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Author's note: This is an indirect sequel to my first creepypasta, Red Tag. This story stands on its own, but I'd still recommend reading the original first.



My name is Mike Laudner, and I collect everything General Motors: Chevys, Pontiacs, Buicks, Cadillacs, Oldsmobiles, Saturns, Geos, you name it. I know all the facts about each and every motor ever produced by GM, as well as the specs and builds of any model to come off the line since 1930. Some say it’s a waste of time; others call it a specialist hobby.

I call it a lifestyle.

I drink from GM-branded mugs, eat from GM-branded plates, dress in GM-branded clothes.

And, of course, drive GM cars.

I’ll be honest, my garage isn’t that large, so when I say ‘cars,’ I’m referring to seven of the cheapest sets of wheels I could buy with my meager salary. If you’re curious, I have the following: a 1999 GMC Tahoe, a 1991 Saturn SL SW2, a 1989 Geo Metro, a 2011 Chevy Spark (my daily driver), a 1979 SAAB 900, a 1983 Chevy Blazer (LS swap), and a 2003 Chevy SSR. You might think that the insurance would be astronomical, but since five of them count as classics, it actually costs less combined than a modern sports car. And it’s absolutely worth it.

I think all gearheads out there, GM or not, will agree that, sometimes, there’s just one car that changes your entire perspective on what every other driving experience should be based on.

For me, that car was an ‘89 Isuzu I-Mark.

Imark2

You may be thinking, Isuzu is a Japanese company, right? Well, in 1972, General Motors bought a considerable share in the company, which prompted a joint effort of Isuzu producing GM-produced cars, and vice versa, which lasted until 2008, when Isuzu pulled out of the U.S. entirely. The I-Mark was made in 1974, and is essentially a Chevrolet/Geo Spectrum.

I got the car in 1991 from an anonymous seller for $2,500. 4,600 miles. It was a steal, considering how well it had been maintained, and I assumed the guy had no idea what it was worth. It made even less sense when I discovered how it felt to drive.

On the trip home from buying it, I filled up the tank and let it loose. It felt smooth, refined, and almost European in quality. Now, I may be biased towards GM, but even I am willing to admit that its vehicles don’t have the best refinement. So, when I turned a hairpin for the first time and stuck to the inside like glue, I was both utterly shocked and immensely pleased. A proper driver’s car made by GM? This was the find of the century.

The only detail that deterred me was an occasional sputtering noise from the engine compartment. I figured it was oil at first, but the owner said he’d changed it only a few months back. There were no leaks, either, so I disregarded it as an annoyance.

That thing was the center of my attention for the next week, though. I’d visit fellow car enthusiasts at community exhibitions and hand them the keys, daring them to see for themselves how good the drive was. Sometimes I placed bets. The car impressed every time.

But about two weeks in was when the interesting quirks began to reveal themselves. I hadn’t noticed it at first, but the fuel gauge wasn’t actually connected to anything. I only realized this two weeks into owning the thing, and I was glad I saw it when I did. The needle went down normally as I drove, so I didn’t suspect anything was wrong. At one point, I dipped the tank to see whether there was any gravel, which could be causing the sputtering. I saw that there was nothing but greasy residue inside the tank. This was probably starving the engine for fuel, which resulted in the noise, but I still have no idea how it lasted that long on empty. I immediately pulled my 900 up to the side and siphoned some gas into the tank. Sure enough, the noise stopped.

The seller never mentioned any problems related to the dashboard, so I figured it was just a new glitch that had come up.

Then there were the interior lights, which never switched on, and the dashboard, which never lit up at night like it was supposed to. I checked the wiring myself, and there was nothing wrong; no frayed ends, no missing fuses. I just ignored them, as they weren’t too much of an issue to worry about just yet.

I wish I could say I had only good memories of that car. And, indeed, most of them were. But there was one incident that occurred in 1993 that I wish I could forget. It’s been lodged in my mind ever since, and it’s the one thing keeping me from buying another Isuzu.


My neighbor at the time was a man named Frank, and I won’t include his last name for reasons that will soon become clear. He was a car buff as well, and he owned a Chrysler Conquest, which is a glorified Mitsubishi Starion without the import badge. But he loved that car, and I was happy that he was happy.

He and his wife had been good friends with me for a long time, and we bonded well, especially over cars. He was quiet when it came to anything else, however, and as a result, I was the one he confided in the most.

