Session One: Samson in the Converted Gold's Gym
INT. THERAPY OFFICE (CONVERTED GOLD’S GYM, RENO, 1987 – DON’T ASK)
Mirrors cracked. Lighting fluorescent and flickering. Samson sits shirtless, glistening. There is a loaded Nautilus machine behind him that he uses as a chair. No one’s sure if it’s sanitary. His calves are the size of Israel’s GDP. He sweats resentment. Smells like sandalwood and beef jerky.
[Therapist note: Eyes twitch like he’s reliving battle footage that may or may not have occurred. Left hand is gripping protein shaker. Right hand keeps reaching toward invisible Philistines. Avoid direct eye contact. Do not mention scissors. Or Delilah. Or small talk.]
SAMSON (already yelling):
You want to talk about the jawbone? Fine. Let’s talk about the jawbone.
It wasn’t even a good jawbone. It was cracked. Dry. I found it near a puddle of donkey thoughts and shame. And yes, I used it. Because what else was I gonna do, Barb? Throw a scroll at them?
So I killed a thousand men. With a donkey jaw. And do you know what they called me after that?
“Unstable.”
[Therapist note: sweating now. Flexes during emotional recall.]
And I didn’t ask to be strong, okay? I was vowed. Nazarite from birth. No haircuts. No wine. No fun. You know what it’s like being the only guy at the wedding not drinking or dancing because God and your mom made a deal?
And Delilah—oh don’t get me started. She wasn’t evil. She was curious. And paid well. Look, I’m not mad at her. I’m just saying, if you find out your boyfriend’s secret and then sell it for silver, that’s not love—that’s an MLM.
She cut my hair, and suddenly I’m doing time in a Philistine CrossFit dungeon, grinding grain and wondering why everyone I love betrays me after I’ve done a circus trick for them.
And people talk like I was some kind of himbo. Like “Ha ha, Samson—meathead prophet.” But I carried a city gate on my shoulders and still had enough trauma left over to write poetry about my eyes being gouged out. That’s not dumb. That’s genre-bending.
[Therapist note: Has referred to himself in the third person five times. Refuses to make eye contact unless holding something weapon-adjacent. Keeps calling his reflection “bro.”]
You know who gets me? Ehud. Stabbed a fat king in the stomach and the sword got stuck. THAT guy has range.
Or Jonah—drama queen with a God complex. We have a group chat. It’s called “Divine Regret Club.”
But me? I finish strong. That’s what they remember. Pushed the pillars. Crushed the roof. Classic tragic redemption arc. Big finish. Big noise.
…But no one talks about the moment before.
That half-second, standing there blind, bald, used up—and asking God to remember me.
Not restore me. Just… remember.
[Therapist note: Has stopped flexing. Voice low. Shaking slightly. Hands open now. First moment of stillness.]
I’m not the jawbone.
I’m not the pillars.
I’m the guy in between, hoping that something I broke might actually mean something.
[Long pause. Then immediately does 25 pull-ups on the curtain rod. One-handed.]