“Yeah”, he thought to himself, a thank you note, at least she could have done was write me a fucking thank you note. Frankie’s oil and gas tarnished hand was wrapped around a lukewarm Coors Light as he looked through the piled up mail from days past. A battered Con Ed blue and white envelope begged to be opened. Frankie resisted though, as he had for days, for fear of ruining his primary grudge.

Frankie thought about the day his monotonous existence had been stirred up.

Frankie recalled the thick and salty August day he heard a throaty rumble of that which could not be mistaken for any other, and that which he could hear from miles away. The sound roared through his bones as it engulfed his poison perfumed garage filled with red and silver Snap-On tool chests, white trash nasty girl NASCAR calendars and a collection of neon beer signs he had been lucky enough to score when Bobby Smirnoff’s bar finally gave into the pressure of Starbucks. Frankie thought about Starbucks for a second, how baffled he was when he realized he paid three bucks for a cup of brew that had no booze in it.

The cool, low invigorating reverberation got closer and closer as it begged to be eye fucked by anyone who would look, but Frankie didn’t need to see it, he knew what it was. The sound took him to a place that could only be compared to how people feel when they are captivated by ludicrous art or speed metal.

A Mustang GT, with a 302 engine slowly pulled into Frankie’s garage where, in his mind it had meant to be since the day it was shipped from Ford Motor Company in Detroit, Michigan. Of course it was a “95, make no mistake, and it was a 5 liter engine, the last year they made the 5 liter engine. It was stock cherry red, silver rims and just a slight glaze of the heavy summer air that had also plagued his “Farrell”s” T-shirt with pit stains and the lingering tang of Right Guard Sport and Freon. Frankie could see the curves of a woman wrapped in an extreme shade of a pink valor gym suit, a white Ginny tee, and pink tinted gold rimmed glasses. Her hair was dark and teased, wavy and voluminous with two blond streaks evenly placed on both sides of her middle part that encased her eyes. She sported a big-ass Louis Vuitton bag, which Frankie had been schooled on several years before thanks to the money grubbing whore of an ex-wife, that thought who the fuck she was.