2000 miles to Wasteland

 

The sun relentlessly scorched the barren desert wasteland. The radioactive dust swirled and raged, preventing any life from flourishing. Only the strong and mobile survive. The relics of the old world lay in waste, standing guard against the weight of time, the press of rust, staring into oblivion. In the distance, a low roar followed by a roostertail of dust. The ancient machine loped along, spewing the burnt souls of prehistoric creatures, leaving blue smoke and white dust in its wake. The Malaise-era V8 moaned and spat as it clamoured for whatever scraps of horsepower it could muster. Decades of neglect, millions of miles of brutal terrain, ordinance from enemy vehicles and the march of wear and tear had taken its toll on the contraption, yet, like a zombie, the car presses on.

Like the chariot that he wrangles, the driver was equally rusted and hollow. Time had smashed him equally as hard as the car. Tired, vacant eyes stared out at the tan and blue abyss hidden behind polarized military goggles. The cracked iPod Nano, hooked up to the tape adapter, was pushing out some Flock of Seaguls, which could barely be heard over the drone of the rusted out exhaust, the squeaks and clangs of the suspension tirelessly working itself like a powerlifter on steroids and the roar of the off-road tires jouncing over the cracked and crumbling highway and the ticking from the Geiger counter affixed to the dash, reading faint amounts of radioactivity. The last remaining working speaker crackled as it screamed to the world, its cry falling into the dust like a late fall’s acid-rain.

The road called. The big event was going to commence in three days. It was imperative that he be there since work was kind of slow. The man call Kreuz was one of the last genuine Helldrivers left for hire. Being a Helldriver meant being a Jack of all Trades of the road. Everything from parcel and personnel delivery to scouting, recon and armed convoy escort services. Most Helldrivers have been killed or have taken the easy way out, joining the gangs of Road Pirates, Marauders and Raiders to terrorize the wastes. Very few have held true to the Helldrivers Creed, “Live, Drive, Survive.” To Kreuz, speed means freedom of the soul, Mobility is life and the road always beckons. The big event, the event where all the tribes cease or suspend their feuds, rivalries and wars and for four days, come together as one. One group of Mankind to celebrate one more year amongst the living, amongst the roadworthy. A time to open up trade, forgive and forget, to celebrate and mourn, to live and love, to drink and dance, and for Kreuz, to make money.

I-40 is the only real remaining path from the ruins of Chicago to the deserts of the New Republic of California. All other roads are impassable around harvest time. He laughed “Harvest what? Dirt? Pfft, ‘Harvest time.’” There lays about 2000 miles of perile and doom between his front bumper and the potential wealth of the Big Event. He grows anxious to see his fellow Helldrivers and to crash vessels and words together. The din of conversation and music and the glow of the fires dancing in the sky against the deep purple star-strewn sky drowned out the pinging and knocking from the 351M engine. The BRAKE indicator blazed brightly as it has done so for decades. But, this time, the OIL indicator sparked to life. Kreuz snapped out of his euphoria and reined the Cougar to a grinding halt. Time to top off the fluids. Three, five gallon cans of gas, filled with the lifeblood of his previous conquest, (a hacked up Nevada State Police car full of raiders) sloshed into the gas tank. He checked the oil in the dusty motor, bone dry. He was on his last 3 jugs of used oil… and then there were two. He leaned on the dented, checkerstrewn fender and wiped the sweat off his neck. He uncapped the years old soda bottle and took a swig of the warm water and bared his teeth at the bitter taste of radiation. Its everywhere, in low doses, but its everywhere. It permeates all things much like the sand. It is all around us like a poisonous God, punishing the survivors for the sins of the incinerated.

 

Just then, the sanctity of the absence of sound was shattered by another low roar. Kreuz could barely pick out the sound of an engine. He leaned over the drivers side door sill and produced a set of binoculars. He pondered for a second the origin of the looking glass, but quickly leveled them to identify the sound. Cresting a hill a couple miles back was a bright gleam if metal. Kreuz focused the glasses and spoke. “Ah, a fine specimen you are.” He could identify the high RPM whine and the frog-like roofline as an old Mazda rotary. IT blew passed a charred, overturned box truck as it barreled towards him. He cracked open the 357 Magnum and checked the 2 remaining rounds. Yep, still there, he thought to himself. He racked the 12 gauge and made sure that he still had the four shells left.

The Cougar’s springs squeaked as the driver’s door slammed shut. The motor turned sluggishly due to the excessive heat but roared to life. The mud tires kicked up plumes of dust as the Mercury screamed back onto the highway, tires protesting in vain. He adjusted the mirror as the the Mazda crested into view, the passenger wearing a gas mask and holding a crossbow, was leaning out the window and slapping the roof of the little Japanese car. Kreuz smiled as the speedometer waivered around 85. The Mazda approached from the passenger side, the bowman adjusting his aim. Kreuz laughed and cranked the steering wheel to the right, sending the 2 ton Cougar into the side of the lightweight RX7. The Bowman fired an arrow into the sky as he tumbled out of the passenger window and disappearing into the distance. The Driver of the Mazda downshifted and sped up the the passenger window of the Cougar. Kreuz glanced over and slammed on the brakes as the driver fired an uzi into the Cougar. Plastic and glass shards flew about the cockpit of the Mercury as the bullets collided with the metalwork. The tires cried in agony as the locked up, grinding into the hot asphault. Kreuz stopped the accelerator and the Cougar downshifted through detent and revved wildly, trying to find a gear. The Mazda swerved wildly between the two lanes as the driver slowed down. The Cougar caught second gear and lurched forward, sending the front bumper right into the tailpanel of the Mazda. Crimson and amber exploded from the taillights as the sedan muscled the Mazda into a spin. Kreuz glanced over to see the driver of the Mazda freeze hopelessly  as the car spun numerous times before flipping into the wasteland in a spectacular shower of sand and parts.

The Cougar slid sideways to a halt, blocking the two-laned highway. Kreuz swung the door open, shotgun hanging lazily towards the ground. He sauntered over and peered into the passenger compartment of the steaming, ticking wreck. The kid was wearing a black t-shirt, aviator sunglasses and camouflage pants. His face was bloody and he was panting. Kreuz leveled the shotgun and before the kid could mount a protest, the 12 gauge sung its deadly song. The interior was painted in gore. Kreuz ran back to his car and brought back anything that could catch the precious liquids, soaking into the desert sands. Hubcaps, drain pans, cups and helmets caught the essential lifebloods of the rotary. This was life, now. After all that was valuable has been relinquished from the Mazda, Kreuz set off again. It was going to be a long drive. He must hurry if he wants to take advantage of the safety and security of the Great 40 Migration, a caravan of Event goers who, like in the Event itself, put aside their differences and help each other out to achieve their common goal, make it alive. The Cougar roaded away into the distance, leaving the smoldering wreck in its wake.

I Am Jax

I Am Jax

 

                I awoke, face down in the dirt. The soft, fine, off-white sand was comfortable. My inner-self begged to remain aloft, floating on the cloud of desert sand. My body had other ideas, needs that required attention. I rolled onto my back. The sun was low in the sky, bathing me in a warm, soft light, like a thick blanket. God, it was comforting. The morning reeked of hope, optimism and new adventure. I puffed the sand off my face, did the best I could to clean it off, shed my armor that protected me from the cold, harsh night. I rose to my feet and stretched, filling my lungs with the dusty air in a tremendous yawn. The only thing on the agenda, today, was to empty the bladder. The urine splat hard against the dust, darkening the off-white to a stormy gray. I had to admit that I DO enjoy my aroma. It was strong, fighting through the many wafting scents fighting their way into my senses.  I needed water. My “To Do” list just got bigger. My midsection grumbled. That eagle has been screaming for many days. I do not remember the last time I was satiated. The list got bigger, still.

                I picked up the smell before I heard the roar of the monster. I was downwind from him. The monster was pungent with the acrid reek of the ancients. Blood of enemies laid low and scattered across the sands of time. Intermingled within the tarry stench was smells of fire, sweat, fear and anger. Not a firey, hot rage, but a low and constant brooding. The kind of anger that has been on the fire too long and should have been eaten long ago. I spotted the plume of dust being kicked up by the ravenous beast. It bounded across the wastes at great speed, roaring furiously. I watched in awe as the creature traversed the horizon and crested over the next hill. I decided to follow on the account of not having any other direction to travel.

                I disemboweled a plant and devoured its lifeblood, quenching my thirst. It tasted horrific, but by the Gods, it was magnificent. The list shrank. As I traveled along, sun mercilessly pummeling my spirit and stamina, I picked up a scent. This time, the scent of timid desperation, nagging fear and haste. I spied the small, long eared creature. He was thin, missing fur in patches. Most of the wildlife has been permanently tainted by the ancients. Everything that I have ever experienced in my 13 winters on the Earth has had that sickening smell, wait, more than a smell, an aura about it. The ground I stand on, the scorched, petrified trees, the air I breathe, the animals and plants I eat all are stained with that toxic smell. I do not remember being unable to stand it, but I DO remember never being able to fully get used to it. The sickly creature did not have a chance. I had the element of surprise. He squeaked in confusion, protest and helplessness. We locked eyes as my teeth sank into his neck. AS his life and body went their separate ways, I could see the fear in his eyes turn to acceptance. It was though he had thanked the Gods that his life was finally over as his pupils dialated and rolled into the back of his head. I devoured his flesh raw. I learned the hard way not to eat all of the insides. Some of them were… not good.

                I sat in the road, betwixt the tracks of the beast, cleaning the gore off my face as best as I could. The sun was directly overhead. I sat beneath the scant shade of, I wouldn’t even call it a tree, more of a piece of wood sticking out of the ground. I sat back and pondered the road ahead. I spied some gore on my dogtag and licked it with my tongue. “Can’t let it go to waste.”  I’m not sure if I said it aloud or not. Only the Gods know. I could hear Mom’s voice. I never knew what she said, but she always spoke with love. There I was, sitting on the floor of the cabin, cleaning myself after a meal. I was young. She walked up to me, bent down, said a few words and gently picked up my dogtag. The material gleamed in the white light of the hearth. Dad was out doing Dad things. Big sister was helping Mom cook. Oh Gods, the smell of freshly killed cow cooked over the fire was heavenly. Little brother was playing with toy beasts on the floor, mimicking the hunt and the kill that he has never witnessed with his own eyes. The little one was in his bed. He smelled of freshness, wonder, and joy. Such a stark contrast to the world that he lived in. The fire danced for us, driving back the dark and the cold. As Mom held my tag, she inspected it, licked her finger and wiped off a piece of food that was stuck to it. She looked at it and looked into my eyes. I will never know what she said. I knew I was special, but whatever she said, I took it as, “I love you, Jax.”

