-- 20 --
It
could be said that the character in this story is a big rig mechanic,
but in all honesty, this guy exists for one purpose only, and that
is to satisfy my wishes and entertain you, the reader, to whatever
extent he is capable. I have a feeling he's going to get into some
trouble by the end of this, but maybe I'm wrong. Stay tuned and find
out.
First,
let's give him a name that can cut glass. "Stucco." His name is "Stucco."
"Stucco" the mechanic. Done.
Now
that we're all better acquainted, let's abandon the quotation marks
around his name and send Stucco go-karting. Stucco hasn't been go-karting
in years, so the first race is on me. I think it's the least I can
do considering the pickle he's about to get into.
There
he goes! Boy, look at the smile on his face as he cuts through the
turns in the greasy red car. He's a little too big for it, but so
what? Don't spoil his fun.
After
three races, Stucco has had enough. As he pulls to a stop, the sweet
sweat of glee sprinkling his tank-top, we see the devilish attendant
reach slowly into the back pocket of his jeans with a nervous snarl.
An unnaturally dark cloud smothers the sun. Stucco heads for the exit.
"Not
so fast, Iceberg Slim!" says the attendant. "I've got a little something
for you, buddy boy!"
A
quick shuffling of feet. A stretch, a lunge, a huff, a snap! Stucco
staggers and catches a ruffled golden ribbon in his palm. Embroidered
into its length is the following:
Le
Grande Championé de la Automobile Especialé
At
this point, our story takes a turn for the better.
Two
crones were sitting in a scary restaurant. They had long ago given
up on ever looking feminine or elegant. Their whole look could be
described as dumpy and tragically practical. They were complaining
about the service and telling one another angry stories about other
bad service they'd received over the years, never once pausing to
consider that they had brought the bad service upon themselves with
their impatience and rotten souls. Nor did they dream that their relentless
old lady banter would justify why, on this particular occasion, the
Puerto Rican short order chef chased their leather-stretched skeletons
out the door with a butane lighter and a can of hairspray.
Twenty-five
years on, the old crones are long since fossilized in their tombs,
and Stucco presides as lord of a small group of simple-minded people,
the lone survivors of the horror of a nanotechnology holocaust. Outwardly,
Stucco appears stoic and serious, but inside, he is the happiest he's
ever been.
Sometimes
at dusk, he takes the kids for long joyrides in his old truck and
slowly tells them amidst the crackle of brittle steel of the day,
long before they were born, when he won a gold ribbon on the go-kart
track.
-------------------------
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