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.