#2263 is my bus, a perfect tool for commuter triumph. Once, my dishonourable supervisor tried to get me transferred to a new bus. I invoked my union rights. We are bonded for life.
Forged as the model D60LFR by blind warrior-monks under the wise tutelage of the ancient samurai ancestors at NFI, this bus has never failed me. I can outrun traffic like a whisper on the wind, brake harder than ever before, and dance the bus's considerable bulk on the streets like the angel on a head of a pin. It is a weapon. And a weapon must have a name, and so it has become christened: Oil Eater.
Once, when I was a small child, I was racked with nightmarish visions. In the dead of night I would awaken in a cold sweat, unable to comprehend the significance of the howling beast ripping through strange foreign lands. A shaman was called to our small village in order to purge my body of the dreams. He put his hands on my forehead, took a sharp intake of breath, and fell immediately dead of a stroke. His last words, hissed through twitching lips: “that’s a pretty fuckin’ sweet bus.”
He was right. Oil Eater and I have become integrated to a level previously thought impossible. My coworkers writhe with jealousy at the sight of us leaving the depot together, steed and rider. With just a single well-timed flick of my wrist, I can launch the bus into an adjacent lane to capture ten, fifteen car lengths of empty space. I have perfect command of the articulated centre, control over the mass like a lesser man would enjoy in a Ferrari. With the turbochargers howling like a wolf at a full moon, no such peasant would dare interfere with my mighty work.