Voltaic Junkyard--Boss 302

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Boss 302"
   
   Sheila didn't have time to poorly ponder her brother's trepidation concerning the stalking--screw his accusers, for look at all the horseshit they dropped on the range.  So, after curing the manor, for the junkyard had a circular perimeter, meaning a grassy barrier, before the red-painted fencing; next, all the automobile industry that had been broken and forgotten, and Sheila was the physician, healing her mechanical patients with TLC, now:  working on a 1969 Boss 302, jury-rigging the intake over the carb, making sure the upgraded four-barrel sucked in more of the race in front of her.
   She didn't go for the bling-like jazz of white letter tires though.  A bit of humility makes muscle even more chiseled.  Sheila wiped the grease off her forehead, put the wrench down, and there was a bowl of Kava Kava next to her, and as they do in Rarotonga sometimes, she imbibed the smooth relax, and felt the purest part of the Pacific offer a kiss-like breeze of polished peace.