#pb blaster

[secondhand-sheep-shack]

Tmi conversations with me

"I really need to fix these (screaming at the rusted pliers I'm fighting with)." I go dip them in CLR. Better. "What I really need is lube...(I swear I said this to myself)" "We have wd40, three kinds of gun lube, lithium grease, bur life, evaporust, and brake fluid. And that can you bought for the singer." - roomy "How did you know I didn't mean ky?" "Because you never need that, and it won't fix the pliers."

[seat-safety-switch]

They called him a master detective, and I guess he had been. He told me that in our initial interview, at first he was inclined to believe I was actually a legitimate surgeon. But I had tipped my hand, he said, when he saw that my surgical workbench had a can of PB Blaster on it.

It was easy for someone to brag about their detective prowess in retrospect, after the arrest was made, I spat.

We arrived at a deal. I would take him to where I had stored the bodies. On the way out, no unnecessary words passed between us. I stared dead ahead.

In the yard, he kept the gun on me. He was pretty bright, this one. It was obvious that I would have riddled my hidey-hole with all manner of exciting traps. I disarmed a few of them while glaring at him, and we went beneath.

The fluorescent lighting sprung to life, throwing out a shimmering halo onto all of my victims. At last I spoke. I knew what I had done wasn’t legal, but it would have been in just a few more years.

He looked at me, ran his hand along the ruby-red flanks and frowned.

I had cornered the market on Alfa Romeo 159s, smuggling them into the country in anticipation of the 15-year exemption. He had me dead to rights, an ant centered in the magnifying glass of justice.

The master detective spoke, overcome by a sheer, animalistic desire. “I’ll let you go in exchange for one of the turbo Sportwagons.”