                I’m not sure how long I was sitting underneath the tree. It was long enough to get the little needles and teeth in my legs. I got up and drove the sensation out of my legs. The sun was no longer at its Apex. It was starting to make its descent to its liar where it sulked during the night.  The beast was miles ahead. I didn’t know why I was following it, but I figured that it would have to rest and drink again. Those beasts ALWAYS have to stop and drink periodically. I proceeded, taking in the sights and sounds of the wastes.

                It was nearly dark when I finally caught up with the beast. My list had shrunk, once more. The aroma of singed sweat and heat was present but was overpowered by the sweet smell of a fresh kill. The beast was injured, maybe mortally. It sat by a small fire. This surprised me as I have NEVER witnessed a beast of this nature start a fire on the ground. I have seen them spontaneously catch fire and perish or seen them set ablaze in battle, but never thought that one could build a fire for warmth. Then I picked up another smell. It was the distinct smell of a man, but something was very peculiar with this man. I could smell numerous, almost incalculable years, souls, spirits and time. A dusty, worn away spirit, ravaged by the eons. A tortured soul who wished not to live but still remains in spite of himself. MY list had grown, once again.

                He wore all black, from head to toe. A large, flat-brimmed hat covered most of his face. The light of the fire splashed various shades of grey upon his figure, revealing the long coat and strange, brutal weapons of long ago. He was in the process of devouring some animal. I admired his kill for it was about the size of a large cat and anything of that size besides coyotes are scarce, if not extinct in the wastes. Gods, I could not take my eyes off that food. I started salivating. I was hidden within the brush, but I felt as though I was inches from that cooked meat. My midsection rumbled. The man stopped chewing for a second, hand already upon his side weapon. His jaw started working again. I realized that I hadn’t been breathing in all this time and let out a breath of relief. How did he conquer the big beast? I have seen men who have tamed the beasts and used them for beasts of burden, but I have not seen a single man lay low such beast. Questions. I’m still salivating. Each moment he sinks his teeth into that tender flesh is like a needle in my stomach! He reached over and grabbed a clear vessel. He unscrewed the cap and that’s when it hit me. The clear, crisp water collided with his lips. My mouth went dry. I MUST have it! I prepare for attack. My urges told me to leap and kill him, yet my thoughts kept me at bay. The large beast was dead. There were no signs of life left in it. I caught a glimpse of its lifeblood soaking into the sands. How can I attack a man who has felled a beast as this? Also, he has weapons of man and I only have my fists, nails, feet and teeth. I have killed many a man, but he is different. Gods! He took another bite! Do something fool! I must act. I prepared for the attack. I played it through in my mind, like that game that Dad used to play with our neighbor. They would sit across from each other at the table, motionless for what seemed like hours. I assumed it was a game, since they would laugh and shake hands when it’s over, a game of gentlemen. The only time that they would move is when one would grab a seemingly random piece from the checkerboard, either black or white, and move it to another square. Occasionally, they would knock another piece off the board or say a word or two. It was incredibly boring, but I loved watch… WAIT! He took another bite! I can’t think! I must act!

                I leapt out of the shadows, taking a stand across from the fire. “Give me your food or your life, fool!” I snarled, expecting him to draw his weapon. His hand was in motion already and had bypassed his weapon. A piece of the meat landed at my feet. I was dumbfounded. My hunger overcame the confusion and I had devoured the piece of meat, sand and all. “You… you.. just give up, like that?” My mind raced. It must be some kind of trick. He is trying to make me let my guard down. I will not have it. “You..” I started to speak, but he shushed me. Another piece landed at my feet. I consumed it without haste. The grit of the sand, still fresh on my tongue. I sat down, staring at him through the fire. He produced the vessel once more, unscrewed the lid, but instead of partaking in the sweet, delicious water, he emptied some of it into a cup and got to his feet. I  prepared for battle. He won’t get the better of me! The man simply left the cup at my feet, hands nowhere near his weapons. I pondered upon the cup. Does he think so little of me that I’m not a threat? I have killed men TWICE his size. The intense thirst interrupted my thought process. I downed the liquid in one gulp. All of the stank saliva from the morning, the stickiness of the lame rabbit, the sand and sweat from the meat, all washed away and was replaced with a cool, clean feeling. How refreshing!

                There was one piece of the animal left. He ripped it asunder from the bone, once again rose to his feet and approached me. I, still in the seated position, was too tired and content with the food in my belly to put up a fight. He crouched beside me, extended his hand with the meat, said a few words and waited. I cautiously took the meat and quickly devoured it. He took hold of my dogtag, I recoiled, but allowed him to read it. “Jax.” He said. One thing I knew from my family’s language was my name. Mom had said it over and over to me, hoping that I would understand other words. I could not. The man saw the understanding in my eyes. “Yes, that’s me! I am Jax.” I replied. He shushed me again. Releasing the metal tag hanging around my neck, he produced a small piece of leather. He unfolded the leather and revealed a thin rectangle of unknown material. He presented it to me. I studied the shard and noticed his picture was on it. My eyesight hasn’t been the best since the incident, but I could tell that it was the same man, shorter hair, clean, trimmed beard, and a happier, more optimistic look about his face. What a stark contrast to the ragged, unkempt, wreck of a man who knelt before me. “What happened to you man?” He didn’t respond. He pointed to the ancient runes upon the shard and simply said “Jack.”

                No, It’s “Jax.” I corrected. He grabbed my tag again and said “Jax”, pointing his finger to my chest. “Yes! You know my name!” I’m not sure why I was so happy for this fact. He then leveled the shard, pointed the same finger at himself and said “Jack.” I pondered this for a while. He smiled as the realization came to me. “You! That’s what YOU are. You are Jack. I am Jax! This is great!” He ruffled my hair on the top of my head and returned to his place. I didn’t know how to feel about that. It was all I could think about.

                The night wore on. Jack was talking to me, but we both knew that it was in vain. He talked in a low voice. I could tell by the way he spoke, that he had been on this earth for quite some time. Occasionally, he would trail off and stare out at the distance for a moment and snap to. He was holding one of the beast’s internal organs. He poked it with various instruments with great concentration. As he spoke, he would sometimes pause and look at me as if he was waiting for me to respond. I just let the fool speak. Only fools speak to such an extent. I was tired. Exhausted from the tracking of the beast, fighting off haunting memories, the kill of the day and most of all, tired of his droning voice. Although, his voice seemed to keep away the screams, the fire, the blood, the men of the Black Circle. Gods, help me! I can still hear them screaming!!!

                I awoke. Face down in the dirt again. I darted to my feet. Daylight! Fuck! Where did he go? The fire! I turned about, searching. I could not believe my eyes. Jack was waist-deep inside the beast’s mouth. The upper jaw was propped open with a piece of wood. His knees were resting on the bottom jaw. I could not see his face… or his head for that matter. I was disgusted. He was covered in the beast’s gore and lifeblood, turned black and slimy. Occasionally, he’d pull out one of the organs of the beast, or a handful of what I could only guess was tendons and toss them asunder. He had a gray box of instruments also resting on the lower jaw. He would yelp in annoyance occasionally and would grumble as he spoke other words. I would give ANYTHING to understand what he was saying. I looked around and took stock of my situation. His jacket and some of his belongings were in a pile near where he was sitting the night before. I walked past and tried to take a closer look, without raising any suspicions. I found a suitable spot to empty my bladder and dust off my face. The man was still knee-deep in the dead, so I decided to take a look at his stuff. The vessel was nearly empty. The kill was merely a skeleton. The fire was a pile of ash. Under the jacket were a myriad of useless trinkets and leather straps. I attempted to take the vessel when I spoke. Startled, I jumped back. He was standing next to the beast, gore-soaked instrument in his right hand. I could not understand him. He motioned towards the vessel. I understood. For fucks sake, though, I couldn’t open the vessel. He sighed in exasperation and opened the vessel and poured the rest of the contents into the small metal cup. He shoved the cup at me, obviously annoyed that I interrupted his work. I drank it all without hesitation. Only afterwards, I realized that there was none left for him.  I retreated to my spot across from the now extinguished fire and pondered on that for a while. What kind of man is willing to give the last of his water to a complete stranger who threatened to kill him just the night before? He is, by no means, weak. I can tell that clear as day. What is his game? Does he need me for something? Is he merely waiting for the right time to strike? No, that’s foolish. He could’ve killed me anytime last night.

                The man called Jack had sat in the dirt, back leaning upon the beast. He cast the instrument away in frustration. He raised his face to the sky and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and righted his head again. He produced a piece of cloth from his back pocket and gazed upon it for a time. I recognized that cloth. A gray band which brandished a white oval containing a Black Circle. Instantaneously, I was back in the cabin. The door came crashing in. Three men, dressed in black stormed in with weapons. I remember the fire. My family was screaming. I was severely wounded. I tried to save them but the fire consumed them. The men left, bearing the mark of the Black Circle. The fire consumed my family’s flesh, but not their cries.

                “Why do you have that?! Are you one of them?! ANSWER ME!” He did not respond to me. He gripped the band tightly in his fist. I could tell by the anquish in his face that he was not one of them. I could smell the despair. They had taken something from him, too. Like me, he was looking for redemption. Like me, he seeked… revenge.

                I managed to kill a small rodent later that day. I had swallowed it whole. I felt a little guilty because I had caught the critter far enough away from the beast carcass that the man didn’t notice. Next time, I will share with him. When I returned, he had his coat, hat and boots on. He was packing up his things into a bag. He returned the instruments to the gray box after cleaning them and placed them inside the mouth of the beast. What lunacy! I was about to ask him why he placed them all inside the beast when he started walking down the road. “Where are you going?” He stopped, turned to me and motioned for me to come with. I looked around. There was nothing for me here. The beast was inedible. There was no food or water. I had no use for his silly instruments. I followed.

                We camped later that night. Jack had found a plant with a meager amount of water in it that we shared. He was proved his resourcefulness and I valued having him at my side. I managed to successfully hunt a rabbit. This one was in better shape than the first one, but slightly mutated. It still tasted damned good. The fire was small, but produced a brilliant light show. I sat in amazement of the way fire dances and moves. The man had thrown the carcass of the rabbit away and when he went to go sit back down, he ruffled my hair. I felt Dad ruffle my hair as I sat on the porch. I watched the little brother running through the fields at home. Mom and big sis were hanging up clothes. The little one cooed next to me on the porch. Dad walked down the steps and out to Mom. He hugged her from behind and kissed her. She smiled. Then Jack said something.

