Have you ever seen a car for the very first time and thought to yourself, “Good Lord.  How’d I miss this this?  How many were ever made?  What’s the story behind this thing?”  I’m not talking about the first time you saw an AMC Gremlin.  I mean a real, honest-to-God work of art automobile.

One of those came through Fort Stockton a while back.  Now, don’t get me wrong, a lot of cars come through Fort Stockton.  And keep on going.  This one came through and stayed long enough to make quite an impression on a whole lot of folks in town.  And I didn’t even notice the car at first glance.  The guy behind the wheel was so off-putting that the car he was driving didn’t even register immediately.  The whole shirtless thing, the fact that he was sunburned to the point of almost being red, and the general scowl he was sporting made me originally think he was from Southern California, probably the Bakersfield area.

Attempting to see if I was right, I looked at the license plate.  Of course the guy didn’t have one on the front of the car, a clear violation of Texas state law that would have gotten him written up immediately, if Officer Phil had been anywhere in sight.  When I go around back, it says “Perdition”, which I can only assume is some province in Canada, or some section of Mexico, or some state north of the Mason-Dixon line that only makes you have a plate on the back.  The fact that it only had three digits, “666”, I chalked up to the fact that it was obviously a vintage car and he’d probably possessed the plate for quite a while.

The little convertible was painted in the prettiest shade of Hellfire Red I think I’d ever seen.  Whoever had done the work had obviously gone through untold anguish and suffering to make sure it was perfect.  I noted how much of a torment it must be just to keep the thing clean.  Regardless, the car cast a bit of a spell on me, not going to lie.  I found myself following it around, just to try to get a good view from every angle.

Saturday night, I get in the Edsel Bermuda and follow him over to the Lucky Lady Lounge.  He parks the thing right out front, not even giving a thought to it getting stolen, much less scratched.  He goes inside like he owns the place and walks right up to the bar, all red and shirtless, and obviously horny.  Orders a Brimstone Kiss: 2 ounces of pepper vodka, one ounce of cinnamon schnapps, and two ounces of Alize Red Passion.  Hank, behind the bar, doesn’t get a call for many of those, but the guy walked him through it.  The stranger tossed down a big tip and promised more to come.  The fact that it was in BitCoin thoroughly confused Hank.

He starts walking around the joint, which is not as easy as it sounds seeing he’s got these big wings hanging off his back that keep bumping into the tables, not to mention his tail tripping people on the dance floor.

He walks over and sits down across the table from Hidalgo Zapata, an attorney here in town.  No idea just how the stranger knew Zapata was an attorney, but he seemed to have a sixth sense, like they had a common bond.  “I have a proposition for you,” the stranger said as he stared into Zapata’s eyes.

“Is it just me, or is it getting hotter than Hades in here? Zapata asked.

“Concentrate,” the stranger snapped back.  “A proposition . . . “

“Yeah, yeah,” Zapata said.  “Go ahead.”

“You can win every case you take to trial from this point on.  Your clients will love you, every opposing attorney will fear you.  Judges will stand in awe of you.  You will make embarrassing sums of money, unmatched anywhere in Fort Stockton,” the stranger said.  “In return, all I want is your soul, the soul of your wife, and the souls of your children.  I will also require the soul of your parents, your grandchildren, your friends, and all of your law partners.”

Zapata looked back at him.  “So what’s the catch?”

The stranger sealed the deal and left, going back out to the Hellfire Red convertible, getting in and cranking up the Firepower V8 and blasting over to the Naughty Pine Motel where he apparently had a full evening’s worth of work, what with it being Prom Night, and all.  Ned Nustleberry, the front desk clerk, was duly impressed with the stranger’s car, as well as his American Express Black Card. When Ned called the number on the back for verification, 1-800-LUCIFER, they said he had no limit, “Give him whatever he wants.”

Next morning, the stranger and his Hellfire Red Chrysler round the corner at the Second Baptist Church of Fort Stockton on two wheels, spin three times in the gravel parking lot, and slides right into the handicapped parking spot just outside the front entrance to the church, between Mavis Wharton’s Grand Marquis and Ottis Gimley’s Buick Electra 225, less than an inch to spare on either side.  I’m wondering how he’s going to even open the door to get out, but I swear to God, he levitates out the top of the cockpit, lands on the steps of the church, and walks in like nobody’s business.

Brother Bob was in the middle of one of his better sermons on the sins of the flesh, when the stranger walks right in the back door in a cloud of smoke.  I thought it was a little over-the-top.  But the congregation turned, took one look, and began screaming and running for the exits.  Even Brother Bob, after grabbing the collection plates,  headed towards the choir room and out the back door behind the baptistry.  The church is vacant save for the stranger in the back and one old guy in the front pew.

Slowly, the stranger made his way to the front of the church and stared at the old man.  The stranger loomed over the old man and growled ” Do you realize who I am?”

“Sure do.” the little old man replied, chuckling slightly to himself.

“Do you know I can kill you with a thought?”

“Sure do.”

“Do you realize I can mangle your body with a touch?”

“Sure do.”

“Do you realize I can carry you off to Hell for eternity?”

“Sure do.”

“Then why aren’t you scared of me?” The stranger asked quietly.

“Been married to your sister for 48 yrs.”

The stranger laughed like he’d just seen Blazing Saddles for the very first time, turned around and got back in the Chrysler. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon driving the Chrysler around Fort Stockton.  He stopped by the cable office and told them they were doing a fine job with the Customs Service Desk. “Keep up the work,” he told them all, knowing the whole department was about to be outsourced to India..  He pulled into The Scuttlebutt, the strip club here in town, for a quick lap dance.  He drove by the Piggly Wiggly and gave a big thumbs-up to Mrs. Tuttlebum who left her shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot rather than taking it to the cart coral twelve feet away.  He left the Chrysler running out front while he stopped inside to find Chad. “You need to put in more of those self-check out scanners. Those are the best.”

Finally, he pulled into the Grounds for Divorce for a cuppa Folgers.  “Don’t put it in one of those Captain My Captain mugs,” he told Lucinda.  “Those things make me nervous.”

“I wasn’t even going to let you in,” Lucinda shot back.  “I just wanted to see what kind of shoes you wore.”  She looked down.  “Sure enough, they’re Prada.”

Shortly after, Mayor Goodman walked into the cafe and saw the stranger over in the corner booth.  “Well I’ll be damned!”  They both broke out laughing like a couple lunatics and hugged like old friends.  They spent the whole rest of the afternoon in the corner booth exchanging ideas, jotting down notes, congratulating one other for each other’s accomplishments.  Lucinda later said the whole meeting looked like “an ordeal of wretchedness.”

I’m not going to argue with Lucinda; she’s usually a darn good judge of character, or lack of it.  But the stranger drove a pretty damn fine ride, not gonna lie.  Was it a little bit ‘pinched’ up front in the grill area?  Maybe so.  Was I surprised he hadn’t put a Chevy 350 V8 under the hood? Yeah, of course I was. Otherwise, it was one devil of an automobile.  The interior looks like it would be cool and comfortable; even when traveling through whatever nether regions you found yourself in.

Don’t know what kind of a problem you’d have getting parts for it if you found yourself trapped in the infernal inferno, but I suspect you’d have plenty of time on your hands to wait.  Overall, I give it four and a half pitchforks.

(Special thanks to Carunch for his suggestion regarding today’s featured automobile.)