Reverent Mervin had strong beliefs. Ultra-conservative, fundamentalist, all of life's instructions could be found literally in the Bible, etc.
Really he was an insufferable man, arrogant, proud, judgmental, intolerant, pushy, unhappy. Angry and boring. He was 57 years old, 240 pounds, with a fat hairy belly and a sweaty flaccid body, balding, with a pasty complexion.
He was rigidly puritanical. A dull, tedious life, loveless marriage to a woman whose decades-long tolerance of him had made her far grayer and duller than her years.
As he pulled out of his Bible-thumping conference meeting in this strange new city, he noticed someone at the side of the road. It was a young woman, maybe 19 years old, very short, very skinny, but with long golden blonde hair down to her knees. She was facing the other way, and was wearing a curious backpack that was the shape of a cross, lit up with reflective material so it glistened silver in the car's headlights.
She turned to look at his car as he approached, and he could see that she had an angelic, pristine face, no make-up except almost obscenely garish, very red lipstick. Her breasts were huge, massively out of proportion to her otherwise petite, waifish frame.
Something came over him. Ordinarily he would curse such a person, and speed off with an air of superiority, perhaps even calling the police to complain about hitchhikers on the highway. But this time, he was strangely compelled to slow down and stop the car. She walked over to the open window on the passenger's side, and leaned into the car.
"Would you take me home, sir?" she asked in a soft, sweet, melodious purr.
He unlocked the door, wordlessly, and she climbed into the car.
