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WHO: Gar and Starling.
WHERE: The Trailer Lot - Gar's Rig
WHAT: Having mechanical troubles.
WHEN: Today, late afternoon
STATUS: Open and Incomplete
BANG! BANG! BANG! Went the hammer on the piece of metal under Gar's truck that was refusing to yield to his wishes. He'd awoken to find a flat on his truck, and after deciding that it wasn't the work of some non humanly being, or God, he resigned himself to the fact he was going to have to change the tire. The trouble was, the bolt holding the spare in the carrier under his truck was rusted solid from all the driving in rain, snow, and salt. The cursing got louder with each round of strikes of the hammer on the rack. Swearing in an ancient tongue joined in the anvil chorus, and even if you could not understand Aramaic, you could tell he was swearing up a blue streak. This was not how he wanted to spend his "morning" before having to go to work. Fridays were always busy, and nuts, so getting all worked up and frustrated even before hitting the Hootchie Tent to bust heads would not be a good thing.
Gar continued to wail on the bolt, then he would pause to try the wrench on it again, and swear, then hit it some more. Lather, rinse, repeat until finally, at last, it gave and started to turn. Triumphant swearing followed, accompanied by the annoying squeak of the metal turning on metal. He was so wrapped up in the success of his task, he didn't notice if anyone had come alongside the truck or not. He was in his own little universe of dirt, rust, and a heavy fucking tire and rim.
WHERE: The Trailer Lot - Gar's Rig
WHAT: Having mechanical troubles.
WHEN: Today, late afternoon
STATUS: Open and Incomplete
BANG! BANG! BANG! Went the hammer on the piece of metal under Gar's truck that was refusing to yield to his wishes. He'd awoken to find a flat on his truck, and after deciding that it wasn't the work of some non humanly being, or God, he resigned himself to the fact he was going to have to change the tire. The trouble was, the bolt holding the spare in the carrier under his truck was rusted solid from all the driving in rain, snow, and salt. The cursing got louder with each round of strikes of the hammer on the rack. Swearing in an ancient tongue joined in the anvil chorus, and even if you could not understand Aramaic, you could tell he was swearing up a blue streak. This was not how he wanted to spend his "morning" before having to go to work. Fridays were always busy, and nuts, so getting all worked up and frustrated even before hitting the Hootchie Tent to bust heads would not be a good thing.
Gar continued to wail on the bolt, then he would pause to try the wrench on it again, and swear, then hit it some more. Lather, rinse, repeat until finally, at last, it gave and started to turn. Triumphant swearing followed, accompanied by the annoying squeak of the metal turning on metal. He was so wrapped up in the success of his task, he didn't notice if anyone had come alongside the truck or not. He was in his own little universe of dirt, rust, and a heavy fucking tire and rim.