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Post by Tracker89 on Jun 15, 2007 18:28:28 GMT -5
Well, I've thought about it a bit and got an idea: Maybe Red could lure and trap Ramone in a small pit or hole outside of town, and drown him in a pool of paint? Ok, that isn't much different from the vat idea, but I think it would be a good deal more creepier for whoever gets the bad luck of finding him afterwards.
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Post by dodgesuperbee on Jun 15, 2007 20:25:07 GMT -5
Wicked ideas. I sorta hate to write Ramone's death scene because I like the guy, but I'll definitely use the paint idea in some form, with credit of course.
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Post by taiomega on Jun 15, 2007 21:13:35 GMT -5
if not paint he's a air brush art guy so the air tanks could 'become' faulty and expolode and or caues car paint has a high level of flamability there could be fire.. yes fire EEHEHEHEHEH.. *wack* Ow ok i'll shut up..
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Post by dodgesuperbee on Jun 21, 2007 12:10:22 GMT -5
"Old Reliable" ~ My original anthropomorphic car story for the anthology...this is somewhat of a tribute to my late grandpa, who was an excellent driver all his life.
From the narrow garage stall built into the basement of the brick cottage, the hatchback could hear his Friend waking and starting his typical morning routine. He knew the shower was running, for he could hear the water gurgling from the drain in the floor above and through the pipe that ran along the corner of the basement. Tilting a side view mirror slightly, he could see the sunrise through the four small windowpanes that ran along the top of the garage door behind him. He stretched slightly on his tires, being careful not to bump the snow shovels and gardening tools leaning against the wall nearby. His bumper opened into lips that he smacked together a few times, still shaking off the stupor of sleep. During his years of residence in the cellar garage, he knew he had time to move before his Friend pushed open the door and they would leave for town together.
Upstairs, Jim was preparing his usual morning cup of instant coffee, working under the glow of the small light above his stove. His weathered hands felt strangely unsteady as he shook the brown crystals into the cup of heated water, though they typically moved with a grace that belied his age. Though he had accepted the onset of his golden years with dignity and the same quiet acceptance that had been a trademark of his personality as a younger man, today his advanced years left him ill at ease. In a short time he was scheduled to renew his driver’s license, and based on his doctor’s recommendation, he would be required to prove his ability to handle a car had not been diminished by age.
He couldn’t deny that his reaction time was no longer what it might have been a decade ago, and indeed he had restricted his travel, whenever possible, to the brick-paved streets of the old Pennsylvania mill town rather than the newer highways. Still, even after he’d changed his habits and taken that refresher driving course, he had a premonition that today he’d be leaving the Department of Motor Vehicles with a general identification card rather than a new license. Thus would end his decades of motoring, and it would mark a retirement of sorts for the hatchback he had called Old Reliable as well.
Assuming he would be relieved of his license later today, he already knew the car would have to be sold, for he was a practical man and couldn’t keep a vehicle he no longer had the authority to drive. None of Jim’s children or other relatives had room in their lives or garages for a four-cylinder economy vehicle that was now well into its third decade of service, however faithful that service might have been. They had persistently urged him to replace it with a luxury vehicle, hinting that he might not be able to enjoy driving privileges forever, and he might as well use some of his retirement savings on a car he’d truly be proud to own. They had written off as age-related stubbornness his insistence that if the hatchback wasn’t broken, he wasn’t going to fix or replace it. Sadly, it would fetch little money and in all likelihood the car would be parked at a scrap yard within a year or two, surrounded by other outmoded automobiles.
Holding the railing with one hand and his mug of coffee and car keys in the other, Jim descended the steps he’d built himself into the cellar and retrieved his jacket from a hook, one hand pressing against the folded papers from the DMV in his pocket, just to ascertain they were still there.
Hearing his Friend approaching, Old Reliable ceased all movement, other than an imperceptible cringe when Jim turned the doorknob to his garage. He was fully aware of today’s driving test, and while it had been easy enough to ignore the gravity of the situation while his Friend had remained upstairs, he could no longer do so now that Jim was sitting behind his wheel and about the start the ignition.
Though the hatchback typically followed the Living Vehicle Code of Conduct, a set of mandates by which all vehicles must conduct themselves in order to avoid detection by their human Friends, he had, like he suspected others had many times before him, bent the rules during times of extreme need. He’d already decided today might present one of those occasions, for still fresh in his mind was the troublesome scenario he’d found himself in just a few weeks before.
It had been a holiday, and as usual Jim’s home was the central place for his family to gather, just as it had been when his wife was still alive. Old Reliable had been parked in the corner of the driveway under the apple tree to create more space for the guests’ cars. Two of the next generation, Jim’s sons-in-law, had stepped outside to smoke, and they spoke together quietly.
“You don’t expect Dad to pass the driving skills test any more than I do, right?” asked the first, who Old Reliable knew as the Friend of a dark green pickup that was parked elsewhere in the driveway. “I’m hoping the bus service is good enough around here so we don’t have to drive him everywhere.”
“No, I’m afraid he’ll be shocked when they tell him he flunked,” said the second, gazing down at the hatchback. “Without a license, he’ll want to sell this old clunker,” he continued disparagingly, and then for greater insult he crushed out the end of his cigarette on Old Reliable’s bumper. It hadn’t hurt, but their predictions certainly had, and the car had mulled their conversation over in the quiet of his garage many times since that day.
“Well, here goes nothing.” Jim gave the dashboard a little pat, as he sometimes did before leaving the garage. Old Reliable recalled all their past motoring adventures as they crossed town, while feeling Jim’s steady control of his steering. He especially kept in mind the two times he’d broken the Code of Conduct and the confusion and suspicion he’d sparked in his Friend. Jim coincidentally recalled those times as well, and they only served to make him less relaxed.
