"Save me!" plead the junkyard cars. The gearhead chokes up. "I...I'm sorry..."

"Ross Kraz" (ropstafer) 09/01/2015 at 14:42 • Filed to: junkyard, talon, firebird, lebaron, bmw, mustand, thunderbird

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{Preface: I was visiting the local junkyard, which is honestly named Grandpa John’s Pick ‘n’ Pull. I was on a mission to scavenge the parts I needed from a Stratus/Sebring/Neon to do a rear disc conversion on Project Mad Shadow (full disclosure: I’m addicted to my K-Car. It’s the saddest addiction ever. But that’s a story for another day). }

I began my search. I was quickly distracted from my objective by a convertible LeBaron. It must have been the oldest Chrysler and the only K-Car in the entire yard.

Must keep focus. Must not be sidetracked. Too late. Amongst the Chrysler section, away from their imported Mitsubishi brothers, I came across two Eagle Talons. The poor things had fallen victim to the Fast and Furious craze. I looked inside of one, resting my elbows on the door sill. “Overnight parts from Japan.” I muttered to my self, and smiled.

Behind one Talon, on the border with GMtopia, lay a Firebird. Paint faded, overgrown with weeds, and a slushbox tranny. What was I doing here? I have no interest in this thing. I turned to walk away, when I heard a noise. It sounded like... “Help”. I looked around. Nobody. I was alone. Was I hearing things?

Farther in my journey, I saw the twisted, rotting corpse of a BMW. Something terrible had happened to it. But what? I closed my eyes and pondered, when I heard the growl of an inline six. I snapped my eyes open, staring at the scattered engine bits on the ground. Was I going crazy? It must have been the wind.

What else was here? At this point, I had completely lost sight of my original goal. I had given in to my new quest: find the diamonds in the rust rough. Yet, I was eerily aware of my fleeting sanity.

A fifth generation Mustang! How dare they. I shook with rage as I thought of the carelessness of this car’s previous owner. I don’t know how they ruined the car more: the accident damage or the stick-on fake fender vents.

That’s it. I couldn’t take any more. I felt the sadness in their faces. I felt frustration because I could not help them. I felt anger because awesome vehicles are left here to rot for eternity, while clueless uninformed people continue to drive boring Toyotas and Hondas out in the world. I needed to get out of here. I needed to leave.

And then...I heard it: “...In the aaarms of an angeeel...” Sarah McLachlan beckoned me to the saddest, most heart-wrenching vehicle in the entire yard: a Thunderbird.

“Save me,” he pleaded, softly. “Take me with you.” I set my hand on his fender and a single tear rolled down my cheek. “I can’t. I just can’t. I...I’m sorry.” He sighed, as if he had given up all hope and accepted his final fate. Seeing my tears, he quickly flashed a smile of understanding. “I’ll be alright,” he said. “Just don’t forget me.”

“I never will,” I replied. I started to walk away, and I looked back. He winked. I wiped my tears and I smiled. “Goodbye”

“Goodbye, friend.”