Existence Womb (53)

   
   "Existence Womb (53)"
    
   Buck was dreaming fondly of Roger the Dodger, and how the darling Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders of the late 1970's were featured, briefly, on the LOVE BOAT show.  He preferred TAXI and the Hebrew neurosis of an introspective cab driver, who when asked what he did for a living, simply and humbly voiced:  "I'm a cab driver."
   Jews and Muslims pissed at each other--same God.  Now all the taxi drivers are Turks, Arabs, or Persians, whatever.  Is this a modern reason for contempt?   
   Next, Buck went into the rapid and mammalian REM sleep, which he kinda/sorta was already experiencing, yet science is in the Dark Ages today, yet boasts its false axioms; regardless, he remembered when the American Government Spooks crookedly captured him after a sinister shot from a .38 Special with a sultry silver bullet; indeed--it was "sultry" motherfucker, as Sam Jackson declares ubiquitously in every word breathed from the scripts of his films.  Sam Adams was a Brewmaster and part of the Sons of Liberty.  Sam Jackson was a Motherfucker, and part of a son of a bitch--in a few of his films; on the contrary, he can be the benevolent hero--what the hell am I saying?
  Anyway, silver, the Moon, and even Wolfsbane, a European plant and name of an English rock and heavy metal band had no effect on him shifting werewolfways.  It was a Divine Infusion of the Holy Spirit, a prayer from the Black Madonna to give the honoring Templar a power to defend Her Son.  
   So, they gave him a Haloperidol Injection, which stops the garden-variety werewolf from shifting--one cursed or brutally bitten.  No effect; moreover, Haldol is not approved for aging patients with dementia-related psychosis.  But it still had no effect.  Buck was an anomaly.  A Jack London drifter, with many varying opinions before his tail wagged for the Living, Most Potent God--the Abrahamic God, gelling with a singular Son, the Holy Ghost's glimmering-hued awesome and all the rest of that cool, mystical crap--but, it was all freaking real!
   He looked at the stupid prison guard, saying meekly but firmly:  "Is inutilis."
   Got clubbed.  Found the Good Ghost--healed; then, Luke showed up.  The good doctor--with a plan of escape.  A friendly, scholarly physician--somebody who gives a shit about asymmetrical souls--them Shapeless Divine.  

Existence Womb (52)

   
   "Existence Womb (52)"
    
A Marian invocation for the Templar Knight Buck;
Specifically, the Salve Regina--like four-leaf clover luck;
Anyway, he had been brutally true with his benefactor, Luke;
Thus, IN NOMINE Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.  Amen.  Never on God be mute.
And his Holy-Burning Ice that kept him in frozen heat for Miriam's fiery sweet
Was like unto a Templar always venturing for another Holy Grail--not knowing defeat,
Yet there is no cheating in the mystical art of faith,
Which births supernatural things--even the possibility of a prophet-weeping wraith.  

Existence Womb (51)

   
   "Existence Womb (51)"
   
   Luke, among the morning breeze that William Blake fancied, getting hard-kissed by the Arctic blast of cold wind, inhaled the non-pernicious purity of a less industrial nation, as is Canada; moreover, he knew he wasn't being desultory; specifically, there was purpose and predestined determination more deeply implanted in Miriam, though with her Walmart clothing and living in the rural region, she could easily be mistaken as a simplistic gamin--especially with her Joan of Arc haircut and lack of being a makeup junkie.  
   Regardless, Miriam and the rest of them were well camouflaged for the time being; next, Buck entered out into the open, closing the house door with ninja-like silence.
   "You must be half-Indian.  Kinda a silent man-beast."  Luke smiled.
   "In saecula saecularum."  Buck offered.
   Luke knew:  Indeed, forever and ever this time was.  What would happen and become of them?  Or would it even be noticed?  For Luke had once treated an angelic entity serving in the Celestial Hierarchy.  Hence, how imperative were their actions to an alien/spook government?  
   And Buck pondered on, probing gently, and with a bit of jocularity concerning watching Canadian Football from now on, maybe starting a Fantasy Football CFL thingamajig.  Luke laughed, and it was genuine; nevertheless, he asked Buck strongly:  "What do you feel for my daughter?"
   Buck, simply with:  "I love her.  In all ITS ways."   

Existence Womb (50)

   
   "Existence Womb (50)"
    
Miriam in melodramatic groove pestered Buck for his feelings--he stoically replied:
"Fidus Achates--you are my best friend girl, not to be protectively denied."
Miriam did cachinnate with vociferous vibrancy,
Showcasing a tongue-lashing teen spirit that would target ultimately
Herself--a bloodthirsty warrior--in an allegorical sense,
Meaning all was for a forged future being as reliable to a poor man like a sixpence;
Moreover, Miriam surmised Buck boldly having her non-tattooed back,
Though she read:  Certain Rune-like tattoos can save from the World Serpent's offspring attack;
Plus, a piercing with the many protections of certain metaphysical metals--no soul should lack;
Regardless, she was not going Emo or Goth-like in search;
Next, need a dumb shit Clinical Psychologist not knowing the difference between Mass and Church.  

