Herbert was a church car. A simple car with a happy elderly owner who took good care of him. Treated him well. A car who the owner's husband surprised the owner with, brand new off the showroom floor. And manual, too. And boy the owner loved him. And when the kids decided to take the keys away, Herbert sat for a while and didn't do much. But that was fine. Herbert knew that he had done his best to take care of his owner. Always starting and being there.

And then one day people showed up. Strange people. Not like Herbert's elderly owner at all. It turns out his owner's kids listed him for sale. And now strange flatbill wearing axe smelling-of plugged ear weirdos were taking him away while crooning to one another about 'How clean is this shit yo, what a find!" 'Doriftooooo' and something about "Cutting his springs down". Herbert didn't like that much. But he was a naive car, and had been always loved and doted on and taken care of with so much pride.

'What could possibly go wrong? Even though "Drift Missile" doesn't sound very churchlike.' Herbert asked himself one last time, musing idly before his new owner took the keys.


Life went downhill from there, for Herbert.

The exact moment when Herbert's will to live was broken. Like a blue light Guantanamo Special. Hydrophobic and fearful of the light of day.

And at the end of it, he was used up and washed out and battered. No fitting end for a good clean car. No end at all. For Herbert would never die. Being sold again and again like slave ship fodder with a little less soul each time. A soul whose torture would be cumulative like asbestos, and reductive like cancer, but never blessedly fatal.


A moment of silence for Herbert, whoever he is and wherever he is.