                I snapped to. I still didn’t understand what he said. I was instantly transported back to the star-filled , night sky, across from the fire of the dozing man. He was talking in his sleep. Sometimes yelling at phantoms in his head. I felt myself drifting off to sleep, as well. I was back on the porch of the house. Dad and Mom noticed a plume of dust approaching from far away. Dad ran in and grabbed his looking glasses. He surveyed the horizon. He barked at Mom and Sis. I panicked. I didn’t know what was going on. Everybody ran back into the house. I followed. Mom forced Big Sister to go into the basement. Something approached. I ran to the window and saw a beast approach, three men riding upon it. The mark of the Black Circle emblazoned on its side. The family was acting as though nothing was wrong, but I knew something was wrong. The three men dismounted the beast. They stood tall, dressed in clean, wrinkle-free clothes. I could smell the blood of a thousand souls upon them. The middle one was obviously the Alpha of the bunch. His clothes had more shiny things on them and he wasn’t holding a large weapon. The two Betas had black helmets and carried long weapons. I have heard these weapons speak before and their words caused massive  damage.

                The Alpha pounded on the door. Dad got up to open it. One of the Betas kicked down the door, wood splintering. The Little One started to cry in fright. Little Brother grabbed Mom’s skirt in fear. Words were exchanged between Dad and the Alpha. I think they were looking for Big Sister. The Alpha was not satisfied with Dad’s response. He shook his head in disappointment. The Alpha produced a small weapon and it sang its deadly song. I jumped at the speed of it. Dad’s eyes grew wide as he staggered back, clutching his stomach. Mom and Little Brother screamed as I leapt through the air. One of the Betas jabbed me in the midsection with his weapon and knocked the wind out of me. I gasped, trying to get back on my feet. He kept kicking me in the side. I felt my ribs snap. I came to and saw the Alpha crouching over Dad, speaking softly into his ear. He waited for a response and was found wanting. The Alpha grabbed Mom and produced a blade, placing it against her neck. I tried to get up. Little brother screamed and tried to pull Mom back. Beta #2 hit him with the blunt side of the weapon, right in the nose. He went down in a heap, holding his face.

                The Alpha, swept all of the dishes and things off the table with one swift movement, sending them crashing to the floor. He bent Mom over the table and started to pull up her skirt. He yelled again, obviously demanding something. Dad, attempting to hold in his lifeblood, motioned to the trapdoor to the basement. Alpha ordered the Betas into the basement. I heard Big Sister scream and fight. Then I heard the crack of the weapon hitting skull. Then the Betas rose from the trap door, Big Sis unconscious over #1s shoulder. The Alpha said a few more words and Beta 1 brought Big Sister out to the waiting beast. The Alpha, then gave orders to Beta 2. He left towards the beast. After that, he proceeded to violate Mom. The screams were unbearable. I crawled over to try to stop him. He stopped only to kick me across the floor again. I woke up again. The Alpha was gone. Mom was weeping on the floor. The Betas were pouring juice all over the cabin. It smelled of the ancients, tart, pungent. Little Brother was curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, whimpering. He yelped as Beta 2 poured juice on him. The little one cried harder when he had the juice poured on him. Dad growled something at Beta 1 as he was anointed with the foul-smelling liquid. They didn’t even bother with me. Maybe they thought I was dead. I felt as though I was. The Alpha returned. He said some words to Dad. Then he produced a smack stick. I have seen Dad use them to start up the hearth. “NO!” He swiped the stick on the wall, as I tried to get to my feet. The gray flame blazed wildly, turning white. I watched as it hit the floor. My vision was flooded with white! The screams were deafening! I crawled into the flames. It burned intensely. I felt as though my very soul was being consumed by the pain. I powered through the flames. I will rescue them. There is still hope… I have failed.

                I woke up in the yard. I could feel only pain. I could not see out of my right eye. I could barely move. I looked over and witnessed the smoldering remains of the home topple over and settle. I wept. When I removed my head from my hands, I was back underneath the Wasteland stars. The fire that Jack had built was smoldering and dying. He was asleep. I still shed a tear. He stirred and talked in his sleep. I could tell he had his demons, too. We were very much alike. He woke with a start, and screamed briefly. I jumped back. He looked around, unaware of his surroundings. Only after a moment, did the realization pour into his eyes and he laid back down, put his hat over his eyes and was motionless, again.

                The next morning was the commencement of the last leg of our journey, or at least I HOPED it was. Food and water was scarce and I was physically exhausted. Eventually, a small town came into view. At first, it was a mere blip on the horizon, like a fly on a shelf across the room. Eventually, we found ourselves standing at a rickety sign that I could not read. It was sunset. The town was merely a collection of wooden structures with a few ancient buildings that were hollow and bare, casting shadows across the ground. We walked down the street, which had transformed from a dirt road into broken pieces of pavement and gravel. Such strange objects protruded from the sidewalks, rusted and misshapen. At the end of the road stood a large, two story building. I have been in only one other building that had an upstairs when Dad and I went to town. It was a place where men would come to drink foul spirits and mate with the local females. Dad would go there and partake of the spirits, but being a man of good-standing, not the females. He would play the black and white boardgame with his friend for what seemed like an eternity whilst I sat in a chair, surveying the behaviors of the men and women.

                Jack stopped in the road. I picked up the familiar smell of foul spirits, burning smoking leaves, the strange smelling perfumes of the women and sweat. I could faintly hear jovial music, laughter, yells of far-fetched tales and moans of passion. “I get it, man. Go on, go get yourself a female. You earned it.” I looked up at him and the cheer drained from my face. Maybe countless years ago, that was on his mind, but not today. He produced a piece of yellowed parchment. I could not see what was on it as the sun was retreating once again, as though it had predicted terrible things to happen this night. He gazed at the sign that hung above the threshold. There seemed to be large, crudely drawn drops of gray water. I was thirsty. “Well, let’s at least get a drink, huh?” I motioned to him. “Come on.” Even though I was trying to coax him to come, he had already made his mind up long before I had spoke. He lead the way and I followed.

                The small batwing doors swung open and we were assaulted by the din of the crowd. A drastic contrast to the eerily quiet desert that I was accustomed to. In the center of the place, stood a tall, long plateau of dark wood. A pretty, young female stood behind the plateau, eyeing us with curiosity. Light, fluffy hair fell down from her head to just above her ample bosoms. She worn a white, collared shirt with an apron over it. I was taken aback by the amount of vessels that stood upon the shelves behind her. Scores of them, each with various levels, colors and labels on them. On the right side of the woman, sitting at the plateau, back to us was a man wearing mostly black leathers and a hat. Faded pieces of metal were draped upon his shoulders, crossing at the back and traveling under his arms. I recognized these things. They were what you inserted into the weapons in order to fall a man and take his life. He raised a massive vessel and downed the entire thing in seemingly one gulp. He signaled for another. The woman acknowledged, not taking her eyes off of us, reached behind and grabbed a bottle of gray liquid. I crashed into the clear vessel, churning a tempest of light colored foam. Then, I noticed the mirror behind the bottles. I could see the man’s face, eyes still covered by dark goggles. He removed his smoking leaves from his mouth and downed half of the vessel, before bringing the leaves back to his lips. The white paper burned as he inhaled. He enjoyed the smoke for a moment and released it through his nostrils, sending it billowing into the air in a  gray cloud.

                To the left, a skinny, tall, gaunt-looking man sat at a large wooden box with white rectangle stones on it. He pounded his fingers upon those stones with fury, sending out a jaunty, melodious tune from the bowels of the box. It has been ages since I heard such music. It was different than when Big Sister would strum the string box after supper on the porch. She sung with such a soft melancholy, so full of enduring despair. The box-player’s music was a joyride in comparison. The tune bounded happily and joyfully, like a child chasing a butterfly. He turned away from the ancient instrument and smiled at us and gave us a wink. The roaring hearth to his left made his face glow like the devil. He picked up the tune a little as though he was introducing us two ragged, dust-covered strangers to the place. Two more, older gentleman played cards at the table to the left of the plateau. Large, smoking sticks sticking out from their gray beards. One laid a card down on the table in a “A-HA!” moment. The other cursed and threw his cards on the table. The first, greedily reached out and dragged the shiny silver pieces to him, laughing boastfully. My eyes traveled up the stairs to the second floor balcony. A couple of females were leaning on the rail, also gazing at us, rather Jack. They were sizing him up, and without saying a word, trying to establish domination over the other to claim him if he were to partake in carnal pleasures. Jack gazed to the right and spotted an empty table in the corner, tucked out of sight where even the light seemed uneasy to travel there. He motioned to me to claim that table. In my world, you have to claim things. If you wait, somebody else will establish ownership and you are left wanting. I hopped on a chair and put my arms on the dusty table. Only an extinguished candle sat upon the table. I watched as he approached the female behind the plateau. She batted her eyes, obviously taken in by Jack’s looks, or maybe his strong and confident odor. Gods know why, but he he was resistant to her charms. I could tell by his expressions that he wished to be with her, but he had some other pressing matters to attend to. He produced the parchment. She seemed to recognize what was on it. He was satisfied in her answer. Then, he replaced the parchment and produced an internal organ from the slain Beast. “Ugh! No, man! Don’t do that!” I protested, he only briefly glanced at my protest and continued talking to her. Come on, friend. That’s no way to win over a lady. I thought. I realized that he wasn’t trying to win her over, merely asking directions to something related to the fould organ. It looked like a cylindrical rock with small fins protruding from it. What a strange thing to do. She was still enamored by Jack, but he ordered a couple of drinks and she complied. For the price of two silver pieces, Jack had retrieved a vessel of water for me and a vessel of some kind of foul spirit for him. He sat, facing the door, placing his bag of stuff upon the wooden floor. He raised his vessel and looked at me and paused. I didn’t know what he was expecting from me. He shoved forth the vessel of spirits and clanked it against mine. He said some words and drank heartily. I cracked a feebly smile and did the same. Such a strange thing to do. Gods, it felt good to drink. I wonder if the spirits are as refreshing as water. They don’t smell like it. The smell like the juice that the beasts drink, the juice of the ancients. I bet they taste like fire. I wonder why so many men like it. 

                Time passed. Jack did nothing except stare at the door and occasionally glance at the other patrons. I was taken back to the times of sitting in a place, much like this, watching Dad and his friend battle the shiny black and white pieces. Gods, I was bored. Jack had gotten up once before to refresh our drinks and to bring us some food. I had a small piece of meat, tasted like cow, but I’m sure was not. It was actually seasoned and was slightly pink in the center, just like Mom made. It was scrumptious. I thought I was in heaven. I washed it down occasionally with my water. The water wasn’t the best quality, like the well from our house, but it was still good.

 During the meal, a stranger had walked through the doors. Jack’s hand was immediately on the handle of his weapon. It came to me, then. There were only a few reasons why a man would forgo carnal pleasures. Settling an old score was one of them. Luckily for this stranger, the settlement was not with him. The stranger was a tall, rather large man. Not fat, but not rippling with muscles, either. By the clothes he was wearing and the numerous scars on his hands, one could deduce that he was a laborer. He carried a small firestick as his side weapon, but nothing more. I figured that he was a local. He seemed to know the female at the plateau. Jack was not jealous. He was focused on that door. The laborer sat to the left of the female behind the plateau and ordered a drink from the spiritor. She dispensed a tiny amount of the spirits into an obscenely small vessel. He downed it in a flash and downed the refill as quick as they came. After the fourth time, he released the vessel, hiccupped and  stared into the distance. How bizarre.

