Indigo Samson (12)

   
   "Indigo Samson (12)"
   
   In the backseat of the monstrous muscle; specifically, the behemoth 429, Samson Landon sat, hands aglow in an indigo-like ooze of quasi-fire, the big dog, or wolf, looking back at him, and the short-haired Miriam piloting the muscle machine.  They drove through the night in suburbia, past all the white-picket fences and yards matching symmetrically with nice mown grass; next, Miriam turned on light classical, and fed Samson some insight.

MIRIAM
Yeah guy, you're like a rare blood kinda fella.  Only a few percent of the entire human race has your blood.  You probably don't have all your wisdom teeth, something funky with your back, and maybe and extra nipple or two--basically, you're a kook, but you got class, though some of it is low.  Cut that hair hippie?

SAMSON
Grimaced.  No way cool girl in the Stang.

MIRIAM
Teasing.  Now, I'm a rare type as well.  But Buck here, the wolf, is positive, yet he has great faith in justice and the spirit of justice; thus, he needs no Moon mother, in a sense, but the Holy Spirit, that least talked to aspect of God, which is why the world is so distracted and weak, allowing socioeconomic control.  Relax, like a father, God chides not always, but blesses those who sincerely fear Him; moreover, they will learn to HATE pride, arrogance, and false testimony, which is sorta wisdom, a thing in action.  I get this stuff from King David and the Son of David, the other King.  Do you like pretzels dipped in cheese?  Buck loves a good hamburger and the pickle farmer.

SAMSON
Can you take me home now?

MIRIAM
Afraid of a teenage girl and a German Shepherd on spiritual steroids?

SAMSON
A little . . .

BOSS 429 burnout

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