Meth Is My Chauffer

The Cougar has been sitting out front of the house for months. Replacing the front end sway bar is no big deal. I can do that job myself. Shock towers are another story though, and that is going to require some creative welding work. There's a pretty good frame shop downtown that does stuff like that and they've quoted me six hundred dollars to do the fix. That's based on my description of the damage. They haven't seen the car yet so the cost could go up significantly, they said if it's worse off than we figure.

I still had a serious issue sorting out how I was going to commute to work everyday. I got a few lifts in and out of the factory from my pal Dave, but he wasn't going to be able to help me out daily for weeks at a time, or months indefinitely until I managed to get the car fixed. Too much of an imposition on him as far as I was concerned. That was when the strangest thing happened at work. Meth volunteered to help me out. Meth knows I hate him because of the bad shit he does at work all the time. We brawl occassionally, and he probably knows by now that I tried to rat him out for wasting microcircuits. So why in the hell would he turn around and come to my assistance? It didn't make any sense, but because I didn't have any other choice I went with it. He's been chauffering me back and forth from work for weeks.

Meth is an unsafe driver. He chain smokes cigarettes with all the windows in his car rolled up no matter how hot inside it is, and only listens to Mettallica. It's loud as hell. Some afternoons he has his six year old son in the back seat yelling and hollering at us. His car is filthy inside with tons of cigarette remnants stubbed out and overflowing in the ashtrays. Trash of various kinds fills the floorboards so you can barely see any carpet. It reeks of stale smoke. I hate it.