Thank you YES, for setting a fire under my chair and getting me to maintain this back-up blog for the willies tales. I owe you a brewskie.
Number 10 would be a good place to start.
You can click on any number on the right to read that post. No need to download the whole month's load.
I like Blogger's “newest post" button at the bottom, to help along the way, anyway.
Katheena heard the sirens wailing across the desertscape, and she looked up at the pink moon. It looked like it was drowning in rain clouds. It gasped for help.
She looked over to where Stacy lied on the grass by the landscaper structure, and the busted up Celica sitting nearby.
She wanted to wait for us to come.
She really did.
However, she was quite aware that if she waited too long, it would serve no one well. She might end up serving time.
Can you blame her?
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Sean slid down the fuel tank and disappeared around the side. I looked at Tellesco and Joey, and they shrugged at me.
We jumped down and followed him. The side door to the garage was open. A light flicked on inside. Beyond the open doorway, twenty lovely cars of various makes and models gleamed like they had been washed and waxed everyday for ten months without ever having left the garage. These were the sorts of vehicles that collectors regard as pieces of art. Masterpieces.
Hoses covered each tail pipe. Evidently, these cars might not see the light of day all that often, but someone ignited them frequently and let them warm up. The hoses must have been hooked up to a vacuum pump to collect their noxious fumes and eject them to the outside. Each car held a key in its ignition.
Sean started them all up.
He went over to the wall and pulled down on the giant power switch near the oil storage. The vacuum fan roared to life.
Then he came back and flicked the light off. He pressed a button near the light switch, and the middle bay door crept up and open.
He came out and smiled at us.
What the fuck was he doing?
++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Kinks. I Gotta Move.
Katheena stood there, and she watched the cars exit the driveway. She crossed her arms over her pert breasts and pressed her fingers to the side of her face. She gently chewed the inside of her cheek.
The sirens grew louder, closer, more threatening.
She paced.
Then she heard a loud crashing noise and saw water come bursting out from up high.
What the Fuck?
She looked again at Stacy, who was bleeding from her nose and beginning to moan.
Water flooded the driveway and ran over Stacy's legs on the rise to the structure.
Katheena ran over to her car Orion and she opened the door and jumped in. She had tears in her eyes.
Fear, and fear.
She had to get away.
Here, this is Mettle. You make a decision to do something that may make others regard you with disdain, anger, or even hatred for your betrayal of them. But you do it because it is actually correct to do it.
Mettle can be a bitch, baby.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sean put his arms around me and Joey’s shoulders. He looked us right in the eyes, back and forth. “You guys wanna take a ride?” He smirked, and then he laughed. “Might as well save a few of them.”
Hah?
From the light of the pink moon, he flicked another switch. A pump came on. He went to a hose with its nozzle chambered in a holster, and he pulled it up and out. “You guys, get in those cars over there, the ones in the middle line. NOW!”
We jumped, and we followed his orders.
He pulled the trigger and set the trigger hold to remain open. Gasoline poured out onto the floor. He slowly walked over towards the rear of the garage, and there he gently laid it down. The hose followed him from overhead, on a suspended swizzle. Each car could be fueled where it sat. Then he got in the car at the head of the middle line. With five aisles of cars to choose from, he had chosen the middle one. Like a middle finger.
Out of twenty cars, we saved four. He drove the first one out, and we followed him.
He stopped, ran back, and then the middle garage bay door began to close.
+++++++++++++++++++++
As we drove forward, folks were clearing rugs and chairs and shit from the tops of their automobiles, and we passed them. I looked to the side structure on the other end, and saw the rear end of a white Celica sitting there.
Stacy’s car was near Orion? Hah? As we got closer, I saw that Orion was no longer there.
Then I saw how fucked up the white Celica was.
I laughed. Holy shit. Katheena was a badass.
Folks turned around and saw the glow of light coming from the garage bay windows. Sean had lit up a rag and tossed it by the side door. The vacuum pulled the exhaust from the cars to the outside, and the cars pulled fresh air in with their hungry carburetors and injection systems. Air that came from the open side door.
The fumes from the large puddle of gasoline under them all also got pulled away from the burning cloth.
Until the puddle reached the burning rag, that is.
How did Sean know to do this?
Evidently, he was pretty smart. He was also kinda evil with his use of his intelligence.
Damn.
I should not have been party to such ugliness. I began to disdain Sean. He used leadership, but in the wrong way. He abused it. He abused my trust.
Or did he? What had happened in the top floors? Would you care to see, in the continuation?
Perhaps you will, in the next chapter.
But, let’s continue here, shall we?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The garage exploded.
Glass and wood flew out at the cars getting cleaned off and covered them anew. Folks got splinters and cuts. Some were hit by flying boards.
Those vehicles blazed inside there, and tires caught fire. All of their engines kept running, until the belts and wires melted from the intense heat.
And that was when their gas tanks boiled their contents into steam, and the other explosions began.
By this time, we had reached Garland Avenue, and Sean took us to the desert up north, in the opposite direction of the approaching emergency vehicles. You see, when your home is not indicated on any map, it is hard for folks to find you.
Even folks who may coming to your rescue.
It was at this moment when the rain came down. Perhaps the shock wave from all the explosions busted the pregnant bellies of them rain clouds.
The thing was, such a downpour did little to hamper or dampen the fiery hellhole of the parking garage.
Yet we had saved four.
Yeah, that made it all better.
Such a waste.
Damn.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out.
OK, One More For Ya.
On my way down to a meeting with fellow air quality scientists at RTP, there was this bartender who works at a certain Legal Sea Foods sort of place in the Philadelphia hub of USAIR. His name is Scott Fields, and here is his video capture of a very funny guy, Reggie Watts, using a sampler live and onstage.
I wouldn't ever give away too many identifiable statistics in an online post without someone's permission. He signed the napkin. God Help You, good buddy!
Radiohead is awesome, and so is this video. "Sorry Thom Yorke."
Thanks Scott. Keep my Fat Tire brewskies cold, young bud.
Shout out to Sir Randy Ashley. I have never laughed so hard at a fucked up phone message.
Evar.
hehehehehe
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