The night dragged on. I had to get up and walk around because my ass was getting the small needles and teeth. Jack just sat there staring. I said nothing, for I was fed and hydrated and in good spirits. The box-player had stifled the music to a soothing, slower melody. Almost a lullaby. I pondered as to when and who had created such a melody. I doubt it was the box-player. Minstrels and troubadours  rarely ever come up with their own material. It was sweet. I have not felt such peace in a long time, although the foreboding mood was still in the air. Jack was still staring, hand at the ready. Somebody was going to walk through that door and the killing hour would commence.

I smelled the Beast long before I saw the glow of its eyes. It roared up to the front doors with such a racket, kicking up a broiling cloud of dust. I heard the sounds of boots hitting the dusty, broken pavement. Jack’s body tensed as he righted himself in his chair. The bootfalls grew louder and changed as the boots left the pavement and landed upon the aged, decrepit wood. The doors swung open and in walked three men.

I couldn’t speak, move or think. I only saw those armbands, the ones with the Black Circles. They entered the building and surveyed the place, much like we did. The center one, with his shiny baubles and trinkets upon his shoulders, the firestick weapons that his henchmen carried, the smell of the blood of my kin, I rose to my feet. There was no more Jack, no more buildings, no more rabbits, no more spirits… just me… and them. “We meet again, Alpha Male!” I beckoned from the shadows. The trio turned. I approached, ringing my hands, boiling with rage! I only saw the fire and the screams turned my brain into slush. The Alpha said some words to me. “We have a score to settle, you and I. Do you not remember me?” I came into view. They did not fear me. The Alpha calmly gave an order and the Betas raised their weapons. I charged. I heard a cacophony of weaponfire, such a deafening song. I felt a projectile slam into me. I jerked to the side, still focusing the tunnel of my vision upon the Alpha’s throat. Still in mid-leap, I saw Beta #1’s head evaporate in a splash of gore, coating the side of the Alpha’s face in a light gray. MY hands and teeth ached for vengeance! Beta #2 had managed to allow his weapon to sing one more time, but the music had not found me. He clutched his neck as a red circle appeared on one side and chunks of his throat escaped through the other. The Alpha was in mid-draw when I received him into my grasp, my hands at his ears. I saw the panic and surprise in his eyes as my teeth reached his neck. The force of  the collision sent him backwards. He emitted a pitiful yelp that was reduced to a guttural groan and finally trailed away to a series of gurgles as I clamped down with my jaw. My teeth sank into his skin. I laughed as they punctured his roots, sending streams of a soft gray into the air. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as we fell to the floor. I crushed his windpipe as we fell to the floor. I basked in the warm embrace of his lifeblood, ushering forth like a dust storm, delighted in the rapidly decreasing beats of his heart. I marveled at the life leaving his eyes. I stood victorious, elated to see the recognition in his gaze. “Yes, Alpha. Remember my burnt face. Remember my eyes. Remember not only my cries, but the cries of my kin. Remember all of this as I drain you of your black life.” The Alpha was dead. His lifeblood erupted from his neck no more.  My list… was empty.

I rolled off the dead man and stared up at the ceiling. I looked over at my companion. His firesticks were still smoking. He had suffered an injury to his left shoulder and his arm was limp at his side. I gazed back towards the ceiling. My body hurt everywhere. The pretty Spiritor had appeared in my field of vision. She was tending to my wounds. I smelled nothing but blood. It was everywhere. I felt nothing but pain. It, too, was everywhere. I closed my eyes. I can now die, satiated in my revenge. My only regret is that I could not travel longer with my companion, Jack. “Farewell, friend. We made a great team.”

I awoke, face down in the dust,  on the floor of a strange place. It was a gloomy and dusty place that was probably as old as my companion. It had that same smell of the juice of the ancients and the stench of beasts. I looked around. My side throbbed. I looked down and found it covered in white linens, stained with gray. I rubbed my face and only dust left it. Apparently, somebody had cleaned the blood off of me and tended to my wounds. I’m not dead, so at least I have THAT going for me. Jack was there, talking with the Laborer. They were discussing the organ of the dead beast. Yuck! What is his fascination with that stuff? I looked around and was startled. I was on my feet, despite the intense pain of moving so fast. I was surrounded by dead beasts. All of them had their jaws opened, except for a couple that had them completely removed and one that had no head. What is this sick place?

Jack and the Laborer talked for a bit. The Laborer inspected the organ, turning the cylinder over and brushing off the gore and filth. He raised a seeing glass to it and seemed to have an epiphany. He left into a backroom and returned with a rectangle with a picture of a beast upon it. He opened the carton and produced a cylindrical object, shiny and new. He brought it and the old organ side-by-side and they matched. Jack gave the Laborer a sack of, what I could only assume is silver pieces and shook his hand. Jack knelt down beside me and ruffled my hair on my head again. He spoke in a nice and happy tone. He helped me up and I limped out into the day. He brought me over to the Alpha’s beast. The creature had stayed in the same spot the whole night. I stopped. That beast bares the mark of the Black Circle. Surely, he doesn’t want us to ride that? Jack, seemingly read my mind and produced a long, shiny cylinder from his bag. It had a black cap on it. The can smelled of a strange chemical that I had never experienced before. The cap made an audible POP as he removed it. He shook the can numerous times until something shook loose inside. He then squeezed the can until it hissed. I watched in amazement as the evil logo was covered in black. He made a jesture like he was presenting me his work and pulled the arm back on from the beast’s side. The inside of the beast was actually a light gray. I had never even known that there WAS an inside to these beasts. I stood at the threshold. I was genuinely scared. Jack, seeing that I could not proceed on my own, picked me up and placed me on the flat portion of the interior. I assumed it was a seat since it was made of cloth and was rather comfortable. Gods, the smell of this thing was peculiar. The smell of the Alpha and his Betas was almost non-existent compared to the smell of the juice and the rubber from the beast’s feet. The cloth had a smell similar to blankets. I couldn’t compute all of the sensations. Jack grabbed a hold of a shiny piece of metal affixed to the inside of the beasts arm, actually it wasn’t an arm, but more of a door with a window to look out of. Such strange sorcery! I couldn’t see INTO the beast, but can see out of it. He turned the shiny piece of metal and I watched in amazement as the glass disappeared into the beast’s door-arm-thing. He smiled and slammed the door shut with a bang. I was frightened as he walked around the front of the beast, past it’s sneering teeth and swung the other door open. He threw his bag with the cylindrical organ into the back of the beast. I turned, wincing in pain and noticed that there was another huge seat and two more doors. I figured that this beast could hold about 6 men. Jack pulled the door shut and repeated the process with the window. It was hot inside the beast, but with the windows down, a cool breeze wafted through  the interior. It was refreshing. Jack said some words to me, one hand on a giant wheel, the other on a small, shiny protrustion attached to the stalk that the wheel sat on. He twisted his wrist and the beast roared to life. Jack laughed, but his laughter was drowned out by the roar of the heart of the beast. He grabbed a branch that protruded near to where he had awoken the beast and wrenched it in a downward motion. The beast retreated backwards into the street. He repeated the motion with the branch and the beast lunged forward with great force. I had never, in my life, experienced such thrust, such excitement.

The beast picked up speed. It always seemed to me, that riding such a beast would be a rough ride. It was not. The beast was low and wide, sure-footed as a rangegoat. It eagerly clamoured for more speed. I looked over at Jack and he was not worried that the beast was going faster and faster. I’m not sure if that he was merely comfortable with traveling at such speeds and allowing the beast to do what it wants, or if hes actually controlling the speed and direction of the beast. I figured that he must be controlling it through the wheel he is holding, somehow. I will never understand such sorcery. It was brilliant, though. I stuck my hand out of the window and was amazed at the force of the wind. A devilish grin emerged from my face. I stuck my entire head out of the window. What fun! I closed my eyes and marveled at the force of the wind, massaging my face, cleansing my soul! This was the highpoint of my life. I had never been so happy. 

It did not even take half a day to return to the original dead beast. It perplexed me as to how a three days walk can turn into a quarter of a days journey back. These beasts were magnificent creatures. I felt kind of bad for Jack’s deceased beast. I wonder if we came back just for his instruments. The beast roared to a halt. The heat from the journey wafted from its mouth.  The burnt smell of the juices it used filled the air until a breeze scattered it into the wind. Jack moved the branch up and moved the protrusion and the beast became silent. Jack looked at me and said something and then laughed heartily. I laughed with him, each laugh was like a blade in my side. I winced. He opened his door and exited the beast, slamming his door with a loud thud. That was one thing I despised about the beast, the noise of the doors closing. Such a racket. He opened the rear door to retrieve his bag with the new organ. He came around and opened my door. “No, I’m going to rest here where it’s shady.” He left my door open, like a dead body with its arm stretched out.

                I napped comfortably on the bench. I slept relatively peacefully despite Jack’s cursing and clanging of instruments. Every now and then, I would wake up and find a vessel of water and some kind of crunchy things on a plate. They tasted great so I assumed they were food. They left a strange dust on my hands and mouth, but they were fun. I only exited the beast to relieve myself. It was dusk. The dead beast was still dead, but it had all of its organs back in it. The fire roared. Jack had fallen asleep, back against the dead beast, just as before. I laid next to him. I rested my head upon his knee. I remember sitting on the porch with Dad, gazing up at the stars, head on his knee. I would wind up tucked away in my bed in the morning. Such good times. Jack had a different smell than Dad, but they were similar in their demeanor, kind, caring, brave and steadfast. I was glad to have him as a friend.

I awoke to the sound of Jack cheering. I was sitting on the front bench of the new beast, head on Jack’s coat. I stumbled out of the beast and found jack, covered again in the dead beast’s gore, dancing in the brush. “What the hell’s wrong with you.” He was speaking very fast. He opened the mouth of the new beast. I was amazed at the compliance of the beast. Jack grabbed some long vines from the dead beast. He clamped them onto the tongue of the beast (I’m not sure if it was actually its tongue, but something inside its mouth.) and then the other ends to the dead beast’s mouth. He jumped inside the dead beast and it roared to life! Gods, it’s a living dead beast! I didn’t understand it. I never knew such a thing could happen. Jack forced the old beast to roar a couple of times. Just then, he got back out of the old beast and raised his looking glasses towards the direction of the town. Turned to look and spotted a plume of dust being kicked up from another beast. Yet, another?! Jack waved at the approaching beast and it changed its heading straight towards us. As the beast came into a clearer view, I smelled and spotted the Laborer, piloting a much larger beast than our two.

