Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Gasoline

We went to town today. Never easy for either of us. The Pick-up was fatalistic, I guess. Not really his problem should he suffer a mechanical failure, he just sits there in a most unashamed manner sneering at the younger ones, tries to appear rugged rather than unwashed when something sporty flits by. Then when that doesn't work he drops the odd hint about how important it is for a vehicle to thoroughly vet the Title Holder before embarking upon a relationship. For any one who might be curious a Title is proof of ownership in the more regimented parts of the world, it's a piece of paper basically and nowhere upon it is written The Charter of Vehicle Rights, which if there was such a thing could include "Wash my surfaces at least once every ten years."

When we reached town, we got nearly twelve gallons of gasoline for his tank and we got eight gallons for those internal combustion engines that spend much of their year sheltering from the elements inside the barn, a very wimpy lifestyle, but as I have explained, what with the Mice and stuff it's kind of scary in there and no one really wants to endure the ordeal of being forced to raise someone else's children in their manifold. On the trip home we both suddenly found ourselves possessed by some kind of demonic force. The straight road was empty of fellow road users and the next thing we both knew we were doing fifty eight miles an hour. And I can tell you this much, if I'd had a camera I'd have taken a photograph to document the moment. Fortunately Better Angels prevailed and we quickly returned to that civilized pace which so often irritates the more satanic of my fellow Title Holders.

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