'66 Corvette (FAIL!)
OK, this bit me a day before I saw the spook_me challenge go out. So I thought, "Hey! Awesome! I've got a lot of "haunted car" ideas floating around my head!" And I happily signed up. Even found a lovely pic that I wanted to try and recolor to post at the bottom.
Aaaaaand then Sunstreaker flipped me off with both hands and told me to rotate.
After much teeth and hair pulling, I managed to get 3 scenes written that don't look like they were done by my 5 and 12 year old. Together. While arguing.
So, it sucks. Hard. But, I signed up, and it'd be more embarrassing to wuss out and not post at all than it is to post late crap. Enjoy my faily story. Hey, at least I got it up in time for Halloween itself, right?
And the car in question is this one, but I haven't figured out how to recolor it in yellows and oranges.
===
'66 Corvette
It was glowing.
It was beautiful and it was perfect and it was glowing and it was right in front of him.
Dave rubbed his hands over his face and stared again. OK, so it wasn't quite perfect (he could see some dents and scratches - nothing major) and the glow was more likely due to barn dust floating through a conveniently placed sunbeam, but it was still gorgeous and right in front of him.
A 1966 Chevrolet Corvette convertible. Eye-searingly yellow, with yellow-orange flames ripping back over the hood and fenders. It was if Apollo's own chariot had descended from the heavens and decided to play hooky and take a nap.
Dave turned to the woman standing next to him. “Ma'am,” he began. His voice squeaked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Ma'am, are you sure? This car … it's worth more than my house!”
She smiled, small and sad, and trailed a hand over the hood. “It also belonged to my late husband.”
“... oh.” He shifted from one foot to another. “I'm s--”
“He died in Vietnam,” she continued. “The car had been a gift from his father to fix up. Drew always did love to tinker. And then … well … the 'conflict' came …,” she sighed, “and it's just time to let it go.”
“But, this thing - it's beautiful! You could get sixty, seventy grand! Easy!” he protested.
She laughed. “Why are you arguing? It's your good fortune.”
Dave shrugged helplessly. “I keep waiting for the catch. Or the cameras.”
“The car's haunted.”
He stared at her. “I'm serious. I did have it listed for fair market. Every single one of them couldn't get out of here fast enough.” She chuckled a little at some memory. “After the third or fourth one, I pulled the ads, put up the one you saw, and decided to see what God would send me.”
Dave had almost passed the ad by when he first saw it. “Old Chevy. $1000.” But something had made him call to see. Now he was staring at the sun god's own car with a grand burning a hole in his pocket.
He blinked at the light flashing in his eyes. Light that resolved into a set of keys dangled in front of his face.
“Take it for a drive? If you survive, it's yours.”
“OK, let's hear your story.”
Dave resolutely turned away from the poser arguing with the cop. He had his own statement to give, and Officer … Malone didn't look too happy to be there.
“Short version? I parked out here because I didn't want any new dings in my car. I'm still working on the ones it came with.
“Anyway, this guy pulls up next to me, looking like a reject from Fast & the Furious, radio so loud his car's shaking, and starts giving me lip. I'm not parked crooked or taking up extra spaces, so I flip him off and start walking away.”
“ - son of a bitch totaled my car -“
“Sir, this is the last time I'm going to ask you to calm down - “
“Fuck you!”
They both watched as finally had enough and cuffed the guy, stuffing him in the back of the cruiser. Malone suddenly looked far happier to be talking to Dave instead of Psycho Poser. Dave, for his part, couldn't quite keep the glee out of his voice.
“Anyway. He flings his door open and straight into my passenger door. Next thing I know, his air bags go off, and then he does. Storms over and gets right in my face, screaming about how I wrecked his car. You guys must have been right around the corner, because that's about when you showed up.”
It was a good thing too, because that was about when Psycho Poser had decided to stop shouting and start swinging.
Officer Malone was back to looking unhappy, but when a couple of teens (and their smartphones) trotted over with video backing him up, he let him go.
