Asta La Pizza Camaro

Mike Trakker breaks down; has problems.

      Mike Trakker’s nineteen-sixty-seven green Camaro roared down the country roads. Their windows were down. The music was on loud. Along with his friend, Jo, he sang his favourite songs on their way home.

 

     Johnny Cash’s Tennessee Stud was succeeded by Roy Acuff’s Wabash Cannonball as they eased through a junction. Only afterwards did something twig with Jo. “Did we just pass the interchange?”

 

     “Looks like,” Trakker grimaced. “We’ll turn right on Trenton then another right on Needmore and we’ll be back in business for Guthrie.”

 

     There are those who say that a car chooses its owner. The Camaro chose Mike Trakker. The US Marine turned NASCAR mechanic had replaced the engine　and given it a lick of paint. As they drove the windows were down, summer air brushed his arm, and he was nearly home to his darling wife, Justyna. It was smooth driving just north of Clarksville, Tennessee.

 

 

 

      Jo Serenity, Trakker’s companion and childhood buddy held his camera out the window taping the trees fly by. They had grown up in the same neighbourhood of Fort Campbell. Jo, a few years younger than Trakker, had turned to film school; lacking as he did the constitution for a military life. A few years later, after Trakker had quit the army, they had met up again in a Clarksville bar. Jo, now a freelance cameraman and tornado hunter, had come up with an ingenious plan for filming the NASCAR mechanics. He fancied himself as being to NASCAR fans what Michael Moore is to left-wing nutjobs.

They turned right on to Trenton. The road was flanked by grassy fields a lone tree on the left and was bereft of cars. A faint odour of dried farts wafted up but in the summer darkness they could not see a thing as the road turned suddenly bumpy. As Trakker’s radio turned to The Little Willies and their cow tipping shenanigans the engine spluttered, wobbled and came back again. A few yards later the radio cut out all together.

      “What happened to your jukebox?”

      Trakker whacked the dashboard, the engine spluttered again but the music remained dead. As they were about to pass a line of trees the car spat out its last fumes, ground its last gravel and rolled to a halt.

“What’s wrong baby? Trakker stroked the steering wheel. “You ain’t had no problems before.”

Trakker clench his fist and got out of the car. Steam escaped as he popped the hood. He pulled out a torch from his toolbox and took a look inside. The smell of manure wafted up. “Oh that’s foul!” he staggered back. “Reminds me of Hender Henderson’s farm near Tamaroa.”

As he held his nose and moved the flashlight around he saw the entire engine from radiator to the dipping stick caked in a layer of fresh faecal sludge. Then he noticed the entire road was covered too.

He had only cleaned and polished the car from bumper to bumper the previous day. Now it was ruined. Trakker cursed his luck; he was the kind of man who took great pride in his cars, all seven of them.

Jo stood in silence, jaw agape, as Trakker pulled out his cell. “I’ll phone Justyna, let her know we broke down.”

Jo nodded and walked round the car; camera in hand. Trakker quickly dialled her number. As he was about to press the dial button something came out of the sky and ripped the phone from his hands. His hand now felt wet and sticky. He looked around for his phone but could not find it. Then a fresh looking cowpat began to glow.

      “No way! Not funny!”

      He looked up at the heaves but could see nothing. He half expected a giant cow to lift its tail and take aim for him.

      “What happened?” Jo focussed his camera. “That s**t-disk’s glowing…”

      “It’s my cell,” Trakker crossed his arms in frustration.

      “I told you not to go cow tipping. Seems like a classic case of bovine revenge to me,” Jo laughed.

      Trakker scratched his head. “Not funny.”

The glowing stopped. “Yeah it is. You gotta laugh or you’ll cry. Tell you what; I’ll get my cell out of my bag.”

“Thanks, by the way, why are you filming this?”

Jo went dove into the back of the car. Trakker continued to talk. “You are not putting this in your NASCAR film, are you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it; Youtube should be fine.”

Jo’s head dove back into his huge rucksack as Trakker began threatening him with all kinds of pain should the video end up on any such website. “More importantly, what put all this mud on the road and in your car?”

“Err… it’s not mud. And um… I don’t know. Some horse farmer rebelling against the taxes?”

As his hand his upon the cell Jo heard something begin to rattle. It sounded like an empty plastic cup rattling around its holder. The car began to rock. He pulled the cell out of the bag and sat up. The car started to rock more violently. Jo checked the mirror; there was nothing, just darkness.

The sound of snapping wood rumbled all around them. Jo panicked and threw himself into the front seat, rammed the gear stick into reverse, turned the keys and swore. Nothing happened. He turned the keys again. The engine whirled but then spluttered out. Suddenly Trakker was beside the window gesturing wildly. “Something’s coming!”

“I know!” Jo shouted.

Jo slammed his hand on the dashboard and looked up at the mirror; still nothing. Then out of the darkness a giant ball appeared in front of him and rolled straight towards the car. Trakker turned, saw it and ripped the car door open. “Get out!”

He grabbed Jo and pulled him out. The mud ball rolled directly towards them. They scrambled to their feet and legged it down the road. The ball was catching them fast. Trakker yanked Jo aside and they fell into an empty field.

Glass shattered and metal crumpled. The ball roared past them and continued down the road towards Clarksville.

 

 

 

Reviews

[TL Boehm]

maybe its because I live in a house full of men - the only females being a feline of questionable intent and a backyard dog - but I found your excremental tale of woe absolutely hilarious. I have to admit it. That faint phart smell...yup. permanent I think in the back seat of my car....
Great stuff Wulfy.