As he pulled up to KFC for the fourth time in the last six days, he began to realise that no, everything was not okay, things would not be okay, and that they likely hadn’t been okay for some time. But the fried chicken lent him strength... of a sort. He slotted back into first and trolled into the drive through.
The car was begging for parts. Four hundred thousand kilometers hadn’t been kind, but hell, it was the cheapest one on the market at the time. Fifty-fifty weight distribution ain’t much to save a man’s laptimes from blown shocks and rotted bushings. The swaybars and coilovers were sitting in boxes, ready to go - sitting on the floor of his now ex-girlfriend’s apartment.
A sofabed might be a prize to a drunk reveller who unexpectedly finds their lodgings in a lounge room, but it’s no way to live. This sports car was now the dailyest of dailies, acting as much as a storage locker as it was a performance vehicle. Empty cans cluttered the footwell while the numbers from the last race meeting peeled like the twenty-seven year old paint in the sun.
Another day, another burger. The car would have to wait.