Of course, then Dave had to escape the guys drooling over his car. He tried to stay civil; if they hadn't been on their way over to ask for pictures, there probably wouldn't have been any witnesses at all.
Finally, he managed to get away, grab his groceries and drive home. When he pulled the keys out of the ignition, he just laid his head on the steering wheel. For a bright summer day, it was surprisingly cold in the garage.
He'd left a few things out of his statement, of course. Like how everything had gone quiet and every hair on his body stood up right before the air bags went off. Or how he could have sworn he'd heard a staticky growl from his radio when the door hit.
Typical haunted car stuff. The kind that gets you sobriety tests and blood work if you try to tell the police.
“I know you're fond of this car, sarge,” he said quietly, “but the next jackass might have a knife or a gun, and things would be a lot messier. I can fix a dented panel. Can't do as much for bullets in everything.”
He sat there in silence for a moment, listening to the ticking of cooling metal. Idly he wondered if he was crazy for buying into the widow's story of her husband's haunted car. Then, a burst of static came from a radio he knew was wired properly, and the temperature started to climb to normal. He smiled. Nope, not crazy at all. Especially after he got out and saw that what should have been a fairly impressive dent was simply a minor scratch.
Dave looked back before he flicked out the garage lights. “G'night, sarge.”
“ - Primus-damned, processor glitched, stunts to pull!” Clang!
Dave slowly opened his eyes. Funny, his room didn't have ceilings like that. And his bed didn't recline either.
“Ow! Dammit, Ratchet! What the frag was that for?”
The beeping machines were new, too. He turned his head to the side, bemused at how light he felt. Whatever happened must have been bad, if he got the gooood drugs. He giggled softly.
“You watch your tone with me, brat! What were you thinking, using your holo in your condition?”
The soldier standing by the viewing window winked and held a finger to his lips. His eyes sparkled and Dave couldn't help but smile back. He was probably going to be hurting later, but right now he was feeling too good to care.
“There's no excuse for you to need this much repair work! Even without any energon, your solars should have picked up enough to fuel your nanites.”
Wait, soldier? Must have hit a five star general or something. That train of thought was derailed by the argument continuing outside his room.
“And how many years on this planet and you haven't figured out that red means stop? And what the frag have you been doing that you couldn't steer worth a damn?”
Dave squinted. It must have been the drugs, but whoever was yelling was a rather violent shade of lime green, and very, very big. And apparently yelling at someone who was equally violently yellow.
“First, I'm a frontliner, not a scout. Second, even if I had the same level of solar receptors that Bumblebee has, they don't do too much if you're locked up in a barn under a tarp.”
Funny, his car was that shade of yellow. Had the same flames too, but they weren't located on the second story of a pissed off giant.
“Third, Most of my energy went to refining that crap they use for their cars here into something usable and assimilating the parts they kept sticking in me. Frag, I barely got my com working well enough to send out a distress.” Clang!
Very, very good drugs.
“If you had that kind of damage you're lucky to be alive, slagger. You could have ended up stripped for parts and crushed for scrap!”
Hey, that would make a good story. Bought a car. Turned out to be a giant alien robot. Dave giggled again. Apollo's chariot got nuthin' on that.
“Please. I'm too good looking to get scrapped that easily.”
Damn straight. Anyone who'd part out a '66 Corvette when it was anything less than completely totalled deserves to be shot.
“Besides, I was too busy trying to get my steering back. I don't know what these squishy little fraggers did to me, but sometimes it was like someone else was controlling me. Trust me, using my holo or anything else was far down my list of priorities!”
A couple pieces finally clicked through the haze. He remembered the car suddenly bucking like a wild thing, running red lights, and finally spinning out through a guard rail to become intimately involved with a rather large maple tree. And someone in old Army camo had pulled him out before the tank caught fire.
“Hey, sarge,” Dave whispered. “Thanks.” The soldier smiled.
