Post 263: I’m so Tired

The category into which Sparky ads most often fall is the Do Work For Me. Sparky tries to make it sound like he or she is doing you a favor by letting you have his trash. Do not fall for it. You are too smart to fall for that ploy.

Although that one rim would perfectly complete my collection.

Free tires/rims

post-263-tires

Hey I have some rims/tires I need to get rid of. They’re free, but must take all.

So they’re free but there’s a string attached. Well, okay, guess I better go find a truck to borrow. I need to stay off my local Craigslist.

Advertisements

4 thoughts on “Post 263: I’m so Tired

    • Funny, I just posted my story, and that’s what I had intended to call it before I even started writing it. I suppose it’s pretty obvious, though.

      I did have to wonder why Sparky here has no matching pairs here save for whatever that assembly in the foreground is. It’s sort of like highway shoes, where you inexplicably spot a single lost shoe along the side of the highway you’re drive down, except it’s tires, and Sparky’s been stopping to collect them.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. It was his own stupid fault, of course. Frunk was just driving through the parking lot, didn’t realize he was so close to the approaching median, and inadvertently drove over it at a speed that, if he had to be grudgingly honest with himself, was entirely too fast for a parking lot. As a result, he got a flat tire and a bent rim for his troubles.

    But if there was one thing Frunk was not going to do under any circumstances, it was take his injured auto to some massively overpriced garage who would charge him five hundred bucks for a new tire and rim — and he’d better hope he didn’t damage anything else on his undercarriage! Those bloodsuckers could go have premarital relations with their socket wrenches if they thought they were going to bilk him for a single dime of his hard-earned money.

    Fortunately, Frunk didn’t need some shyster mechanic. He had something better. Something that didn’t even cost him a single penny. All he had to do was make it home. He had everything he needed there. And so he did — though not without some difficulty. The flubba-dubba-dubba sound of his tire being shredded between the road and the bent rim that produced its own dunk-dunk-dunk beat to his impromptu performance of Asphalt Concerto in B-Flat was not helping him focus on keeping the car from pulling to the left, but he managed for the ten minutes it took him to get back to his house.

    Frunk drove into his garage and got out of the car. The automatic door locks clicked into place. He walked over to one side of his garage, where, propped against the wall, was a tire and rim. It wasn’t even remotely close to the one on his car — this was a much smaller, deep-lug tire and matching rim meant for a ride-on snowblower. He found the wheel inexplicably lying on the side of the road a few weeks ago, and it, too, was flat and damaged, and rusted through besides. It didn’t matter, though. It was merely symbolic.

    Heading into his house and then out again to his back yard, Frunk barely noticed the other tires and rims piled up haphazardly against his back fence. All were of different shapes and sizes, some with rims, some without, which he used according to his needs, but all could be used only once. He should have gotten rid of those by now — it was dangerous to let too many of these used tires accrue. He’d have to see if someone would just come take them of his hands. They’d have to take all of them at once. No time for that now, though. Frunk had to get down to business.

    In the center of his back yard was a patch of dirt that had been cleared of grass and other debris. Frunk placed the tire directly in the center. He then arranged a circle of candles around the sidewalls of the tire and lit them, following that up by placing a raw head of cabbage in the center of the rim encircled by a ring of uncooked Brussels sprouts. He then fetched a small felt pouch, a little larger than his palm, undid the gold sash keeping the top pursed, and grabbed a handful of the white sand within. He then knelt down and began slowly, carefully drawing symbols with the sand around the perimeter of the tire as he started to chant.
    “Humba panki tro lo lo bar Kenda raedo ti fa solati bitte schöen par pomplemousse,” Frunk chanted as he slowly released the sand from the bottom of his closed fist in measured lines and curves. He repeated the chant until the first symbol was drawn, then moved on to the next symbol, which required a different chant, as all of the symbols did.
    “Undie frumunda bunker poke do Pirelli din schadenfreude con carne avec du fromage,” he continued, grabbing another fistful of sand each time he ran out. The symbols came together in fanciful geometric patterns, each one seeming to glow as the final line was drawn. He had to be extremely precise both in word and deed, for each line, each word, and the orders of each, were critical to his success. One mistake, however small, could have unpredictable, even deadly consequences.
    “Polecatty!” The chants became louder, more energetic the further into the ritual he got. “Farquharson dun sham rumpy Toyota! Dinkerwelt bun offer Goodyear und der vambam danke fraulein!” He couldn’t help but think that he must sometimes sound like a ruthless dictator haranguing his people when he performed these rituals.
    Six, then seven symbols surrounded the tire. Only one remained. “Gabagool bragadoccio!” Frunk was practically shouting now. “Fundibulum mistadobalina wilt fixie de Michelinss INNA GOTTA DA VIDA!” The last was said with a flourish of his hand as it spat the last of the sand over the vegetation in the center of the tire.

