?Can I take her for a drive??

The look he gave me, then the sky said he was uneasy about me driving it with the approaching storm. ?It? happened to be a 1968 Pontiac Firebird, that someone in the man?s family had bought new, loved, and drove.

?I don?t...? he was starting to tell me no, and I have never been one that liked that word much, so I held the keys to my new Silverado out toward him.

?If something happens, I?ll pay you for the car, and you can keep my truck. You can?t lose.? I shot him a smile, then followed his eyes toward the gleaming chrome, and bright red Chevy sitting in his driveway.

?Just be careful Mister.? he said as he held his hand out for my dangling keys.

?You got it,? I grinned like the devil as I slid into the slick, black vinyl bucket seat and grasped the steering wheel. ?Hello Beautiful.? I said as I pushed the clutch to the floor and turned the key. I was answered by the free flowing dual exhaust note of an under rated 335 Horsepower, and the movement of the hood mounted tach to the left.

?It?s a Ram Air II,? the owner lifted his voice so I could hear him over the rumble of exhaust. ?They were all four speeds.? I nodded my head that I understood the rarity of the car.
?One of twenty-one thousand and change made in 1968 and this is one of the last before 1969.? I added to his pitch as I rolled past, ready for my test drive, and prepared to baby it until I was out of his sight, and sure he wouldn?t hear the dual pipes scream as I opened up that four barrel carb.

There were a few dash lights out, but I could see the 150 mile an hour speedometer, and the gas gauge, which pointed dangerously at ?E.?

?Let see what you have, Girl.?

I pushed the clutch and took the shifter in my right hand, pulling it from third gear, back into second and as I lifted my left foot, slammed my right into the gas pedal, and was rewarded with a cough from the carb, a slight hesitation, and as the black smoke poured out both tail pipes, I was pushed back into my seat. The Dayton 500 tires fought for grip, and the Pontiac slid to the left, before I pushed it back into third gear only to have the rear end slide slightly back to the right.

?That?s what I?m talking about!? I shouted over the roar of the engine, and that is when I saw the truck. My smile turned into a twisted expression of fear and panic as I gripped the wheel with both hands and yanked hard to avoid the approaching behemoth.

The last thing I remembered hearing was the sound of glass breaking and metal tearing. Feeling the impact, and falling into the passenger side seat. I could feel the torn metal, jagged and sharp, tearing into my flesh, and hear the blaring of the horn, then silence.

?He?s flatlining. Get that crash cart over here now!?

I drove around, trying to find any kind of landmark that would help me remember where I was, or figure out in what part of town I was in. That?s when I saw it, a small neon glowing sign that held four little letters, B-E-E-R.


Good enough.

I parked the Firebird in front of the place, and took notice of the different cars and motorcycles that joined mine. Well, it was mine until I figured out where I was, and then I would have to convince the owner I didn?t steal his car, but that would wait for now, or until the cops pulled me over for Grand Theft Auto. I sighed as I locked the doors and looked at my reflection in the mirror.

Pull together, look tough, not cocky, keep to yourself, and listen for clues.
Yeah, right.

I pushed on the door and walked into the sounds of a live band, a decent looking woman lead with too much dark eye make up, and built like she was made for speed, a grungy looking band, with one blue haired guy banging on the bass like he was hammering out a dent on a ?49 Dodge fender.

Don?t stare, you?ve seen blue haired guys before.

I took a seat by myself at the bar, and I could feel the stares as they bored into the back of my head, but tried to ignore that. The bartender came along, and placed his large hands on the bar in front of us, and in a voice that sounded like a resonation from the pit of Hell asked what he could do for me.

Can you tell me where I am?

?Give me a beer.? I wasn?t picky on the type, because with beer, it?s rented anyway. Drink it, piss it, rinse, repeat.

The band shrieked out the last of their song and the place was momentarily quiet, even the voices of people playing pool, and throwing darts seemed hushed.