The arguing stopped. A tall, rangy fellow in an Army uniform stepped in, completely ignoring the soldier by the window.
“My name's Will Lennox, Army major.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “The question is, who are you, and what do we do with you?”
Aaaaaand then Sunstreaker flipped me off with both hands and told me to rotate.
After much teeth and hair pulling, I managed to get 3 scenes written that don't look like they were done by my 5 and 12 year old. Together. While arguing.
So, it sucks. Hard. But, I signed up, and it'd be more embarrassing to wuss out and not post at all than it is to post late crap. Enjoy my faily story. Hey, at least I got it up in time for Halloween itself, right?
And the car in question is this one, but I haven't figured out how to recolor it in yellows and oranges.
===
'66 Corvette
It was glowing.
It was beautiful and it was perfect and it was glowing and it was right in front of him.
Dave rubbed his hands over his face and stared again. OK, so it wasn't quite perfect (he could see some dents and scratches - nothing major) and the glow was more likely due to barn dust floating through a conveniently placed sunbeam, but it was still gorgeous and right in front of him.
A 1966 Chevrolet Corvette convertible. Eye-searingly yellow, with yellow-orange flames ripping back over the hood and fenders. It was if Apollo's own chariot had descended from the heavens and decided to play hooky and take a nap.
Dave turned to the woman standing next to him. “Ma'am,” he began. His voice squeaked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Ma'am, are you sure? This car … it's worth more than my house!”
She smiled, small and sad, and trailed a hand over the hood. “It also belonged to my late husband.”
“... oh.” He shifted from one foot to another. “I'm s--”
“He died in Vietnam,” she continued. “The car had been a gift from his father to fix up. Drew always did love to tinker. And then … well … the 'conflict' came …,” she sighed, “and it's just time to let it go.”
“But, this thing - it's beautiful! You could get sixty, seventy grand! Easy!” he protested.
She laughed. “Why are you arguing? It's your good fortune.”
Dave shrugged helplessly. “I keep waiting for the catch. Or the cameras.”
“The car's haunted.”
He stared at her. “I'm serious. I did have it listed for fair market. Every single one of them couldn't get out of here fast enough.” She chuckled a little at some memory. “After the third or fourth one, I pulled the ads, put up the one you saw, and decided to see what God would send me.”
Dave had almost passed the ad by when he first saw it. “Old Chevy. $1000.” But something had made him call to see. Now he was staring at the sun god's own car with a grand burning a hole in his pocket.
He blinked at the light flashing in his eyes. Light that resolved into a set of keys dangled in front of his face.
“Take it for a drive? If you survive, it's yours.”
“OK, let's hear your story.”
Dave resolutely turned away from the poser arguing with the cop. He had his own statement to give, and Officer … Malone didn't look too happy to be there.
“Short version? I parked out here because I didn't want any new dings in my car. I'm still working on the ones it came with.
“Anyway, this guy pulls up next to me, looking like a reject from Fast & the Furious, radio so loud his car's shaking, and starts giving me lip. I'm not parked crooked or taking up extra spaces, so I flip him off and start walking away.”
“ - son of a bitch totaled my car -“
“Sir, this is the last time I'm going to ask you to calm down - “
“Fuck you!”
They both watched as finally had enough and cuffed the guy, stuffing him in the back of the cruiser. Malone suddenly looked far happier to be talking to Dave instead of Psycho Poser. Dave, for his part, couldn't quite keep the glee out of his voice.
“Anyway. He flings his door open and straight into my passenger door. Next thing I know, his air bags go off, and then he does. Storms over and gets right in my face, screaming about how I wrecked his car. You guys must have been right around the corner, because that's about when you showed up.”
It was a good thing too, because that was about when Psycho Poser had decided to stop shouting and start swinging.
Officer Malone was back to looking unhappy, but when a couple of teens (and their smartphones) trotted over with video backing him up, he let him go.
Of course, then Dave had to escape the guys drooling over his car. He tried to stay civil; if they hadn't been on their way over to ask for pictures, there probably wouldn't have been any witnesses at all.
