Ash Heap Hound (16)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (16)"
   
   Simple axiom:  Horsepower sells cars; however, Torque wins races!!!
   Yeah, I liked the Japanese stuff; moreover, always had a fascination with Godzilla, especially when he fought King Kong--didn't like the part when King Kong swung him around by the tail, it kinda got me pissed.
   Anyway, so did this kid named Dwayne.  Fancy dresser.  Rich family.  Prestige simply handed to him.  And he had an eye on my daughter, Zoe.  This wasn't good for Conner or her.
   Came to her, boasting of his new Nissan Z, giving the specs, professing:  "3.7 liter with 332 horses pulling me, and a six-speed manual for quicksilver shifting."
   Zoe blew him off, and Conner just ignored him; nevertheless, like a pest, he kept coming to my garage, keeping his creepy eye on Zoe, flashing the dollar sign, that new God, that new wine in the hearts of us Americans.  I just prayed and believed that Zoe would continue blowing him off, or better yet, humble him with her 'Cuda.  

Big Trouble In Little China: It's All In The Reflexes

Ash Heap Hound (15)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (15)"
   
   And at Mass, the threesome sat, humbled, obedient, ears hearing the celibate Priest, him keenly knowing how to energize that capability, boldly proclaim:  "Who is man to be proud of anything such as himself?  Did not the Intelligent Design of the Trinity forge you into existence?  Is not the mercy of the Son, the Author of Life?  And did not His Holy Spirit haunt King David, even as a boy?  I say--it happened, as goes, as you are here today, not among the society of Philistines."
   Upon exiting, Zoe, Max, and Conner went to the Waffle House.  There was a beetle in the leathery booth.  How God has a sense of humor, making so much of life a form of the beetle.
   Still, knowing God is Spirit, and to worship His Energy as such, the threesome were still a bit selfish, wanting to fine tune their muscle cars.  The power of torque, manipulating and causing potent rotation, something willing something into existence, and that first state, willed itself.
   How holy--the Trinity, and the muscle car.  

Ash Heap Hound (14)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (14)"
  
   I was so happy to be home with Daddy.  Yet missed the scents and smells of the junkyard.  Spent my time working on my modified 'Cuda with the monster 383 block; plus, drag-racing Conner, just to 60, and for some reason--he always won.  That's me, Zoe, lost unto weird love.
   I always counted the days to the Full Moon.  When it wanes, things end--that can mean very bad things.  When it does wax, well, things get going--that can mean sublime things.  When it's FULL, I'm an American Foxhound!!!
   So, Daddy was so lovely.  Adored Conner, especially for not lusting over me, but treating me like a lady, for I treated him like a decent human being.  Didn't want his sex.  Didn't want his mind.  Just wanted to hang, and love him in that free-fall.  
   We all would take our muscle cars to Daddy's garage and work on them.  Conner and me got jobs delivering pizza.  We'd take home the crust and stuff, feeding it to the birds outside of Daddy's suburbia.  It was nice.  It was all so very, very nice.  

Ash Heap Hound (13)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (13)"
   
   Me:  Max Barduff, yup--I knew some stuff.  We all might know some truth, but most of us are in it for ourselves.  One man drinks cause he's an alcoholic and likes to party and get dirty sex; on the contrary, one man drinks to survive, and kicks the shit out of the southern army.  God forgive us all.

* * * * 

   But I knew Zoe was a dog; specifically, an American Foxhound.  Too, I knew Conner had more baggage, that he alone carried, than was mentioned by Zoe's observations of it all.
   His family.  The tricks.  The arrogance,  No confidence.  Hell, there was no other with more confidence, for Conner was the Iceman--it slid off of him, or he was too stupid to be depressed.
   Knew too he had bad shit in the gut.  Pooped on newspaper, like a dog.  Maybe that's why Zoe liked him.  Didn't think about getting laid.  Was raped by one woman, and it got to him.  The toxic gut, people always saying:  "You so skinny, boy."
   He should have known Christ commanded to rebuke, saying:  "You got an ugly countenance; plus, your heart is like unto worm-dirt."
   He carried his cross.  Had carried it for others.  Did what The Book had asked him to do.  Nobody knew.  Just kept putting him down, driving him to the junkyard.  He never stole.  He never failed to mortify his senses if wrong himself.  Do they?   Bleeding internally for years, and still that stupid grin, as if knowing:  at the hour of death, well, he's been there a few times.  Have you?  Will you cry when God puts the gun to your head?  Or will you save your tears for a loved one?  Which is wiser?
   I got out of my trance.  The energy was always there though.  You can't kill positive energy.  And the negative energy goes home in the end, to where it belongs. 
  

Ash Heap Hound (12)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (12)"
   
   Me:  Conner McCall, well--I wasn't impressed.  Furthermore, (admitting) I don't understand the true mechanics of automobiles; moreover, would never be able to do internal block work; I am a novice, only knowing the literal specifications.  
   Yeah, Zoe's Dad was nice.  A place to stay.  A chance to make love to my crush, and to have it last until matrimony and beyond, maybe; however, Saint Paul may argue the point.  Regardless, Max and Zoe's cars didn't get the respect from my 1969 Mustang with a small block 302, only a two barrel, and merely a factory hood induction; nonetheless, I was a mercurial beast out of the hole; therefore, here's them, in my mind:

MAX:

1986 Buick Grand National (though he claimed he liked the Japanese shit).

V-6, turbocharged.

235 Horsepower.

A fiery, steroid induced motor; indeed, a true muscle car.

But . . .

ZOE:

Modified and ambiguous 'Cuda with a 383 block.

Performance Package, including:

High-Performance Drive-train.

Dual-exhaust, and non-functional hood scoop.

330 horses pulled that thing.

But . . .

   I just loved the Mustang.  Wild horses and all that shit, like me.  Whatever.  I need to focus on the relationships, and tear my compulsions away from literature and motors.

C.J. Box and BADLANDS

   
   "C.J. Box and BADLANDS"
   
   Being in a perpetual phase of moonstruck, no--not romantic love, but in a state of saddened awe for the Mother reflecting Her bleeding Son's brilliant salvation, I sauntered hunchback-style through my local grocery market dubbed PUBLIX.
   I am not concave, nor do I have curvature of the vertebrae, but a cerebral hyperactivity that hinders my posture; plus, the toxic stigma of being socially slow eternally haunts me, until my next manifestation of again, meaning my energy is forever; anyway, in that food-hunting market, I stumbled across the magazines and paperbacks, finding C.J. Box; specifically, his immortally cool novel:  BADLANDS.
   It was freaking $9.99, but I purchased it, for what is more sublime than a paperboy and a female cop from Montana?  It did NOT disappoint!!!
   The "slow" kid Kyle is sincerely heroic, outshining even William Wallace in the art of butch bravery.  And Cassie, the female cop with super-suave cool is totally solid; moreover, the literary culmination stings the heart with gladness for all of us--if we've lost loved ones, and we all have.  
   Too, the Teddy Roosevelt moments are heartfelt, feeding us spiritual strength, and a physical chance to always grow, no matter how corporeally warped we are; next, entrance into the Otherworld.
   To me--the book's metaphor is:  resilience.  I adored it.  Heck, might read it again, someday, when all is falling down around me, and I need a firecracker of hope to ignite my human sparkle.