He heeled the beast and waved hello. Jack motioned towards the Black Circle beast. They shook hands and the big beast roared again. Then… well, I’m not sure how to describe it. The big beast got in front of the Black Circle beast. I thought it was some sort of mating ritual or something. That’s the last thing we need, is more of these beasts. Then the Laborer dismounted the big beast, retrieved large hooks attached to big clunky rope-type things and got underneath the small beast. After some time, he came into view again and pulled some branches growing out of the back of the big beast and miraculously, the big beast grabbed and raised the front of the little beast. The Laborer saluted Jack and I again and mounted the lead beast and roared away, back towards the town with the Black Circle beast in tow. Never in all my years have I seen such a thing. What a big world there is out there. Jack was sitting on the wheel side of his beast, rumbling steadily. He swung the other door open and beckoned to me, hand outstretched. I hesitated. Was I ready to go on untold adventures and great quests? I remembered my Dad, sitting atop our family horse, beckoning me to come with him on some journey, hand outstretched. “Jax.” Jack said. I climbed inside. The beast roared away towards an unknown future and an everlasting friendship.

                Many winters have passed. I am now old. Jack is still the same. He has not aged, physically. I have been with him through countless adventures. I accompanied him to many lands, met many friends, waited as he slept with many women. We killed many men in the name of good. We saved many souls. We fought countless battles. Overcame insurmountable odds and became heroes in or own rights. I feel now, as though I am only holding him back. I can barely walk and need help getting into the beast. I can’t fight anymore. That really hurts me inside, knowing that he must fight his battles alone. I understand that he has done that long before me and will continue long after I am gone, but I feel as though I have failed him. Yet, he still treats me with such kindness. Still we trek on. My list has been empty for many years. My demons are gone. I remember my family with only good memories. I would not be in this mental state had Jack not entered my life. I tried to, over the years, deliver the kindness to others that he has delivered to me.

                It is chilly today. I wake up, face down in the dirt. I cannot move. I am dying. Jack picks me up and dusts off my face. I soiled myself. Gods, I’m so ashamed. He only smiles and wraps me in a blanket. I see the tears in his eyes, but he does not allow himself to cry. “It’s ok, friend. You are allowed to grieve.” He places me in the tired beast. It grows tired and old, like me. I know it can be revived. I know I cannot. We drive for what seem like ages. He occasionally ruffles my air like he used to. Daddy was coming through the door. He had worked hard out in the field. He ruffled my hair as I sat on the floor.He beckoned me to come with him. We walked down the dirt road, I ran around him, playing and laughing. We came to a deep valley full of trees, a clearing and a pond. Dad sat down in the grass, by the pond. I sat down next to him, my head on his knee. We just stared at the water, so peaceful, so tranquil. I close my eyes. I drift away…

 

My name is Jack. I knew he was gone. I no longer felt his breathing as he rested his head on my knee. I had traveled with him for about 12 years now. I remember when I first saw him, the burns, the scars. He was one of those Queen of England dogs, the name escapes me. Corgis! He was a good boy. I wonder if he ever realized that. He was truly a god among dogs. He saved my life on more than one occasion. If it wasn’t for him, I never would’ve had a chance with the barmaid, ohhh… I forgot her name. Doesn’t matter. I just wish I could’ve told him how much of a hero he was. I let him lay there, on my knee, nestled in the lush green grass by the crystal clear pond. I had found this place a year or two before finding Jax. This is my sanctuary, a little slice of heaven entrenched in a hell of a world. I don’t remember how many years have passed since the war. Only now are radioactive zones shrinking. Maybe in another couple of hundred years, it will be safe to travel across the land.

My time with Jax was some of the best years of my life, but my “To Do” list is not yet complete. Jax silenced the demons in his head. My demon is still out there.  I must find Him. I must find the man who took everything from me. He is out there, waiting for me, taunting me.

I patted the dirt down over him. I used the shovel as a marker. I draped his collar over the handle. The setting sun gleamed off the partially rusted metal. I licked my finger and cleaned some crap off of it. There was always something stuck to it. “Goodbye, old friend. You were truly a great warrior.” I paid him a moment of silence, hopped into the old Cougar. She fired up with a tired roar. “Yeah, yeah. You and me both, pal.” I said as I tapped the wheel. I dropped the old car into drive and sped off west. I had a lead that he was setting up a fortress out west. The green valley disappeared from my rear view mirror as I merged onto the paved roads, leaving only a cloud of blue smoke in my wake.

 

A piece I wrote about my Mom's 1991 Ford Festiva L

Its 1990. My Dad just bought a 1990 Toyota Tercel notchback coupe. My mom was still driving her yellow 1981 Toyota Corolla Tercel sedan which couldnt make it 2 miles without hemorrhaging all of its coolant every couple of miles. As I was only ten, I didnt know what was wrong with her car. Now, I deduce that it probably had too much water in the radiator and froze over and they just kept driving. After the first, second of fifth time overheating, the head gasket probably went DOA and thats all she wrote.

I remember sitting at Bredemann Ford in Glenview, IL at ten years of age. I can still smell the "new-car smell" eminating from the freshly minted Escorts (the Mazda-based redesign was a hot, new thing), Tempos, Taurus and Aerostars. The salesman (I dont even remember what he looked like) asked my Dad if he was trading anything in. He motioned to the yellow Toyota in the parking lot, just billowing huge clouds of steam into the heavens, like a wounded Cherokee Warrior signaling that he has met the end of his journey. I remember the hearty guffaw the salesman launched at the sight of the mortally wounded Corolla. I look back now and desperately try to recall the reaction of my Father, the typical cheapskate Dad, the PowerStroke, the UberMooch when they presented the numbers to him. I can probably guess that they didnt give him anything for the yellow Bomber, just a mercy killing. Ive taken in "bagels" worse than this and we gave a minimum of $100, but 1990 was the "Wild West" of car sales and I bet he got a big fat goose egg for that car.
I dont know how the hell my Mom wound up with this wierdly optioned car, but we were proud new owners of a blue 1991 Ford Festiva L with a 1.3L four cylinder, 3-speed automatic transmission, color jeyed bumpers (which was the sign of the times, a symbol of wealth and status), 12" steel wheels (instead of the optional 12" alloys, crank windows, no power anything except power brakes, a factory tape-deck but NO A/C. Automatic transmission, tape deck and A/C delete. What a wierd car. I think it was a factory order that somebody backed out on (probably one of the smartest things they did).

The Festiva served as my Moms mode of transportation for five years until it was replaced in 1997 by a black Escort LX sedan. It endured six years of brutal service as my Mom makes Tony Stewart look like a drivers ed teacher. This was the first car I ever drove. I officially learned to drive in my Dad's hunter-green 1995 Ford Escort LX station wagon (which was pretty much the same as the 1992 Escort LX 5-door hatchback that Mr. Earl's weapon of choice for Driver's Ed. His was brown to match his horrible cardigan/deer sweaters).

The Festiva was handed down to my sister in 1997. It was subject to multiple snow and salt filled trips to Marquette university and had numerous "encounters" with concrete objects of various sizes.
The only problems we've ever had is the catalytic converter decided that life wasnt worth living scrubbing the smog from such a small motor and bid its fairwells somewhere on Palatine Road. The alternator belt cried in protest frequently. I snapped a wheel stud (the Festiva had studs instead of lugnuts) and the parking brake stopped working when I forgot to release it after 7 miles.
The final straw the broke the camel's back was when a fusible link went out. No crank, no start, no power except the headlights and horn. It was towed home and the insurance was taken off it. My sister had moved to Germany and I was at military school. I was expecting it as a graduation present since I had gotten it running again. I was fresh in mechanic's school and had to pick the brain of Mr. Shinsako as far as why it was not starting. I replaced a small piece of wire and she magically was ready to go. I replaced the alternator, since it wasnt charging and a new belt.

I was scouting some new fenders, grille, marker lights and headlights from the numerous times my sister crashed it and the one time I went toe-toe with a parked 1977 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale.
My Dad had made an executive decision to donate the Festiva to Oakton Community College Auto Shop for the tax writeoff. Mr. Shinsako had us run some diagnostic tests on it for practice and had it junked due to lack of space. A perfectly running, 71k miles, six year old gas-saver, cut short before its time.

Here, I sit now, almost 15 years later. Ive gone through more cars in that time than people have had in three lifetimes. I wonder how long that car wouldvr lasted me. I imagine that the rust would get to it before any real mechanical problems. My ruke of thumb on cars of this caliber is that if the engine, transmission, or body totally gives out, or if the repair bill amounts to more than $1500, then its cat-food can time.

The 1991 Ford Festiva L was the pinnacle of South Korean engineering, an automotive gem brought forth from the ashes of the American Built Escorts and German built Fiestas, the finest that the Ford Motor Company (coughs* Kia *coughs). I have tested the limits of both mam and machine and learned some invaluable truths. Ive learned that the top speed of the Festiva is about 97 and its equipped with a standard feature that allows you to talk to God at that speed, it has SOOO much torque that it outran its catalytic converter and enough to make it a third of the way up the sled hill at Flick Park and it can turn shopping carts into ballistic missiles. Ive learned that in order to maintain the responsibility of operating a fine piece of machinery such as this, one must be a Roadmaster Scholar in the "Law of Sizes." A 2500 lbs car is a meer nuisance to a 4000 lbs Oldsmobile, especially when the Festiva is trying to establish dominance. Ive also learned that 12" radials are near IMPOSSIBLE to find on the rack. Your choices are to wait two weeks for them to be delivered from Japan (now its four weeks, from China), or go to Blain's Farm and Fleet and buy 12" boat trailer tires. Another fact is that when youre engine is smaller than a bottle of Pepsi, you need to plan ahead and stsy out of the left lane. Also, dont lean on your Festiva. Your sheetmetal is triple digit gauge steel. Replacement panels can be purchased in aisle 8 at Jewel-Osco in the tinfoil section. I also learned how to change alternators and belts, brakes and oil changes and I learned what a fusible link is.

As much as Im a fan of the mammoth Detroit rolling iron, I get teary-eyed for my fallen Korean Steed. Long may you run, you glorious bastard.

Crashes to crashes. Rust to rust.

A piece I wrote about Fox Rent-A-Car

If I could give negative stars, I would. I will wrap up my first, last and WORST experience with fox in one sentence. I'd rather drown in a Denny's septic tank after getting one foot caught in a bear trap, the other getting sawed off with a butter knife and getting kicked in the privates by a Donkey rather than rent from Fox again.

I landed in LA and hopped on the well worn, yet quick and spritely shuttle bus and was promptly whisked away to what I thought would be bustling rental car facility with... well, cars, and people (with pulses) and whatnot. The bus squeaked to a halt and the doors opened with a familiar hiss of the air brakes. I stepped out to find myself in an industrial park. There was one representative thoroughly engrossed in watching car accidents and bloopers on TV. I shrugged and thought to myself "Whadaya want for $80/day?"

