Friday, December 28, 2012
Found a victim at a used car lot of ill repute. Buy here, pay here. Out of State salvaged title, tweaked front end. Thirty two-hundred cash, as is, don’t ask, don’t tell, twenty-one hundred showing on the clock, title says “exempt,” buy here, pay here and don’t tell your mother. Dragged it home on the truck, opened it up and let the vomit spill out on to the melting snow. Factory 1200, runs loud, runs strong.
I hate it.
I hate its factory sameness. I hate its chromium conformity. I must kill it. I must pierce its armored underbelly and spill its life’s blood on the cold, frozen ground. I must dismember it. No labor of love, Sawzall and cutting torch, hack job, Bondo and bail bondsmen, rust and brake fluid. Whiskey and kerosene, Aderall and late nights, Led Zeppelin and weed smoke, Nyquil and Krylon.
I must mingle the blood of my skinned knuckles with its greasy dry-rotted tire pressure.