The SkodaWorks still produces top rally cars.
...If I came anymore to my left, I’d rip off the side mirror on the truck’s wheel-well. Two options…rip off the mirror by hand and continue trying to sneak past, or rev it right up, dump the clutch and power out, hoping the tire wedged against the fence would give way, hoping for the best. Either way this was taking too long… I wound the little four cylinder up to about 7000 RPM. The hole in the muffler became quite apparent.
A large French Canadian wearing jeans and nothing else stumbled groggily into the moonlight. Waxy-white belly, shock of black beard and wild hair. It was like Black Jacque Shellac after a bad marriage and a lifetime of scotch. He planted himself, legs spread, in my path and began cursing me in French. I let the engine wind down and began to laugh. What else could I do? He wedged himself in between the truck and my car trying to get to me, I revved the engine a bit and he jumped back. I was only joking but he couldn’t see it. I laughed and shut the engine off. He scrambled back over my hood, reached in and grabbed the keys.
“Son-of-bitch, I knew you gonna try dat! Now you get outta dere.”
I was still laughing when I pointed out the reason he caught me was because I was wedged in, and couldn’t get out. He still didn’t see anything funny about it. The only thing he could do was give me back the keys so I could back the Skoda up until my door was clear.
He gave back the keys and said “Don’t you try and go out da front.” I explained that if I could ‘go out da front’ we wouldn’t be having this conversation. The dog continued to bark. I backed the car away from the truck, back across the impound yard and parked it neatly where it had been. I detached the car key from the rest and tossed it to him as I walked past, and out onto the street. Did you know bastard in French is the same in English?
A large French Canadian wearing jeans and nothing else stumbled groggily into the moonlight. Waxy-white belly, shock of black beard and wild hair. It was like Black Jacque Shellac after a bad marriage and a lifetime of scotch. He planted himself, legs spread, in my path and began cursing me in French. I let the engine wind down and began to laugh. What else could I do? He wedged himself in between the truck and my car trying to get to me, I revved the engine a bit and he jumped back. I was only joking but he couldn’t see it. I laughed and shut the engine off. He scrambled back over my hood, reached in and grabbed the keys.
“Son-of-bitch, I knew you gonna try dat! Now you get outta dere.”
I was still laughing when I pointed out the reason he caught me was because I was wedged in, and couldn’t get out. He still didn’t see anything funny about it. The only thing he could do was give me back the keys so I could back the Skoda up until my door was clear.
He gave back the keys and said “Don’t you try and go out da front.” I explained that if I could ‘go out da front’ we wouldn’t be having this conversation. The dog continued to bark. I backed the car away from the truck, back across the impound yard and parked it neatly where it had been. I detached the car key from the rest and tossed it to him as I walked past, and out onto the street. Did you know bastard in French is the same in English?
I followed the sound of the barking dog until I found a motel, woke the owner at 4am and got a room. After several phone calls, a bit of paperwork, and a money transfer, I finally secured the release of the Skoda about 12 hours later. It was by then too late to go home, so I went back to Toffino after all…
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