She was friendly and attempted to get me set up in a "car" (once again, $80/day out the door, doesn't buy much) but we quickly encountered a problem.

Now, here's a little disclaimer: I made a MISTAKE! (GASP!) OMG, WTF, IDK, RLFMAO, SMH, LOL, BMW, LTD!!! I know, right. Who would've thought that ANYBODY could possibly make a mistake. Well, I did. If I had known that I would've received the treatment that I did, I would've gotten off the plane and whipped myself with chains right then and there.

Well, what happened was I had put my reservation in for the fifth instead of March thirtieth. So, the woman was going to charge me a whole week for only having the car from 1am to 5 am. I asked her if she could help me. She said that I should get back on the bus and go back to the airport and set a new reservation. Once again, If I had known what was coming in Las Vegas, I would've done so with chains and said 100 Hail Marys on the way for my penitence. I implored the woman to help me out so that I didn't have to get back on the bus. I started feeling as though I'm a child and my mother is saying "If you don't behave, I'll turn this car right around." She hailed another guy who magically showed up out of thin air. Apparently, he was some sort of manager. The long and short of it was that they put a note on my agreement that if I return the car within the day, I'll only get charged for one day. In the back of my head, a voice called out from the lower sub-levels from some dusty, secluded office... "Don't accept that... You know there's gonna be trouble at the other end... Don't... Turn back before it's too late..." I ignored my subliminal bean-counter and accepted the agreement and thought that everything would be fine.

In hindsight, I should've seen the signs. I had crazy people on the plane who's only purpose in life seemed to be to annoy and confound me, but I didn't think it'd be the green flag on the "Mess-with-me-for-no-reason 500" inaugural weekend.

She told me to grab a car from Section 10 and waved her finger towards the other side of the facility. I wasn't sure if she wanted me to walk into the wall, or go in the broom closet or to walk down the corridor to who-knows-what. After clarification, it was the "Who-knows-what" corridor of doom and shame.

I was enlightened by the fact that you can pick your own car from the section. Section 10 was the "Cheapskate section" (which fits me perfectly.) I had a cornucopia of sardine cans to choose from. I think the tally was 6 Chevy Sparks, 4 Toyota Yaris' (or is the plural Yarii, like Pruii?) a Mazda 2, and a Chevy Sonic hatchback (which looked like a Suburban compared to the other cars). I checked all of them for Bluetooth and XM radio. The Sonic was the only one that fit the bill. It was an LTZ to boot, leather, the big touch screen, etc.

Checking out was fairly easy. I'm surprised that Fox doesn't have any maps on how to get OUT of LA. So, the guard was nice enough to explain to me in a "Pepe Le Pew" accent on how to get out of town. But, he forgot to tell me how to get out of the industrial complex that I was in. After getting a scenic tour of the rectum of LA, I was on my way. I turned on the XM radio and was infuriated that the car had the capability, but there was no subscription! What kind of rental car company does that? Anyways, after a four hour drive to Vegas, being awake for 27 hours straight, downing anything caffeinated and sugary, I finally made it to the McCarran Airport rental car return.

I circled the facility three times before I asked a Budget Rent a Car guy where do I return Fox cars at? The answer was not there. I had to drive about four miles south to the facility. The return agent was there to greet me, which was nice, but after she called me over to "the Booth", the mental bean-counters whispered from my psyche "I TOLD you..."

I ran out of characters, so I will post a new review to finish the story. THIS is where it gets good. (well, good for you, bad for me).

So, to continue my review...

So, the return agent directs me to "the Office." The blue awning loomed overhead lie the top half of an alligator jaw and I was the one dumb fish swimming right in. I was greeted by Curtis Lewis. I informed him right off the bat that I accidentally put in my reservation date for the 5th instead of March 30th and I only rented the car for four hours. He did some "investigating" on his little computer thing and replied... "Ohhh... I see what you did. You put your reservation date in for the 5th instead of the 30th."

"Yeah, so... I mean, I only had the car for four hours."

"But, it's in for the 5th."

"Yeah, I made a mistake. But, I only had the car for four hours, so..." He interrupts me mid sentence.

"Well, now I have to fix YOUR mistake. I mean you're a whole week off! How does that happen? The 5th, the 30th... How did you get THAT far off." I had to fight EVERYTHING in my being not to tell this guy to take his Chevy Sonic and shove it, but maybe it was because I was physically and emotionally drained. After being up for 27 hours and having a flight delayed for four hours, and being crammed in a tin can and hurdled across the US at 55000 mph while dealing with psychopaths who kept asking me what the lights outside were, then driving four hours in another tin can from LA to Vegas, to come to what I thought would be a bastion of peace and solitude, a place where I can dump that POS car and my wife can pick me up and I can be chauffeured to a nice warm bed where all of this would seem like a bad dream, I have to deal with Curtis F-ing Lewis, treating me like a child because I clicked the wrong stupid box.. He has the audacity(did I spell that right?) to ask me HOW?

"What the hell, does it matter?! I had the car for four hours. Can you just charge me the day and wrap this up?"

"It matters because I need to put in WHY you made a mistake."

"Are you serious? Ok, FINE! I was at work, I had customers who came in while I was online, my wife was on the phone with me, I had like ten second to make a reservation and I clicked the wrong box. Are you happy now?! You got what you need?!"

Then, he crossed into another dimension of stupidity and I finally realized how much patience I had in reserve. He says...

"Ok, ok. It's fine. It doesn't really matter anyways." I stood speechless.

I don't consider myself a violent man and I wouldn't fare well in prison, but what went through my mind... I would've turned myself in after beating him over the head with a phone. Yet, there I stood, holding back all of my rage and frustration. After ALL of that humilitation (because there was another agent "Mechelle" (yeah, Mechelle)) was there watching the whole thing transpire and chuckling along with Curtis' lack of human interaction and customer service skills.

I was SO angry with these sorry excuses for humanity that all I could let out was like noises... for lack of a better word. I couldn't put together the words to describe my hatred for this man and your company as a whole.

I left after little incident. I kept my cool. I didn't go to jail. I entered my wife's loving embrace and was quickly whisked away in our Sonata to an awaiting bed. I hoped that the uneasy feeling (you know that feeling, when you were a kid, dealing with the school bully. The feeling AFTERWARDS is the that feeling. The humiliation, degradation and angst of why? Why did I have to endure that?) would go away. I'm a full grown adult. I pay my taxes, I work hard and enjoy life. I try to raise my kids right. Why did I have to endure that? The worst part is, I PAID for it!

The feeling STILL hasn't gone away. That is why I'm writing such a LONG review. That is how passionate I feel about my experience. Like I said, no matter HOW cheap it is... Hell, you couldn't PAY me to use Fox again. I'd rather drill a hole in my head and put an M80 in there. I'd rather set myself on fire and disembowel myself in the middle of the freeway and get hit by a bus rather than rent from you guys again. At the very least, I hope and pray that you FIRE Curtis Lewis from the Las Vegas BLVD location and maybe Mechelle, too. At least, demote her to cleaning cars or something.

NEVER AGAIN!!! IF somebody mentions Fox Rental Car, just forever disown and shun them.

What does the Fox say? Don't ask Curtis Lewis.

So, there's a contest from Dodge and they are looking for somebody to blog about them for 6 months and this little blurb is going to be about why I think I should get that job.

Ever since I was a young boy, I have been "car-crazy". I had probably 1000 Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars at one time. I would hand-paint them all to make them more realistic. I was probably one of the only seven year olds who can differentiate between a Park Avenue and a LeSabre. Nobody in my family could figure out where I got this passion from. My father is automotive illiterate. My mother can drive fast, but that's about it. My cousins know the basics about cars, but not like I do.

Maybe it was from looking out the window of the school bus or watching movies like "Vanishing Point", "Bullitt", or "The Blues Brothers." Either way, my passion grew. I absorbed as much information as I could. What engines come with what models? Why does that station wagon have wood paneling and the other one doesn't? Will the doors from a Caprice fit on a Bonneville? What size tires does an '86 Reliant have? In fact, whenever somebody told a story involving driving or getting dropped off somewhere or anything to do with a car, I would have to ask "What kind of car was it?" The storyteller usually found that piece of information to be irrelevant, but to me, it meant EVERYTHING. There's a big difference when your traveling cross country in a '71 Newport convertible or an '88 Mazda 323 hatchback. It changes the story dramatically.

My first Chrysler product was an '89 Dodge Dynasty. The transmission was shot and it only had second gear and reverse. I ran it in the Lake County Fair demolition derby in 2003. Since then, I've used three Dynastys and a Plymouth Reliant (and Buick Centurys and Chevy Celebritys). My first daily driver Chrysler was a 1968 Chrysler Imperial LeBaron with a 440 and front wheel power disc brakes. I was never a MOPAR fan before that (although I liked a lot of the cars), but driving the Imperial changed my life. I've never felt a car so big and luxurious, yet so agile and powerful. Even though it had torsion bars and leaf springs, it still rode almost as well as a Cadillac or Lincoln with coils. I was driving in a '77 Lincoln Town Coupe with a 460 and two-toned leather interior with a friend of mine. I took a shortcut through a suburban neighborhood in Mt. Prospect, IL when I saw a flash of chrome behind this 60's style split-level house. I slammed on the brakes and almost got rearended by Kia Sephia. I cranked that Lincoln in reverse and backed up to the house. We walked in back and found this '68 Imperial in dark blue with a black top. I knocked on the door and the OLDEST man I'd ever seen answered the door. Him and his wife had the house built in '67 and factory ordered the Imperial to celebrate. He had all the paperwork with him, even the letter from the finance company thanking him for paying off his car in 1971. In the garage was a '93 New Yorker and a '93 Imperial (both royal blue like the '68). I bought that Imperial for $2000 cash that day. Since that day, I put in $1000 in front brakes (twice), $1000 in rebuilding the transmission (when that blew up, I got a free crate transmission under warranty), another $500 in electrical (windows, locks, exterior lights, etc) and about $3000 in other nickel and dime stuff. I drove it for about five years and sold it for $1700. I thought it was time for a change, and also I had found a nicer one in Paris, IL. Another one owner that just needed a brake caliper. When the kids came along and times got tough, I sold that to a guy who had a '68 Newport and wanted to restore mine. He's still driving the old green-machine.

Since then, I got a job at Marino Chrysler Jeep and Dodge in Chicago. After researching, learning about and driving the Chrysler cars and seeing how they stack against the competition, I believe wholeheartedly in the company and the cars. As a salesman, it's my job to highlight the positives and avoid talking about the negatives, while overcoming customer objections. For instance, if a customer is looking at a Dodge Avenger and comparing it to a Toyota Camry, I would highlight the fact that the Avenger with the 3.6L Pentastar V6 (rated one of the ten best engines of all time by Ward's Auto World) has 285 horsepower while the Camry only has 268 on their V6. Also the Avenger is priced lower than the Camry so essentially you get more bang for your buck.

