Fingered and Towed

Hank eyed the lump of metal warily, as though it were prize cock, defeated but not yet dead, ready to lash out one last time before the rattle. Held together by rust, duct tape, and the sheer conviction of its own durability, the car stood stalwart, defiant; its front bumper, long since turned gray from the sun and elements, lay crooked across its face like a wry smile.

Finally, he nodded stoically, lifted his finger to the car, cocked his thumb, and shot, a symbol that the beast, at last, was dead. The sun just began to peek its light over the distant hills as the truck roared to life and towed the old heap to its final grave.

-Ahniwa Ferrari
8/18/05