Existence Womb (49)

   
  
   "Existence Womb (49)"
     
   Miriam was tucked into bed divinely, under Buck, in a bunk bed--it had STAR WARS paraphernalia adoring it; specifically, C-3PO sheets and pillow cases with Chewbacca quilts--very warm and comfortably cozy, even in a galaxy far, far away--and there are many.  Luke thought it best to attach his delicate daughter in close proximity with the Werewolf Monk at all times, but mostly when she entered dreamland.   While she could most likely not be monitored officially; still, visitation from things monstrous and motley were a possibility, as all things are possible, and not just random acts of beautiful or destructive super-symmetry from the living sparks of nothingness; indeed, as Yeats wisely knew:  "Anything and all things are possible."  Of course doing the old coyote thievery from Intellectual Property, such as might be determined the Bible; regardless, Luke had no concern for Miriam's adolescent hormones to rape Buck; on the contrary, the Werewolf Monk may break his protracted vows, but he knew Buck was the best anti-sexual ascetic alive on Terra's surface.  Thus, Luke slept well.  Meanwhile, back to Miriam and Buck's bedroom, like this:
   
MIRIAM
Lying in bed, her mind racing from the groovy juice of all the action.  Buck, you awake?
  
BUCK
Hoc est enim Corpus meum.   
   
MIRIAM
Something about your body, right?  Something religious, totally.
   
BUCK
A reference to Christ's Body.  It was infused by the Holy Spirit Itself--a magnanimous synergy that allowed Him, to become, if He was not already, which I believe He was--the Son of the most Almighty God.  I cannot mate Miriam.  I can't even flirt.  This is why your father chose me as your protector.
   
MIRIAM
Great, my Dad wants me to be a Nun and get none.  But I really dig you.  Doesn't matter.  Hey, you're not a eunuch are ya?
   
BUCK
Laughed.  I too am partially infused by the Holy Spirit--was never bitten--that's where my powers come from, and you never sin against the Holy Spirit--the only unforgivable sin.  And I really like you Miriam.  And I can show you my love in other ways.
   
MIRIAM
Just make sure if you ever change your mind about kissing me again, my lips are ready--I genuinely adore you.
   
   Buck's dog-heart did beat with a bit more mercury, and he did yearn to touch Miriam.  Some day perhaps--some golden day.    

Existence Womb (48)

   
   "Existence Womb (48)"
   
Luke, the Divine Doctor of things both sweetly sublime and monstrously macabre
Gave Miriam's extracted implant to an iniquitous spook, a past tense friend, with a happy nod--
The dumb shit would be in Helena and American unIntelligence, pondering her next move,
Though Cards trump Chess with a Metasymbology-infused groove;
Alas, Luke would put the spooks of his haunted yesteryear far, far behind,
Relying on being cunning; plus exile--as Joyce claimed:  "A bard's weapons of the mind."
Though no bard, yet a physician of freaks,
Luke drank some whiskey, loving the purple bag that it comes in within Canada's reach;
Moreover, the spooks asked Al Capone if he was getting his booze from a Northern Source--
He was not supercilious, yet he humbled himself, speaking like a love-given horse:
"I don't even know what street Canada is on."
So, the bizarre drama with redneck humor--it parades on--granting a progeny of reptilian spawn.

Existence Womb (47)

   
   "Existence Womb (47)"
    
   Dr. Luke had the appropriate surgical instruments, and some Moosehead lager; plus, could insert an injection of Lidocaine; moreover, Miriam let her melt-away herb-derived medicine do its best job--kill the pain, but she was fully conscious--in a Jim Morrison sense.  
   So, Luke began to delicately explore with scalpel's dance, not thinking a heavy Mastoid-type of surgery would be needed, or that the most likely extraterrestrial metal would be down-right detectable by anyone save alien/spook physicians; regardless, he found an object, nothing more than a millimeter in size, a thin, fishing line type of metallic substance, something akin to control or monitor--alien/spooks being bold on Biotelemetry; indeed, Miriam was marked by a bad beast of several sorts, and Luke surmised implanting a microscopic portion of Tungsten, which weighs more than lead, being as hard as Wolverine's skeletal system, resisting radiation of all sorts such as gamma rays--basically blocks with its harder than diamond structure, repelling even extraterrestrial varieties, having metaphysical might and mystical mojo.
   Miriam sipped on the cold lager through a mercurial imbibe of a pain-relieving straw, it was bendable and had colorful stripes--she burped a girlish giggle, Buck frowned weirdly as the observer, thinking this girl was becoming nuts; next, realizing, more importantly, she was learning to fight in her own way, like Joan of Arc, maybe not a Dark Night Doctor like Saint John of the Cross, but a corporeal warrior realizing she could wave and swing a blade adorned with five crosses and not prone to rust, the Queen of Swords, a Tarot thing; anyway, that weapon, like forged by French blacksmiths during the blood-spill of more ancient times, when a crazed yet mystical girl became something like unto a lambent flame and forever eternal.