As soon as I pulled in with the I-Mark, Frank was skeptical.

“Mike, that’s pretty risky,” he remarked as I opened the door and got out. “You know about those reliability issues people keep complaining about. New import brands can’t be trusted.”

Frank was more of a Chrysler fanatic than a GM one, so I couldn’t blame him for this mistake.

“You know this is basically a Chevy,” I said. “In fact, it IS a Chevy. You gotta let go of your whole ‘all import brands are untrustworthy’ mindset. For Christ’s sake, you own a Mitsubishi!”

“Chrysler,” he corrected. “They changed enough about the Conquest to qualify it as its own model.”

I shook my head and gave up.

“What’s so special about this thing, anyhow?”

I explained to him how it drove far better than anything I’d ever driven. Immediately, he called bullshit.

“Mike, it’s a freaking ISUZU. Hell, your Metro would be faster than that thing.” At this, I strolled over to the passenger door, opened it, and gestured with my arm for Frank to step inside. He reluctantly obliged, shifting nervously as I got in and started it up.

I must say, the Isuzu put on a fantastic show. Swooping bends and steep hills were no match for that car. It was almost as though it was deliberately trying to show off.

At one point I looked over to Frank while we were at a red light. I expected, if anything, a vague, hesitant smile that admitted his mistake. But I’ll never forget that expression he had- it was one of pure shock, of absolute fear. His eyes were locked forward in a frozen state of terror at some unseen thing in front of us.

I should have paid more attention to that look.

When we got back, Frank exited the car and walked into his house without a word. I shook my head and pulled into my drive.

Before I entered my house, I checked the fuel gauge. It had gone up slightly from before, so I assumed that the issue wasn’t going away anytime soon.

While unlocking my front door, I glanced over at Frank’s porch and saw his wife, whom shall remain unnamed, leaning on the railing and gazing at the silhouette of the Conquest in the fading light.

I’ll admit that I was always particularly fond of her as a person. We'd known each other since high school. She had dark green eyes, fair hair, and a pale, smooth face. Sometimes, we'd sit on the street bench and talk about... things. Whatever came to mind. Of course, she was my friend's wife, so we avoided becoming too close. Usually I directed the subject towards cars, while she pretended to be interested.

Lately, though, she'd been coming to me more often, asking me about my family and my hobby, even seeming remotely engaged by my car jargon.

I still remember the smile she'd put on. It was the smile of someone who was, more than anything, lonely.

Among many regrets I have from that time, I wish I had just kept watching from afar.

As I contemplated this strange relationship, I turned my GM-branded door key in the slot and went in.


That night, I had a strange dream, the first of several that would define that fateful week.

I was outside my house in the street, polishing my Isuzu. Frank was directly adjacent to me, washing his Conquest with a hose. It was fairly mundane, as dreams went, at least for a while. We just stood there, not saying a word to each other.

At one point, I looked up from the panel I was working on, and at that exact moment, Frank looked up, too. I put my head back down and I could see out of the corner of my eye that he’d done the same. Out of curiosity, I poked my head up once more. In perfect harmony, he followed. When I went back to work, he did the same. It was really… bizarre.


The next day, Frank and I met on his porch for a few beers. It was a tradition we’d developed over the years; one of the few things Frank really enjoyed.

After a few swigs, he turned to me and tapped my shoulder.

“Hey, Mike,” he said, pointing at the I-Mark.

“Yeah?” I inquired, slightly inebriated.

“You should get rid of that thing. It’s bad news.”

“How so?” I asked, incredulously.

He took another swig of liquor. “Well, you see, I had this weird dream last night.”

I sighed, preparing myself for a drunken rambling.

“I was in your car, just sitting in the passenger seat. I could see out the windshield that there wasn’t any sky or ground or any discernible forms. It was just me and that thing. I leaned over outside the window and saw the tires spinning endlessly, just floating over the gray abyss.

“Then the radio came on. I pulled myself back in, and the windows scrolled up automatically.

“It said some weird things, Mike. That radio said some pretty fucked-up things. I don’t know about that car, man. You should just trade it for an old Laser or something.”

I rolled my eyes. “Frank, I’m not going to get rid of my car just because of some stupid ‘vision’ you had.”

I turned to look at him and froze. His expression was the same as the one he’d had yesterday when he got out of the car. His gaze was affixed in a straight line, just looking into some unseen void.

I punched his shoulder. “Frank, you okay?”

