"Money, its a gas...

Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash." ~Pink Floyd, Money


A single cab does the Hustle down the I-35 corridor. The driver's white-knuckled and wide-eyed. "Why won't it go? Plenty of gas... plenty of oil... what is it? Bad Gas? Oh, tires. Right. They're older than old, probably made out of the first recycled prophylactics!"

Two tires have chunks missing from the tread, yet plenty of tread left. Two new tires are ordered; two will be ordered in the near future. "Cars are expensive." She says as she hands her Visa Debit Card to the fingers marinating in grease.

"Yep." It was almost as if he knew something she didn't.

The Hustle continues despite the new shoes. It becomes more elaborate with extra juts of the chesty hood and further shimmying of the exhaust. 12 miles later, on they way home, it's had enough.

"CHECK ENGINE!" it pleads in neon yellow.

"F&^%*&%)#*^)@*$!"