The first time, Jim had been in his late fifties and the hatchback still had shine to its chrome. His trunk area full of supplies for his Friend’s church picnic, they had winded down the hillside road on a torrid summer day. The tar melted up between cracks in the road and stuck to Old Reliable’s treads, and the heat shimmered off the pavement. Just a few streets before their destination, a child had darted out between two parked vehicles, leaving Jim no time to react. A man half his age wouldn’t have had reflexes fast enough to stop the car, but a fraction of a moment later Jim felt his vehicle slam to a halt of its own accord. He pitched forward against the seatbelt, so sudden had been the stop, and watched in disbelief as the startled child retrieved the balloon he’d been chasing and return to his yard, uninjured.
Jim’s practical personality did not allow him to give in to flights of fancy, but he knew he had not had a chance to so much as touch the brake pedal. He would have questioned whether the whole thing had happened, except the short black skid marks remained on that road for some time.
Nearly a decade later, Jim had been driving past dusk, which was somewhat rare for him. The lights were on in all the stores, where workers were scrambling to close for the night. Somewhere behind him, a thumping stereo was rapidly growing in intensity, its beat causing Old Reliable’s glass to vibrate in its frames. Examining the rearview mirror while waiting at a red light, Jim had panicked at the sight of a sportscar directly in line to strike his vehicle. It veered toward his car with no intention of stopping, and he’d steered as much as he could to the right to avoid a collision. Still, he knew he hadn’t turned the wheel sharply enough to bring the car onto the curb, but that was exactly where he found himself parked a moment later. The sportscar squealed over the spot he’d been occupying and slid into the intersection, which thankfully had been empty.
For the second time in his life, Jim could only gape at what he certainly hadn’t done himself. The police congratulated him on his quick thinking in avoiding the drunken driver, but he couldn’t feel any pride, for as strange as he found the idea, it had been as though his vehicle had commandeered control from his hands and gone where it wished to.
Jim had never been one to give in to magical thinking, so he kept to himself his insistence that his car was a little more special than others like it on the road. He pulled into the parking lot of the DMV, his anxiety unabated. The hatchback dealt with equal amounts of trepidation, especially when Jim and the conductor of the driving test returned. The instructor was a middle-aged man whose personality seemed as starched as his white uniform shirt, and as he settled into the passenger seat of the hatchback he clicked a ballpoint pen before jotting down some information on his clipboard.
“Take ‘er around to the next corner and turn onto the side street,” he ordered, and Jim nervously complied. Old Reliable could tell his Friend’s unease was affecting his reaction time more than usual, and there was a subtle difference in the way he handled the road.
Click. The instructor frowned below the brim of his hat, a slight motion that Jim caught. His pen at the ready, he jotted something on the clipboard. Old Reliable began thinking of what it might be like to live at the auto scrap yard.
At the instructor’s command, Jim steered onto another side street, the left front wheel crossing just slightly over the yellow line. This time the man in the white shirt scowled considerably, his pen scrabbling furiously on the paper.
“Make a left at the next stop sign,” he barked, though his tone made it clear that he was already greatly displeased. As the car came to a gentle stop and then neatly made the turn, he looked over at Jim. The elderly man had just made an unexpectedly smooth turn, though his demeanor still suggested he was greatly worried. The instructor guided the older man through several more traffic maneuvers, each more complicated than the one before it, but from that point onward the car moved as ably as though it were being driven by a professional.
Behind the wheel, Jim felt sweat breaking out across his forehead. He was passing the test effortlessly, and his own movements of the steering wheel were being complemented by the vehicle’s own power. Though he kept his attention on the road, the realization crept into his mind that this was likely not the work of a Higher Power, for while the God Jim believed in might intervene to save a young child playing in the street, he surely would not use divine intervention for the mundane purpose of helping a near-octogenarian pass his driving test. No, it was the car itself, and his vehicle truly was something more special than anyone but he could see. The instructor’s pen clicked furiously as he dealt with his driver’s sudden improvement, and when the returned to the lot he took Jim inside to pick up his renewed license.
Back in the driver’s seat, the gentleman proudly held his old license next to the new one he’d never expected to possess, comparing the slightly more aged visage in his current photograph against the one that had been taken half a decade ago. Placing both cards in his pocket, he turned the key in the ignition and caressed the steering wheel.
“I know you had a hand in that,” he told the car, feeling a little foolish for speaking to a machine.
Well, it’s not time for either of us to be taken off the road, returned a voice that emanated somewhere from beyond the air vents. Jim’s eyes widened in surprise but he didn’t startle. A grin spread across his face as his car spoke to him for the second time, all thoughts of the Vehicle Code of Conduct forgotten.
I’ll help us stay where we should on the road as long as you do most of the work, promised Old Reliable, still idling in the parking lot. In fact, now that we’re both up in years, maybe we should live a little more. No more restricting our travels to church on Sundays and the grocery store. Say, do you still have that “Tunes for Cruisin’” tape? That was always one of my favorites. Still smiling, his Friend retrieved the cassette from the glove compartment and placed it in the player, and lively music filled the car.
There’s a whole world out there just waiting for us to explore, said Old Reliable, as car and driver turned from the parking lot right onto the highway, and we have the best years ahead of us to enjoy it! Utterly dumbfounded but resting his arm comfortably on the window frame, Jim and his hatchback cruised off for places unknown.
The end.
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Post by taiomega on Jun 22, 2007 16:03:13 GMT -5
awesome story ^^
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