Finally, he managed to get away, grab his groceries and drive home. When he pulled the keys out of the ignition, he just laid his head on the steering wheel. For a bright summer day, it was surprisingly cold in the garage.
He'd left a few things out of his statement, of course. Like how everything had gone quiet and every hair on his body stood up right before the air bags went off. Or how he could have sworn he'd heard a staticky growl from his radio when the door hit.
Typical haunted car stuff. The kind that gets you sobriety tests and blood work if you try to tell the police.
“I know you're fond of this car, sarge,” he said quietly, “but the next jackass might have a knife or a gun, and things would be a lot messier. I can fix a dented panel. Can't do as much for bullets in everything.”
He sat there in silence for a moment, listening to the ticking of cooling metal. Idly he wondered if he was crazy for buying into the widow's story of her husband's haunted car. Then, a burst of static came from a radio he knew was wired properly, and the temperature started to climb to normal. He smiled. Nope, not crazy at all. Especially after he got out and saw that what should have been a fairly impressive dent was simply a minor scratch.
Dave looked back before he flicked out the garage lights. “G'night, sarge.”
“ - Primus-damned, processor glitched, stunts to pull!” Clang!
Dave slowly opened his eyes. Funny, his room didn't have ceilings like that. And his bed didn't recline either.
“Ow! Dammit, Ratchet! What the frag was that for?”
The beeping machines were new, too. He turned his head to the side, bemused at how light he felt. Whatever happened must have been bad, if he got the gooood drugs. He giggled softly.
“You watch your tone with me, brat! What were you thinking, using your holo in your condition?”
The soldier standing by the viewing window winked and held a finger to his lips. His eyes sparkled and Dave couldn't help but smile back. He was probably going to be hurting later, but right now he was feeling too good to care.
“There's no excuse for you to need this much repair work! Even without any energon, your solars should have picked up enough to fuel your nanites.”
Wait, soldier? Must have hit a five star general or something. That train of thought was derailed by the argument continuing outside his room.
“And how many years on this planet and you haven't figured out that red means stop? And what the frag have you been doing that you couldn't steer worth a damn?”
Dave squinted. It must have been the drugs, but whoever was yelling was a rather violent shade of lime green, and very, very big. And apparently yelling at someone who was equally violently yellow.
“First, I'm a frontliner, not a scout. Second, even if I had the same level of solar receptors that Bumblebee has, they don't do too much if you're locked up in a barn under a tarp.”
Funny, his car was that shade of yellow. Had the same flames too, but they weren't located on the second story of a pissed off giant.
“Third, Most of my energy went to refining that crap they use for their cars here into something usable and assimilating the parts they kept sticking in me. Frag, I barely got my com working well enough to send out a distress.” Clang!
Very, very good drugs.
“If you had that kind of damage you're lucky to be alive, slagger. You could have ended up stripped for parts and crushed for scrap!”
Hey, that would make a good story. Bought a car. Turned out to be a giant alien robot. Dave giggled again. Apollo's chariot got nuthin' on that.
“Please. I'm too good looking to get scrapped that easily.”
Damn straight. Anyone who'd part out a '66 Corvette when it was anything less than completely totalled deserves to be shot.
“Besides, I was too busy trying to get my steering back. I don't know what these squishy little fraggers did to me, but sometimes it was like someone else was controlling me. Trust me, using my holo or anything else was far down my list of priorities!”
A couple pieces finally clicked through the haze. He remembered the car suddenly bucking like a wild thing, running red lights, and finally spinning out through a guard rail to become intimately involved with a rather large maple tree. And someone in old Army camo had pulled him out before the tank caught fire.
“Hey, sarge,” Dave whispered. “Thanks.” The soldier smiled.
The arguing stopped. A tall, rangy fellow in an Army uniform stepped in, completely ignoring the soldier by the window.
“My name's Will Lennox, Army major.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “The question is, who are you, and what do we do with you?”