    Frunk stood up and took a step back. For a brief moment, nothing seemed to happen. He placed his feet further apart and moved one a little in front of him, the other, a little behind, and he hunkered down, hands braced against his upper thighs. He’d done this before. He knew what was coming. First, a breeze and a growing light, and then a sudden, instant blast of blinding light and gale-force winds that had knocked him ten feet back the first time he did this. And then, almost as quickly as it came, it disappeared, leaving a vacuum of utter silence in its wake.

    Did it work? There was no sound. Usually there was something, but this time, nothing at all, so he couldn’t tell. The symbols caught his eye again. It never cased to freak him out slightly that the sandy symbols remained completely unaffected by that wind. Even the candles were still lit. But then he saw it. One of his symbols was wrong. A line was curved the wrong way — up, when it should be down. Uh-oh. Frunk had no idea what could happen. He’d never made a mistake before; he was always so careful, so meticulous, especially because he had no idea what a wrong turn would do and wasn’t about to risk his life making such a mistake. Frunk felt panic welling up in his chest, preparing to make a run for his brain.

    Frunk’s pre-freakout, however, was interrupted by a sudden, deafening crash, followed by the sound of debris hitting the ground and surrounding structures. That was most definitelty not the sound he had been waiting to hear, and he was pretty sure it was one that wasn’t supposed to happen. Or at least, shouldn’t have happened if he’d drawn his symbols correctly. Frunk ran into his house. Inside, everything seemed to be normal in that it was still standing and everything seemed to be generally where he had put it. He walked over to the inside garage door and opened it.

    The garage was gone.

    Well, strictly speaking, its was still around, but whether or not it could still be called a garage if its constituent parts lay strewn about without any formal garage-shaped organization to them was a matter for philosophers to debate over. He still had one wall — the one belonging to the rest of his house — but the far wall and garage door were blown out and in pieces, and where once a roof provided shelter for the contents within, now his car poked through it. Well, the front part of his car, anyway. While the ritual did, in fact, repair his tire and rim, it also enlarged both to eight times their normal size, causing his car to rear up so high even the back wheels left the ground, and support its front-end with just one gigantic wheel assembly. The front-right side of the car drooped slightly, its only support being a normal-sized but perfectly functional wheel that could no longer hope to touch the ground.

    “Crap,” was about all Frunk could manage. It would take him several more minutes to wrap his head around what just happened before he even noticed that his car was also now a bright pink, and that his keys were still in the ignition.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. So Sparky has now retired and thinks he can give away the remnants of a garage sale? Not likely.

    [corey: When I helped my town acquire some conservation land a few years back I got stuck with removing 26 tires that had been dumped on the property decades ago. The town Transfer Station could take the tires, but not on rims – their contractor would not accept them. Since I don’t have a pneumatic tire machine, I had to cut through the tire beads fused to the rusted rims with a carbide blade, then pry off the tires. I also ended up with a few hundred pounds of steel scrap, not enough to be worth hauling to a scrap yard for pennies per pound, so the town got that too. Disposing of this junk legally is not easy. /corey]

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s