The Dodge Ram 1500 has best in class ride-quality thanks to class-exclusive four-coil springs. It also has best in class fuel economy with the 305 hp 3.6L Pentastar V6 with class-exclusive 8-speed automatic transmission, true-dual exhaust and active grille shutters. IT also has best-in-class stopping power and class exclusive RamBox cargo compartments that lock and unlock with the keyfob. Also, you can adjust the air suspension (if equipped) with the fob. Finally, when you compare the Dodge, Ford and Chevy, the Dodge is priced less than the Ford or Chevy, also giving you the best bang for your buck.

The Dodge Dart can also boast best in class stopping power with standard four-wheel disc brakes. Also, the Dart has best in class interior space and class-exclusive active grille shutters, LED racetrack taillights, heated steering wheel, and a 7" reconfigurable speedometer cluster. Both Ram and Dart come with an optional 8.4" touchscreen with UConnect and LED taillights. Also, the Dart has the best fuel economy when comparing cars equipped with automatic transmissions.

Take a look at the 300 and Charger. Where else are you going to find a big, rear wheel drive, American sedan with 305 horsepower and can get 31 mpg on the highway? They are the LAST of the traditional big sedans, without the traditional fuel consumption and lack of power.

Town & Country and Grand Caravan have class-exclusive Stow N Go seating. No more lugging heavy seats and possibly losing them. Also, they come with optional cross-path detection, blindspot monitoring, power sliding doors and liftgate and second and third row DVD players. They also get 25 mpg with the 3.6L Pentastar engine.

The Grand Cherokee is the most awarded SUV of all time. For 2014, they are going to put the 8-speed behind the V6 and V8s. You'll also get a 3.0L diesel engine. All will come with an optional 8.4" touchscreen.

I also post all of this stuff on my Facebook account. Just one look and you will see that I am severely dedicated to the product. I post news of upcoming cars, spy photos, anything from Chrysler Communications, old muscle cars, classics, custom Jeeps, aftermarket stuff, tips and tricks, and random questions for the day to keep people engaged. I believe in keeping the awareness in people's minds up so that even if they don't buy a car, they will remember me as the Dodge guy.

As you can see, I already have a blog set up, so there's another reason. You will see from my posts that I enjoy writing, ESPECIALLY about cars. I try to paint mental pictures with my words, to get my point across.

To summarize, the reasons why I should be the next Dodge blogger are I'm a car nut, I love the Dodge brand, I know how to "sell" the Dodge brand, I have a passion for communicating via blogging, social networking, etc, I love writing and I love talking about cars. That's what it comes down to. How much does the person like talking about cars? On a scale from one to ten, I'm an 18.

I know it's been a while since my last update, but a LOT has been going on in my life. I'm no longer working at Hertz Rent-A-Car. I decided to make the switch when they denied me the opportunity to get a job selling used rental cars. They needed bus drivers THAT badly. One of my high school class mates actually is the president of a Chrysler Jeep and Dodge dealer in Chicago. All of the St. John's Military Academy alumni were trying to contact me through Facebook, so I friended them all. He posted a pic of a '94 Mercury Grand Marquis with 24" wheels on it and a caption that read something like "Just traded this in for an SRT8 Charger. We are gonna wholesale it." Next thing you know, I'm a salesman at Marino Chrysler Jeep and Dodge at 5133 W. Irving Park Rd. in Chicago. Being from the suburbs, it was a big culture shock for me. We had multiple lots that were blocks away, so sometimes it would take 10 minutes or more to get a car, and that's if it wasn't blocked in or the battery wasn't dead.

I sold my first car on April 1st, 2012. It was a 2006 Honda Civic sedan. I burned through the good times and suffered through the bad. Working at Marino CJD is unlike ANY other work environment that I had ever experienced. I kept looking for the hidden cameras the first couple of months. I felt like I was on some kind of reality show. The General Manager would rule the dealership from his desk (affectionately known as the "Tower.") He saw all and knew all. As many times as I got chewed out by him, I kept my mouth shut and ears open. I learned most of what I know now about selling cars like s blind man walking through a field of garden hoes lying on the ground. I'd screw up, get chewed out, and learn something valuable. It took me ten months to get comfortable with selling cars.

I was unlike most salesmen. The average salesman would come in not knowing much about the product, but having the natural ability to negotiate and close people. My knowledge of cars was higher than most coming in, but the mechanics of the sale was where I needed work. I learned and adapted, averaging about 12 cars a month over ten months. Considering the minimum requirement is 11 per month, I'd say it's average.

The first month I found a NICE 2011 Hyundai Sonata Limited with a 2.0L turbo engine. It was going to the wholesale auctions with only 19K miles. I quickly traded in the wife's Corolla for it. I was going to surprise her, but that would be a death sentence for me, so I sent her pictures. She said fine. Now she can't imagine driving anything else. She gets the heated seats, leather, sunroof and a turbocharger and I get the base-model, 80K mile ex-rental car beater. "Happy wife; happy life!"

We had a hail storm in the first week of May. I was on vacation when it happened, but when I came back, it was like the Wild West. We sold cars that look like chewing gum at GREATLY discounted prices and made some good money doing it.

I found that selling average cars like Chrysler 200s, Avengers, Patriots and Compass' were the easiest. They always had great rebates and were a sensible option. Up until yesterday, (Feb 2nd) I had NEVER sold a Challenger. Go figure, my favorite car. Wranglers can go either way. Either they can be easy as all get out or be four hours of brain damage.

Now that I feel comfortable working at Marino Chrysler Jeep and Dodge, and successfully selling cars and making decent money, I can devote my time to other things. I have amassed an impressive collection of Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars for my kids. I have started to restore and recondition cars. My latest project was a set of Ertl "Dukes of Hazzard" patrol cars and a General Lee. The General Lee got a new coat of orange paint and the bumpers have been rechromed. I still need new decals, but I'll wait on that. The police cars are my pet project. I don't need anymore 80s vintage squad cars. I need more "civilian cars." So, what I did to these three 1980 Pontiac Bonnevilles is I removed the lightbars, filled in the roofs, replaced any broken axles, rechromed the trim, and painted one all white, one blue w/ a white top and one brown w/ a white top. I painted all the side trim in chrome and one has a set of whitewalls. I restored a Yatming Lincoln Continental and a Tomica Continental and a Tomica Toyota Crown taxi. I only need a couple cars to complete my collection of old cars. I need a MotorMax '82 Plymouth Horizon and a Hot Wheels 80s Pontiac J2000. After that, it's all new cars from here on in.

I can get my fair share of Dodge Chargers, Chrysler 300s, Challengers, Durangos (first gen) and Ram 1500s from Walgreens, but I need Corollas, Camrys, etc. I just picked up five 2011 Hyundai Sonatas so that the kids have Mommy and Daddy's car. I also have a green and white Hot Wheels '58 Edsel (although my REAL Edsel is a four-door hardtop and the toy is a two-door hardtop).

Besides the Matchbox car city and work, I have decided to work on my novel again. I started it back in high school and have re-written it numerous times. Due to a computer crash, I lost everything except a hard copy of my first rough draft. I read it and although I laughed a lot, I concluded that it was complete garbage. I have a good introduction typed up and will probably post it within the week. Also, I will try to post a zombie story that I wrote in two hours a couple years ago. We'll see.

We also just got a new cat. His name is Cheeto. I think he snorts coke when we aren't looking.

Other than that, there's nothing new going on. I will be talking more about Chrysler products and head-to-head comparisons of 1:64 scale die-cast cars (MAtchbox, Hot Wheels, Yatming, Johnny Lightning, etc).

Stay tuned and thanks again for reading.

This story has been sitting in the dusty backroom of my mind for about 11 months, now. I think it's about time I share it.

So, Hertz makes a big announcement that they are going to offer some muscle cars as their "Adrenaline Collection." The collection consists of a Kona Blue Mustang 5.0L with a big fat white racing stripe, a solid black Camaro SS, and my favorite... a Toxic Orange 2011 Dodge Challenger R/T Classic with the black side stripes and a 5.7L Hemi V8 engine. Reading about it online, I fell in love. The 20" 5-spoke chrome wheels that look like a Cragar SS, the chrome "Challenger" script on the front fenders, the retro bodylines, aggressive front end and super-long taillights instantly put a vision of a 1970 Challenger in my brain. I NEEDED to drive one. Alas, the only cities to get them were warm-weather cities like Miami, LA, Houston, Dallas, etc. Chicago was WAY behind schedule.

One day, around 2am, I was sitting in my bus, idling. Listening to my Ipod and brainstorming for my novel (the "Neverending project"), when I started to get antzy. I got out of the bus and endured the sharp sting of the crisp February Chicago air. I looked around the empty American Airlines terminal and thought to myself  "So THIS is what the end of the world looks like." There was not a soul around. I boarded the obscenely yellow, almost prehistoric bus and closed the door. As I sat down in the worn-out driver's seat I glanced in the passenger mirror. A tall man appeared from the mist of the bus exhaust. Golf clubs in one hand, Starbuck's Coffee in the other. The doors hissed and slammed open as I put on my happy face to greet the customer. "Good Morning, Sir! Need help with your luggage?" I happily chirped. As the man boarded I recognized him as Justin Evans, the Hertz Chicago O'Hare Station Manager. He had just returned from a grueling and arduous golfing and meeting spree in Las Vegas and was visible beat. I helped him with his clubs and put the spurs to the 1998 Gillig bus. The 40 foot, black and yellow behemoth roared away into the night leaving only a trail of black smoke in it's wake.

As a bus driver, I observed many things. As a car-nut, I observed what kind of vehicles certain people prefer. I had a pretty high success rate of matching the right person to the right car. Sometimes it was easy, in Mr. Evans case, it was pretty hard. He ONLY drove a Camaro SS in Black or Red, or an Escalade. The Camaro SS was already like a rash all over the Hertz lot on any given day. THAT particular day, Hertz was low on cars, and a high-mileage Mazda 6 was the most likely candidate in Mr. Evans' future. I asked when the Challengers would get in. I had already rented a V6 Mustang, but I LOVE the styling of the Challenger. I practically begged him for information. He told me that he had little information as to when they would come. This was a moot point, considering that the average Hertz employee would not be able to rent something rare like that. The most expensive thing that I could roll off the lot in was a GMC Yukon XL. I was willing to pay full price for an R/T, though. He seemed tired and didn't really want to talk, so I didn't press the issue.

