There is magic in a Trans Am," Redleg muttered to
himself. "Anybody who don't see that is a homo."
He wiped a tear from his eye. Parting from his
beautiful, inflatable wife had been a trail, but he
had muddled through. He swallowed the last few drops
of Budweiser left in the can, crushed the empty, and
tossed it in the trash. He opened the garage door and
there it was.
It was primed, ready for paint. Redleg had spent hours
lovingly sanding the old paint job away until its
surface was as smooth as a Florida siding salesman. He
had puttied away all of the nicks, dents and dings.
The interior was ready for restoration, with only a
few tears in the upholstery. Redleg had replaced the
brake and gas pedals with solid chrome pads resembling
human feet. A pair of spongy dice dangled from the
rear view mirror. He had removed the back seat to make
room for beer. Redleg's only concession to modernity
was a 30-watt Sony AM_FM/ CD Player. The Trans Am was
a thing of rare beauty.
Redleg sat in the front seat and turned the key in the
ignition. The low, throaty hum of the 350 cubic inch
V8 raised the tiny hairs on the back of his rosy neck.
"Let's go, baby. I'm ready to rumble." he said.
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