The Road Kill Tour was about finding myself. Traveling alone, in the desert, without a thought of a plan, seemed a good plan.
It was man and the machine. She was only ten years old, me, fifty plus and feeling every fucking year of it.
She had been ridden hard all her life. Her owner, a government official, a little fury dog owner, meaning she was single, and her clothes covered in moth balls, never went over 80 kilometres in her Hyundai, and that was if she took it out on the open road. She used it mostly for grocery shopping and going to work, which was just around the corner. Augusta, on the southern most tip of Western Australia, was a tiny town, clean, the perfect place for a Hyunai i35 to retire, living in a life of relative luxury. Never been over revved. Never been expected to driver any longer than five minutes. In short, she was a well care beast. And she’d be needing a good work out. The Road Kill Tour was just the trick that would knock this little pampered whore into shape.
I always find the Indians decent in their own way. Babi Ganesh hung behind his desk.
This wasn’t the first time I had entered Raj’s office. I had bought another car off him. It got stolen. But this car was a big step up. ‘Take care of it and it will take care of you,’ he said, as he counted the ten thousand dollars cash.
I had no idea how to operate it.It had a push start button. But it looked good. Perfect for sleeping in, I thought, as I drove the car out of the parking lot.
I wasn’t sure if I was being ripped off.
I slept across the road in the car park.
I had a key car to the gym.
A place to work out, shower, charge up phones. And a reasonably safe place to park. But even I could feel the unwelcome stares. Just get on with your work out, cunts. This Is public parking owned by the council.
Give a down and out bum a break, for crying out loud.
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