05 December 2005

Fire truck. Disease. Mechanics.

I was sitting on the curb. A fire engine pulled up as close as it could. I woke up and remembered "fire engine".

Some kind of disease. Mangled corpses everywhere. The disease caused flesh and bone to rot off, so everyone who contracted it looked like gangrenous zombies. I found an upper-class stronghold - all of the people, however, had contracted the disease, but a non-fatal strain. They were making the rot fashionable.

I had a truck and drove it to a tire shop out in the boonies. The shop had a gravel parking, and all the mechanics were inside, teenagers or in their twenties, with their girlfriends or wives. The shop owner was older. The front right and rear left were flat, so said I needed to get those replaced. I waited in the shop. After a while, the owner came back and told me my car was ready. It would cost $540. $540! I was outraged, said I couldn't pay it if I wanted to. The owner said, either pay it, or we'll have to scrap your car. The other mechanics became hostile. I decided to magic things up. I made the other mechanics hear the voice of the owner telling them to all go grab some dinner - once they had left, I made an illusion of a police officer outside. I made the owner retract his statement, said he'd charge me $100, plus he'd refinish the car. He made the old car a new racey purple and white body, redid the interior to be purple velour couches for the rear seats, etc. We became amiable over the course of the repairs.

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