The ancient bus creaked and groaned as I rounded the corners with reckless abandon. The bus had become an extension of my being. I could wheel that 40 foot machine as easy as parallel parking a 1991 Ford Festiva (it's a really little hatchback car). Every bump sent shivers and chatters through the body of the bus. Loverboy blasted over the little speakers. I only listened to "80s on 8" since the buses came with Sirius and out of the six channels we could listen to, that was the easiest on the ears. The big iron gate jerked into motion as the bus headlights splashed a ghostly light upon it. The spike strips clanked as the heavy tires slammed over them. As we approached the "Gold Board" my eyes lit up. Sitting like the idol from the Indiana Jones movie, basked in the welcoming glow of the heat lamps sat a Pitch Black 2011 Chevrolet Camaro SS like a gift from the automotive gods! A chorus of angels sang as the bus brakes squeaked. The doors hissed open. I approached the dreary man. "Mr. Evans, I've got a surprise for you!" I grabbed his clubs and bounded out of the bus. I had the Camaro fired up, heater running and trunk open by the time he shambled out onto the curb. He rubbed his eyes and blinked. I could tell that he approved, but he didn't speak. He wanted to try to get the clubs in the trunk, but it was my job to help. Unfortunately, there was a small problem.

I'm not sure what the engineers at GM were thinking when they designed the Camaro. I've driven one for a short distance and being 6'3", 265 lbs, I found the headroom to be... umm... not there. The seats are hard and unforgiving. The car was light as a feather and you could feel every crack in the road. If you ran over a nickel, you'd feel it in the suspension. The thing that boggled me the MOST is the trunk. The trunk lid is rather large and fools the mind into thinking that you can put actual STUFF in the trunk, but once you open it, you see a hole that's 50% smaller that the lid. Putting those clubs in that car was like putting 10 lbs of manure in a 5 lbs bag. There was no way in Hell they were fitting back there, UNLESS you put down the rear seat. The hole for the rear seat access was still way smaller than the rear seats, but there was enough room to fit the clubs in (as long as you put them in head first). Now, the only problem was that the seats were touching folded down rear seats. Being a tall guy like myself, Mr. Evans liked his seats to lean back. I pulled that handle and threw ALL of my weight into that cloth seat and smashed it into the token rear seat. IT sufficed. There he seat behind the wheel of the Camaro. He sighed. "How did you know?" He queried. "It's my job." I replied, instantly thinking to myself  "What?! That didn't make any sense. What the hell's wrong with you. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stu..." I was cut off.

"You know what? When those Challengers come in, let me know when you want to take one out. I'll charge you a midsize car rate for one. Have fun with it." Saying that, he flung the shifter into drive and charged away, four taillights fading into the distance.

In a daze, I floated back onto the bus and finished my shift. I drove back in my Sonata with visions of Challengers dancing through my head.

Two days later, I was walking through the lot passed the 500 cars that Hertz had gotten back. Friday was usually a day of returns. People rent them out on Sunday night or Monday and return them Friday. As I passed the acres of Corollas, Camrys, Altimas, and Sentras, I noticed a flash of rust-colored orange. "Could it be?!" I thought to myself. I broke into a jog as I headed towards the orange metal, hidden by two Nissan Quest minivans. As I rounded the corner, my dream had come true. Fresh off a rent sat a 2011 Dodge Challenger R/T classic. I marveled at the shiny beast. Testing the doors, I found it locked. It still needed some kind of work before it could be rented. I found out that it and a Mustang 5.0L had been rented in Ft. Lauderdale and driven up to Detroit for the 2011 Hot Rod Magazine Power Tour. It still had the sticker in the windshield.. From Detroit, it was rented to Chicago. Everyday I asked the Service Manager until FINALLY, the day had come. IT was a cold Friday night. My hands were shaking as I went through the paperwork at the counter. The Manager was fairly new and had put my "Loss Damage Waiver" insurance under "Misc. Charges". I thought nothing of it. I wanted the insurance because I was going to get STUPID with that Hemi. The car wasn't in a slot, so I would have to find it, but I ran out, contract in hand. Through the dead of night, breathing hard in the cold Chicago frost I searched. Imagine Tuco in "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" running around the graveyard at Sad Hill, looking for Arch Stanton's grave. That was me. Running through rows of Focus', Versas, and Yaris' as "Ecstacy of Gold" played in my mind, I stumbled. As I rounded the carwash, I spotted my target.

 Parked between a Sentra and a grey Charger sat that VERY same Challenger. I yelled into the night "YES!" and pumped my fist in the air like a Toyota commercial from the 80s. I gaped in awe as I ran my hands up and down the fenders. The cold sheetmetal squeaking in protest. I swung the big driver's door open and plopped onto the leather driver's seat. The door slammed shut and the window rolled up into the body automatically. I literally said "Cool" to nobody in particular. I wrung my hands on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I noticed the audio controls on the backs of the steering wheel spokes, the controls for the sunroof, and the automatic headlights. I snapped out of my awestruck scavenger hunt of features and went through my usual "pre-flight checklist." I adjusted the steering column up and out all the way, the driver's seat down and back all the way, seatback up enough as to not be "pimpin'" but not upright like a church pew, passenger side seat same way (although I noticed on all the 2011 and up Chargers, Challengers, and 300s that the passenger seat doesn't line up with the driver's seat. Strange how sometimes the little things pop up), mirrors, instrument cluster brightness, etc. The moment of truth had come. The pushbutton marked "START/STOP" stared back at me, longing to be pushed. I swallowed hard, put my cowboy boot on the brake pedal and pushed the button. The idiot lights lit up like a Christmas tree as the Hemi fired to life! The throaty exhaust tone reverberated off the buildings and cars. I goosed the gas pedal a couple times as though I was waiting for the lights to turn green.

I cranked the heat and set it to defrost and set my radio stations on the FM dial and Sirius. I tuned it to channel 38, the Boneyard. Judas Priest reminded me that I've got another thing coming as I eased the R/T towards the security gate. I had to muster every ounce of self-control as I slowly pulled to the yellow arm. I don't even remember what the security guard had said or what he looked like, but I think it was something like "Moving up in the world, eh?" He was the furthest thing from my thought processes. The contract floated back into my field of vision as the crossing arm went up. I turned off the traction control and flung it out onto the service road, sending clouds of smoke up as I painted the asphalt black. The light had just turned green as I drifted out onto Bessie Coleman drive. I felt like Steve McQueen as I righted the car. I didn't feel any "Nanny systems" like with the V6 Charger. This R/T gave you enough rope to hang yourself. Laughing like a madman, I kept my foot on the teller. The Firestone Firehawk tires dug in and flung the Challenger headlong into the night. The 5.7L Hemi gave me ALL 390 hp and it felt GOOD! I'm not sure how fast I was going, but I drifted all the way around the exit ramp onto I-190. After I had gotten it all out of my system, I set the cruise at 60 and relaxed. My body was still shaking from the adrenaline. The "Collection" was aptly named.

I got her sideways around the Grand Ave to Dilleys Rd. left turn, but kept it at a decent speed the rest of the way home. I found that I can get 27 mpg on the highway at 60 mph. Impressive, considering that losing two cylinders and a couple hundred pounds with the Mustang only got me 31. I pulled into the driveway nest to the wife's Corolla and my Edsel and shut the motor down. I slept like I was eight years old on Christmas Eve. I couldn't WAIT to get behind the wheel again.

The next day, told the Wife that I had a surprise for her. I slung open the window shade and she reacted like we won the Publisher's Clearing House. "OH MY GOD!!! YOU BOUGHT THAT!!!" (Record scratches...) "What?" I asked. She was fanning herself, trying to form words. "No, I rented it." She relayed her relief that I didn't buy it since it wouldn't have fit in the budget. We decided to take it to the mall. I loaded the kids in the back seat. My little girl would've been 3 and the boy would be 2 at the time. They fit in the backseat with room to spare, unlike the Mustang and the trunk was HUGE! The double stroller fit in diagonally with room for groceries on the sides. I was thoroughly impressed. I drove it like a baby carriage to the Gurnee Mills Mall. We had a fun day of shopping, although I spent more than I wanted to. I figured that it was collateral damage considering the car that awaited me when we were done. We packed the kids in the car and were ready to head home. I pulled towards the exit and was stuck in stop and go traffic. Unbeknownst to us, there was a gruesome collision at Dilleys and Stearn's School Rd. The kids were crying and the wife was complaining about something. The '93 Lexus ES300 in front of us started to move. I took my foot off the brake and started to roll. My wife asked "Are you even LISTENING to me?!" I replied "What?! What do you..." SMASH!!!

The car that I waited SO LONG for and pulled SO MANY strings for had piled into the back of this crapbox Lexus. The kids were screaming, the wife was screaming (at me) and this guy flung his door open like he was gonna come flying at me like Superman.

He was an insurance salesman for Country Insurance. Neither car was in really bad shape. There was some spiderweb cracks in the paint on his rear bumper and near the headlight bezel on the R/T. A piece of trim fell off the R/T, but I stuck it back on. One almost couldn't tell. The police arrived ONLY after two other collisions happened BECAUSE of us. It looked like somebody bombed a drive-in movie. The police did their investigation. I didn't have my insurance card on me (which probably worked to my advantage). I think the guy was trying to sell me insurance. He gave me his card, told the police that the damage was pre-existing and never showed up for the court date. Either way, it sucked because I had just switched FROM Geico to 21st Century and cut my payments in half, but they found out about this collision and put them HIGHER than Geico. Out of the 8 cars that were involved in collisions on that stretch of road, we were one of the three that DIDN'T need to be towed away, so I guess I was lucky. The kids were fine, wife was fine, but I would never hear the end of it.

So, Sunday night I came rolling into the return lanes at Hertz. I came clean about the collision since I had the Insurance. I could've brought that car back in a bucket and poured it out on the desk and they couldn't say anything IF... (key word, there) IF the manager hadn't have put the insurance as "misc charges." I get a bill from Hertz for $291 for paint work. I also get to listen to my coworkers razz me about banging up the ONLY Toxic Orange Challenger R/T Classic or ANY Challenger for that matter)  in the Hertz inventory in the ENTIRE midwest.

I sat back behind the wheel of my Sonata, which paled in comparison to the almighty Challenger. How could I ever go back? Will life ever be the same? How would I react seeing another renter driving MY Challenger? Woe is me. One thing about the human spirit is that life WILL go on. I will go back. Life may never be the same, but it will go on and now I have a goal. I fired the 2.4L four cylinder and set out back to Gurnee.

I never saw THAT car again. There were plenty others like it, and for 2012, they ordered the R/Ts in Orange Crush. I hope to find that car, one day. It seems an impossible task, considering it could've wound up anywhere in the country and it has probably been sold by now. Maybe, if the automotive gods are in a particularly good mood one day, and if the planets and stars all fall in alignment, our paths may cross. Until then Challenger, long may you run. :)