He shook his head and blinked a few times.

“Yeah, I’m good. May have had a few too many,” he said.

We continued drinking in silence. We sat there for almost half an hour before one of us spoke again.

“Hey, does that thing have a broken fuel gauge?” Frank asked.

I was taken aback. “What?” I asked, surprised that he’d noticed this flaw. For most of yesterday, he’d been staring straight through the windshield. I don’t think he turned towards me once.

“Never mind,” he said, chuckling slightly. “It’s just that, in the dream, I couldn’t help noticing the fuel gauge. It was going up instead of down as we hovered there.”

I realized that this comment was probably a sign that Frank had had more than enough to drink.

“Alright, Franky boy, let’s get you inside. You’re done. No, put that bottle down, come with me.” I helped him up and escorted him to his bathroom, where he slumped down against the sink. I saw an inebriated smile crawl across his face.

“Okay, think you can hold out here, buddy?” I asked, not expecting a sober response. After a few seconds of silence, I shrugged and started out the door.

“Mike,” Frank stuttered, struggling to get up off the floor.

I turned and looked at him.

“I know you can’t take me seriously right now. But I mean it. That car is nothing but trouble, you hear?” His drunk smile had faded into a look of almost sober seriousness. “It’s not just the dream… when I was in there with you, it felt… wrong. Not because of how good it was, but because… I don’t know. It was almost like it didn’t want me in it.” He then smiled once again and laughed. “Oh, Christ, I am out of it. I am so out of it tonight. So out of it.”

I left, bewildered by the sudden sincerity of his comment.


Before I turned in for the night, I decided, out of curiosity, to check the gauge on my I-Mark. I remembered it specifically having about ¼ of a tank since the last time I drove it. The needle was pointed just above the halfway mark, so I figured I’d remembered it wrong.

I was about to turn and leave when I realized Frank’s wife was strolling down the sidewalk towards me.

“Hi,” she said, lifting up her hair and letting it flow around her shoulders.

“Hi, I replied, taking in the sudden silence that had formed around us.

She turned and glanced towards the house, shaking her head.

“Still passed out?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“Yeah. That’s Frank for you.” She smiled and looked over at the Isuzu. “You know, I never really got what the whole big deal was about you two and cars in general. I don’t really get the appeal.”

I jumped at the opportunity to explain my hobby. “Well, as a kid, I grew up playing with those little Mattel model cars. I loved how cool, how brash and flashy they looked. I fell in love with the concept of the automobile, a machine that could be tailored to your every desire, and could kite you away with the slightest movement of your foot.

“As I grew up, I learned that the feeling of driving could be intoxicating. To be honest…” I realized I was rambling. “Why do you want to know now, anyway? We’ve lived next door to each other for years.”

“I don’t know, I guess I’ve never really had a conversation with just you before,” she said. “It’s just that there hasn’t really been anyone to talk to lately.”

We stared at each other in silence. An SUV rounded the bend and trundled by, snapping me out of my trance.

“Well, I’m gonna head in for today,” I said, scratching the back of my neck awkwardly.

“Me, too,” she nodded, turning around and sighing as she made her way towards the door.


I dreamed of her that night. She was leaning on my Isuzu, smiling and laughing. I wanted so badly to speak, but for some reason I couldn’t. I could only stand there in the street, watching from a distance as she reeled in laughter at some unknown joke.


I was abruptly woken up at about 4 AM by a piercingly loud noise. It took me a second to register what was happening, but after I snapped out of my drowsiness, I realized it was the sound of a car alarm. The first thought that popped into my head, of course, was that someone was trying to steal my I-Mark.

I dashed outside in my bathrobe, hoping to God that I wouldn’t come out just to find someone driving away in my car, screeching the tires.

But when I got to my car, the noise abruptly stopped. The lights weren’t flashing, and everything seemed fine. I checked the door lock, and, sure enough, it was still intact. I glanced over to Frank’s Conquest to see if it was the source of the noise. Nothing was wrong there, either.

I was about to retreat back inside when I heard muffled yelling coming from inside Frank’s home. I saw that a light was on in the upstairs window. Two silhouettes were arguing behind the curtains, which I could scarcely believe were Frank and his wife. In the years that we’d known each other, I’d never seen them fight.

Even through the shadow, I could make out her finely sculpted features. Something wasn't right. This wasn't right.

But Frank was her loving husband. It was probably just a simple disagreement.

