Freddie ached everywhere, but his owner didn't let up, slewing his rear wheels again through the gravel parking lot behind the Circle K. "WOOOOOO!" his owner screamed. In a nearby backyard, a lady looked up from putting her laundry on the line, shook her head, and continued her work.
Freddie thought back to his glory days — when his then-owner would take him out cruising. The streetlights would make his scarlet skin shine and there was a steady rotation of Stevie Wonder, Led Zeppelin, and Doobie Brothers 8-tracks through his stereo. Then Joe got busted, Freddie got sold to pay for the lawyer, then sold again...and again. His scarlet paint faded and was covered. There were fender-benders. There was Bondo. There was primer. A couple of winters in the Northeast gave him some undercarriage rot. A cheap aftermarket stereo, wires dangling under the dash, replaced the 8-track. One owner was going to replace his steelies with swanky alloys, but ran out of money.
And now here he was, with rust holes in his frame, dented, aching, and sliding sideways through the gravel.
But somewhere, deep inside, it didn't matter. The dents, the crappy paint, the aftermarket crap, his litany of broken, squeaky, leaking, aging parts.
Because Freddie was a badass. And only a badass could handle him.