One quarter of an hour to six months ago and it's just me and a nineteen ninety three Ford Escort LX. Livid, exasperated mind glancing over two thousand four hundred ninety one pounds of barely functioning, bright green death trap. The fading blue inspection sticker on the windshield displays numbers signifying a date recently past and I call the digits asshole for sequential failure. That is to say I needed to get my car inspected. I'm no criminal. Being mechanically unsound the law won't open the front door to road legality so I place calls for directions to a rear entrance. I'm no law abider. The ambiguously foreign chauffeur of a wealthy genetic relation is willing to put me in contact with a mechanic of ill repute. They cater to dying yellow hire cars, ensuring their ability to terrify pedestrians, reek of mysterious odors likely of human origin and survive suicidal traffic maneuvers. It's an immoral job but someone has to profit from it. Not wanting to traverse the distance unescorted I utilize my immoderately opulent portable communication device. Nine hundred megahertz signals relay through ozone from cellular tower to cellular tower. Jack Daniels' immoderately prodigious portable communication device receives and reconfigures data into my request for company which he accepts. That is to say we ride. A little further from six months ago. The distance from point of origin to destination is roughly sixty miles. Initial minutes pass in silence as Jacks coffee ritual is intense and requires all of his senses to complete. Subsequent minutes pass fluently and the den of mechanical iniquity is easily found. A small seemingly Middle Eastern man refers to me disturbingly as "papi" when informing me of the more disturbing malfunction of their inspection device. The towel less towel head ensures me a matter of hours is all he requires so I grant it. I'm no troublemaker. Jack Daniels and I wander about midtown Manhattan and discuss the human form as soul stifling confinement when an Indian rubber ball strikes me across the forehead. Pale legs carry a pre-adolescent boy to retrieve his trinket. Apologies and an introduction is mumbled. He's Johnny and he's sorry, he has A.I.D.S. Figuring life has hit him harder than I could I pardon the unintentional assault of my visage. My body is a cage, his is a concentration camp. A.I.D.S. Johnny is cheerful and invites us to a game of handball. At mere mention of competition Jack's brain releases aggression inducing adrenaline. Terminal illness or not he's going to fucking destroy this kid. He's no camp counselor. Fortunately for the dying boy a familiar face enters my field of vision. Despite his thirst for win I decline for the both of us and point out a hirsute homeless honky. His hair and beard are long and grey and scraggly and majestic. His proboscis is long and crooked and red from ethanol. Unmistakable as Coca Cola or a perfect posterior it's Gandalf the Bum. When our familiar faces enter his field of vision he runs. At last encounter his fortified wine fortified our appetites for destruction. Much darts and fisticuffs ensued. Overworked liver metabolized the offending material and with clear heads our missing wallets went noticed. That is to say we'd been had. Finding Gandalf with a fresh stock of Night Train infuriated. His denials were convincing but wizards are a crafty bunch. Several shots to the ribs revealed his verity though the damage was done. Fuck it. Six minutes to one quarter of an hour six months ago. Fickle technology ultimately prevented the illegal legalization of my death trap despite four hours spent idle in Midtown Manhattan. Having known their repute was ill I should have expected. I'm no fortune teller.
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