Deciding to let sleeping dogs lie, I went back inside to make up the sleep I’d lost.


The next day, during our drinking session, I decided not to bring up what I’d seen. I instead asked him, innocently, whether his wife had said anything about my car.

“Nope,” he laughed, “I don’t think she’s into that sort of thing. She hardly even mentions my car, hell.”

I forced a laugh.

“Hey, Mike, there’s something I gotta tell you.” He suddenly changed his tone to a harsh whisper, which caught me somewhat off guard. “I had another dream.”

I didn’t want to hear it, but I let him ramble, just out of curiosity as to what nonsense he would spew out this time.

“So I was standing next to my Conquest, this time with surroundings. It wasn’t any place I’d ever seen before, though. I was in the middle of one long stretch of highway.” He gestured with his hands for emphasis. “Straight as an arrow. Couldn’t see the end of it. No other cars or even people in sight. And it was absolutely silent.

“Then I heard the sound of a car coming from behind. I turned around and saw a pair of headlights appear in the distance. The car was going at insane speeds, judging by how quickly the lights came closer. I was terrified, and tried to get in my Conquest, but it was locked. I could only stare as it neared at an impossible speed. I didn’t know what it felt to be a deer in the headlights until that moment.

“And then, just before it hit me…WHAM!” Frank suddenly slammed his fist on the seat, making me jump. “...it stopped to a dead halt. Faster than I could blink, it went from a billion miles per hour to zero. No braking, no nothing. It just… froze, as if time had stopped. I just stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. And then, when I was about to move again, the hood popped open.

“There was no engine, Mike. It was just a mass of writhing, fleshy appendages, melted around a gleaming metal core.

“I woke up drenched in sweat. Pouring, dripping from every nook and--”

“Okay, Frank, that’s enough,” I said. I was pretty disturbed by the image he’d described, and I was wondering if this was a sign that something was wrong.

“I’m just glad she wasn’t in bed with me for that experience,” he chuckled, almost halfheartedly.

“Maybe you should see a psychologist,” I suggested.

“Already have been,” he replied, taking a large swig from his beer. Suddenly, the slight smile he had was completely wiped off of his face. "Mike, I just need to see under the hood.” He looked at me with a penetrating gaze that made me even more uncomfortable.

“What?” I exclaimed, incredulous.

“I know it’s a stupid request, but I just need to see it for myself. Please, just entertain me this once.” Before I could protest, he was already walking towards my Isuzu.

I sighed and jogged over to the hood just as Frank reached it. I slipped my fingers underneath and undid the latch, lifting it up to reveal the glorious 70-horsepower 1.5-liter engine.

“There. All fine. Now, I think it’s time you went inside.” I motioned to close the hood, but in that instant, Frank’s hand shot up and clutched it tightly.

“You okay?” I asked apprehensively. There was no response. Frank just stood there, staring at the engine compartment like he could see through it.

“Okay, you look at it as long as you like,” I said, letting go of the hood. “Just make sure to close it again when you’re done, okay?” I headed back inside. Something was definitely wrong with him, but I didn’t want to intervene if it had anything to do with the arguments he’d been having with his wife.

Frank was still looking at the car when I turned the outer lights off and went to bed.


I had yet another strange dream that night.

I was back in the street, polishing the I-Mark, just like before. Frank’s Chrysler was there, too, but Frank himself was absent from the scene. The hose he’d been holding previously was now laying on the ground, spewing water into the street.

At one point I became transfixed on one particular panel on the Isuzu. I started scrubbing the one spot furiously, until I began to wear away the paint. I just kept rubbing away, until I eventually eroded through the panel itself. I expected to see the exposed chassis when I lifted the brush.

But when I removed my hand, there was no sign of any sort of framework. It was just a grey void.

And it wasn’t just the lighting playing tricks on me. It was as if someone had taken the color grey and just filled an entire shell with it.

As I peered into the hole, the rest of the car began to dissolve around the panel. The windows and doors melted away to reveal more of the endless empty space.

I began to back off, but some unknown force glided me into the spot where the driver’s seat would have been and dropped me there. There was nothing I could do.

I fell into the emptiness, screaming as the world above disappeared from view.


I woke up once again to the sound of a car alarm.

This time I was reluctant to chase after the sound. I was beginning to think I was hallucinating. But I decided to check on my car once more, simply out of curiosity.

