvels, even more charismatic than the LS6, which is heavily armed with a 454 no less.
   The angry pit bull mufflers growled as it approached him; next, the window rolled down, revealing a black-haired girl, short hair like Saint Joan of Arc, alongside a big dog, possibly a wolf.  The girl cranked on her own cherry, exhaled her prayers to the Great Spirit; then, she boldly voiced:  "I'm Miriam.  This is Buck.  We're kinda like you.  Get in if you want to know who you are."
   Samson knew her, as if from a dream.  But he got a quick hint of mindful memory, knowing these two and their muscular machine had been featured in a short story know as:  EXISTENCE WOMB.  
   Indeed, these were mystics in the medieval mold.  And he wanted some; hence, he got in, coughing up his lungs' virginal probe of smoky nicotine.  

Indigo Samson (10)

   
   "Indigo Samson (10)"
   
   Maxie was praying for the people in the hurricane, wondering if God or people could control the weather; alas, she wept at her own weakness, but knew her feeble deliverance of decency in the real world counted for something.  She blessed herself, rose, and went to the mirror where she stuck her tongue out at her sanctimonious self, but appreciated it too, knowing Catholic girls don't go down so easily, spreading quicksilver like peanut butter--not without a fight and wondrous woo.
   Samson knew he had a date with the pixie cut babe, Maxie.  She liked God.  Cool.  Samson dug it too.  Wasn't groovy or cell phone obsession, yet an archaic term for high romance, and a chance to reap fidelity.  He would read JUDGES Chapter 16 tonight--his spirit instructed himself.  

Rockford Files Intro

1985 Camaro Berlinetta

   
   "1985 Camaro Berlinetta"
   
   I had this one; moreover, drove the wheels off of it, working as a manager for the late Nashville Banner; however, I wasn't as cool as Jim Rockford with his Firebird, living in a trailer in L.A. and hanging out with his father, having a bizarre friend named Angel, being an ex-con and totally smooth gumshoe--though he made mistakes, yet found redemption.  Anyhow, here are some specs and performance levels concerning the 1985 Camaro Berlinetta--like this:

Automatic 4-speed gearbox.

305.2 cubic inches.

Four Barrel--it would fly on the highway, so I'm assuming.

155 horses.

Torque:  245 lb-ft.

0-60:  8 seconds.

1/4 mile drag time:  16.9 seconds.

Approximate top speed:  125 mph.  

POWERFUL PRAYERS TO OUR LADY OF FATIMA

Indigo Samson (9)

   
   "Indigo Samson (9)"
   
   Ultimately, into JABBA THE HUTT'S PIE WAGON, and like two ladies gone preggers, Maxie and Samson agreed to order a large pizza with anchovies and multi-hued gummi bears.  It was delicious, odd, quirky, strong, fertile, and harvest--all simultaneously.  Then, after a shy burp, Maxie blushed, Samson swept his long mane back, and the twosome shared the synergy of a giggle; next, a little theological symposium of sorts ignited, Maxie probing:  "Doctors told me not to read the Old Testament, and that I should convert to Protestantism, for there is too much pressure on a practicing Catholic."
   Samson with:  "3rd leading cause of death are doctors and nurses.  Too, Jesus Christ gets all His best material from the Old Testament."
   Maxie swallowed one last cheesy gummi bear:  "I stopped going to the doctor after that.  I use my Priest as my therapist now.  But my father doesn't believe.  Mom and me are the only ones at Mass on Sunday."
   "Sounds like my situation."  Samson groaned.  "But remember--man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God.  And God is everywhere.  Protestants lock God into the Bible.  They bind God.  Even a Ninja, a poor farmer, can learn how to fight against an imperialistic Samurai.  Do you watch cartoons?  I like Scooby-Doo, for kicks I'm talk'n."
   Maxie smiled:  "You're so weird.  But I like it.  I really like it."  

Indigo Samson (8)

   
   "Indigo Samson (8)"
   
   Samson and Maxie were strolling through the suburban sprawl of it all, and there were many a Chinese restaurant.  Samson didn't like noodles though.  
   Maxie had a volcanic ensemble of humility ornamented upon her nudity; specifically, a simple pair of jeans, tennis shoes, one color, white, and a blue sweatshirt with no logo, her pixie cut not dancing, as Autumn had not yet called in the wind.  Samson was conservative as well, not preppy, not rich man style, looking like a wimpish catalog character, but a gray shirt, jeans, and moccasins, all for comfort and to make sure he could use his reflexes.  Samson possessed photographic reflexes; moreover, the ability to see it done athletically; next, could precisely mimic it.  And he had watched enough football on the tube for all of his life.  Circuses are okay, but not to be imbibed forever.  Plus, if a guy hasn't put on the pads, why does he think he knows about football?  You gotta take a hit to have comprehension.  Experience is useless, unless a situation is met with that exact experience.
   It was getting darker earlier.  Virgo was about to align in mystical fashion, astronomically.  And knowing that you are in the Palm of God's Hand, well, it makes you not want to piss of the Divine Creator.  Fear will turn into knowing you have a father, beyond the themes of a polluted world.
   Maxie blessed herself, and Samson unbound his rich man's lectures, knowing . . .