The beer bottle clunked down on the scratched plastic surface of the bar, louder than I expected and to my own surprise, I didn?t jump outta my skin. I put a couple bucks on the bar, and one in the jar, before upnodding my thanks to Satan?s Bartender, and turning to finally face the room.

There were tweakers, trancers, punks, cons, and good old drunks in the room, and some were staring, while others would look then quickly away.

Of all the Gin Joints in all the towns in where ever the hell I am, I had to walk into this one.

The beer was the hardest thing I?ve had to swallow down in some time. It was almost as if the stares and whispers were closing off my throat, making my breathing even hard to do.

You shouldn?t be in here, Lucas. This isn?t your type of place and it shows.

?Hey, Biggun, where?s the pisser?? I asked the bartender and followed the point of a thumb that looked as big around as my wrist toward the door with day-glo paint on it reading, CAN. ?How could I miss that, huh?? I smiled at him, and took my beer, making tracks for the back of the place, hoping there was a back door.

I stepped through the door, after I opened it with my booted foot, swearing that I didn?t want to touch anything that looked wet. I smiled seeing the mandated exit sign above a bolted back door. There was an old wool pea coat hanging to the side of the door, so I grabbed it, threw it on, and used the exit door to make my escape. The beer was drained on the way to the Pontiac, and at least if I was pulled over for GTA, they?d get me for drunk driving too, and I?d have a warm bed and three squares until the hearing.

Another disappointment for Dear Old Dad.

I fumbled for the keys and unlocked the door as a couple of guys came out the front door, while two more came from the back of the bar, they were pointing my way and moving toward me. Something told me they weren?t interested in inviting me to their church, or even telling me about Jesus. I slid into the drivers seat of the ?Ponch, hit the gas pedal once, turned the key, and said my version of a prayer.

If there was ever a God, let this thing start and let me get out of here. I don?t need destruction of property on top of everything else.


The 400 roared to life and I let out the clutch, engaging the transmission, which spun the tires, which threw gravel from the parking lot toward my new friends, causing them to dive for cover, I knew then that I wouldn?t be welcomed back at that bar, unless it was in a body bag, and Gods only know what that crew would do to a corpse.

I found that sleep was hard to come by when you don?t know where you are and you have a lot on your mind, one of those being the safety of the area you parked your dream car in. I parked under one of the working street lights, it shined down on the faded blue paint, and gleamed from what little chrome was on the car. I woke numerous times throughout the night, to look from the second story window, being sure that she was safe, and unmolested.
I found that a funny word, even when I was a cop...well a funny saying for a car.

My dad told the story once of when he got off work one night, he and one of his best friends wanted to see the new cars on the lots, so they drove around the city, stopping at each one of the ?Big Three? and as they were walking the lot at the Plymouth dealer, an officer approached, asking them what they were doing. My Father?s friend, an eternal smartass told the officer that they were looking for the bar and got lost at Downtown Chrysler Plymouth. Well, the officer didn?t find the two young men as funny as they thought they were and threatened to arrest them for molesting parked vehicles. My dad and Bobby exchanged glances and Bobby threw himself onto the rear quarter panel of a 1969 Roadrunner and dry humping it, moaning like a porn star. Now, I never heard if they were arrested for that stunt, but I suspect if I go through old records, I could find out.

The next morning I was up at Seven, since I had been up most of the night anyway, got myself a shower, dressed, and set out for the realtor?s office. Seeing as I didn?t figure she would be open as early as I was awake, I stopped for breakfast at a off the wall diner, decorated like it was straight out of the Fifties. I turned again, feeling the need to check on the Pontiac, and as I looked out the window, I found myself staring at a 55 Bel Air, next to it a ?50 Mercury, and even a bright red ?58 Plymouth Fury. Face to face with ?Christine,? and as I was about to panic, there among the classic iron, sat the little blue muscle car, that looked sorely out of place with chrome, fins, and frenched headlights.

What the hell is this place?