I slowly put on my robe and walked outside once more. This time, though, the noise stopped as soon as I set foot outside my door. I made a mental note to ask Frank the next day if he’d heard the same sound as I went back up to bed.


The next morning, I knocked on Frank’s door to see if he could answer my question. When no one responded, I decided to take the I-Mark out on the road.

The first thing I noticed when I got in was that the fuel warning light was on. I still didn’t trust the fuel reading system, so I dipped the tank myself. Sure enough, the dipstick showed that the tank was essentially full.

The driving experience I had that day was one I’ll never forget. I drove through the town, taking corners at speeds I’d never done before. I merged onto the highway and let it loose, and the sheer acceleration left me speechless.

When I came home after a half-day’s worth of driving pleasure, I saw Frank’s wife sitting on my doorstep. I exited the Isuzu, locked it, and strolled up to her, worried that something was wrong.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” I asked. “Where’s Frank?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” she responded. “He left for a day trip last night. Been away the entire day.”

“Crap,” I muttered. “Listen, there’s something I have to ask you: By any chance, did you hear a car alarm go off at about 4:30 last night? And the night before?”

“Not that I remember, why?” She gazed up at me with a look in her beautiful green eyes that read: I need someone to talk to.

“Listen…” I sat down beside her. “I know you’ve been having troubles lately…”

Before I could respond, she reached over and spread her lips over mine.

Something within me ignited then, like she had turned a key connected to my soul. So many emotions raced through my mind-- passion, guilt, pity, but most of all, love.

It lasted as long as it needed to.

“I’ve always thought you were such a great kisser,” she said, smiling. “Better than Frank, anyway. Now I know.”

Deep down, I was ashamed. This was my neighbor's wife. This was encroaching upon a sacred bond. But I knew she was better off with someone who truly understood her.

I took her inside. We sat down on the couch and watched Gone in 60 Seconds, kissing every time there wasn’t an action scene. I took her up to my bed halfway through.

As strange as it may sound, we made love to the tune of exhaust notes.


I had the most wonderful dream that night.

I was in the passenger seat of my car, watching as it drove itself across an endless series of winding paths. I’ll admit that I was disappointed that I wasn’t in control, but the feeling of effortlessly gliding over the asphalt was so uplifting that I ignored the urge to order myself into the driver’s seat.

The road slowly began to dip into a long, downhill straight, and suddenly I could feel the wind rushing through my hair, and I realized that I had taken the place of the car. I was traveling on four wheels, propelling myself forward with no effort at all.

It was joyous. It was the most free I’d ever felt, even if it wasn’t in reality.


I was suddenly awakened by the sound of a blaring car alarm. I turned over to my side and realized Frank’s wife was gone. I jumped out, almost carried by the momentum of my dream. I realized in an instant that the alarm was the same I’d heard the nights before. But this time, something was different about it. Somehow, the sound felt more… tangible than before.

I came running outside in my bathrobe to find Frank’s Conquest driven onto his front lawn, half-sunken in the topsoil. I ran around to the side to see if anyone had been hurt. Maybe Frank had had too much to drink for their anniversary, and spun it onto the grass.

Nothing could have prepared me for the reality.

I walked around to the side and nearly vomited at the sight of Frank’s wife, laying on the grass with her head wedged in the passenger’s side door.

Bits of skull, flesh, and tooth lay strewn across the grass, and blood was oozing from the side skirts. From the looks of it, her head had been repeatedly smashed by the heavy metal door, until it had been crushed into nothingness. Grey matter was stuck in the tire treads, and as I turned to look behind the Conquest, I saw that it had dug into the ground with wheelspin, and splattered blood and brains on the side of my house.

I stood there briefly, gazing in disbelief. Then, I heard the distinct shattering of glass over the piercing wail of the car alarm.

I turned away from the gruesome scene to see Frank, cutting into the windshield of my Isuzu with a buzzsaw. He had already torn open most of the fabric interior, and slashed all four tires. It looked like he’d been under the car, too, judging by the layer of earth coating his back.

I didn’t care about getting hurt. I didn’t care about anything at that point. I just ran over and tackled him to the ground, tears streaming down both of our faces.

I called the cops and they took Frank away. I watched them pull his mud-coated body into the cop car, struggling to hold him back as he kicked and swore at my mangled Isuzu.


I knew there was something off about him that past week, but I’d never have thought he could resort to… that. I suppose I should have seen his comments from the days before as a warning of what he was planning. I still can’t believe to this day that I was living next door to someone who was capable of such an act.

