I got the truck back on the exact right day, for better and for worse.

For worse, I got nothing out of the truly witless and half-ass “inspection” except a battery, a high-beam bulb, a bill for five hundred bucks, and a visible reluctance on their part to further care about an old truck at any price. A follow-up talk-only visit to the Dealership was almost as bad, except it was free, and one earthy old bitch in Service (she used the word on herself, in a public cackle, so I’m blameless) mentioned the U-Pick-It on my way out the door.

The U-Pick-It turns out to be a massive junkyard out toward Winona on the edge of the rez.

And I believe the E.O.B. had a really good point about that being the very best way of all to obtain parts for making the truck a little happier both cosmetically and maybe eventually mechanically too.

For better, I got the truck back. On the solstice. It’s all mine, it technically and marginally has a clean healthy slate, and I’m going to run it 240 miles down to the promised land for the holiday the christians prefer.

My head’s clear too. I’ve been fussing over whether this is the forever truck, or a flipper, and the clear solstice answer is: It don’t matter, Jack. The mission is clear. One way and/or another, get a bed in the bed soon, for something south of five grand and over a period measured in weeks not months.

Go forth and do the movies.

Because, you know, they got some money out there and they’re giving it away.

I’m gonna do what I want and I’m gonna get paid.

I know karate; voodoo too.
I’m gonna make myself available to you

I got some dragstrip courage
I can really drive a bed
I’m gonna change my name
To Hannibal or maybe just
Alex