As I testified in court during his trial, there was still a part of me that thought he could be saved. But I knew that the acts of a madman couldn’t be justified.

Of course, I admitted that I was partly at fault. If I hadn’t provoked him, maybe he wouldn’t have snapped. But I know that she deserved better. I always felt guilty that I was the one who had indirectly caused her death.

Frank was given life imprisonment on charges of first-degree murder, but he killed himself two days into his sentence. Apparently he bashed his head against the concrete wall until his skull split straight through.

I talked to Frank’s psychologist, and he said Frank hadn’t shown any signs of potential psychopathic tendencies at all during their meetings. Of course, he couldn’t give many details away, but he did mention that Frank loved to talk about cars.


I tried to salvage what I could from the Isuzu, but it was hopeless. Frank had cut straight through the wishbone with the saw, and smashed every single fluid system on the thing. The bodywork was too damaged to even consider a rebuild, so I was ultimately forced to scrap it.

I’ll never forget what a fantastic time I had in that thing. I’ve tested many other cars since, even other I-Marks, and I haven’t been able to achieve anything close to it since.

I’ve tried to forget, but I can’t.

You see, I got a letter in the mail shortly after I sent the car off. It had been written just before the trial.

Mike,

I know you’ll be looking at what I did and saying I’m a lunatic. But I did what I had to do.

You don’t understand, Mike. The night before I killed her, I had another dream.

I dreamed I was in your car.

I was driving it down the country road. It was the one from our anniversary trip to Spain. I had complete control.

And then you came by in my car. And my wife was in the passenger seat.

You were laughing. She was talking and you were smiling, holding her hand on the gear knob.

Then your car started collapsing around me. The plastics turned into organs- human organs- and it encased me in a mass of flesh and muscle. It covered my entire body, poked into me like an iron maiden. I could see through two hollow cylinders that formed around my eyes, but inside them were rows and rows of metal spikes.

All control I had was ripped from me, and I was forced to watch as it glided over to you two in my car and tore you to pieces and bloody chunks.

That fucking car. I told you it was bad news. I just didn’t know how bad it was until that night.

Mike, it fucking spoke to me. In real life, not the dream. I’m not crazy; it whispered right in my fucking ear when I was looking at it that day. It came right from under the hood, almost as if it was calling.

It told me that she was going to kill me in order to be with you.

I never told you, but we’d been growing apart for several years, and I always suspected you were involved. After that thing spoke to me, I searched through her drawer and I found a note.

There was a loaded revolver next to it.

She was planning it for our anniversary. It was three days away.

I had to do something. You understand that at least, right? I didn’t want to kill her, Mike. I’ve regretted it ever since. I should have just called the cops. But that car knew, somehow. It made me do it. I don’t know how. Hell, I don’t think it was even a car. I don’t know what it was; something residing within a car’s shell. Something supernatural.

I did you a favor by smashing it up.

Because I know one thing, and it’s that it was pure evil.

-Frank

I’ve kept that note ever since. I don’t like looking at it, but I can’t help myself. Something about it unsettles me. I suppose learning the inner workings of a lunatic does that to you. I read it over and over with some sort of unstoppable morbid curiosity, and every time I do, I think of her.

I still dream of her sometimes. I dream we’re in Spain, coasting down an endless open road in that Isuzu. Like Frank described.

And I can’t help but wake up and stare forward, just contemplating what my life would have been like if I hadn’t gotten that car. Maybe he would have acted anyway. I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever know.

Apparently, that note was withheld for fear of swaying the trial, before I testified. In any case, I doubt I would’ve argued in his favor. They searched the house, but never found the gun or note Frank was talking about. I still can't believe he would try to frame his own wife. I guess, if there's a lesson to be learned, it's that the most dangerous people are the ones you least expect.

There’s one last thing I should probably mention. On the day that I scrapped the I-Mark, I started it up, just to see if it would turn on. To give me some sort of closure, I guess, even if it was in vain.

And, even though the fuel lines had been cut and all the spark plugs had been removed and destroyed, the thing started. Not even a stutter. Just spun right up.

I shut it off immediately and turned away as it was lifted onto the truck. I decided it wasn’t worth saving if it meant having a constant reminder of what happened.

The last sight I got of that beautiful vehicle before it was hauled off was the fuel gauge, which pointed just above the F.


Written by Noctevoire
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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