open / heaven created a miracle

[exorkismos]

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[poleaxed]

frankenford is MY car
because its a FORD
yours is a chevy theyre made by ge
oh my god

[exorkismos]

yeah it’d be ironic

[poleaxed]

youre just being lazy
im giving you one more chance and then im naming it

[exorkismos]

judith

[poleaxed]

knew itd be biblical
isnt she the one who cuts off heads

[exorkismos]

that’s her

does that satisfy your superstitions

[poleaxed]

stones and glass houses father
now get over here i need an extra pair of hands

do u wanna continue to non-text? or we could skip forward to travelling together

[exorkismos]

wait

what would you have called it

lets skip to traveling ive exhausted my car knowledge for 2day

[poleaxed]

doesnt matter
you picked
finally

i can't fucken drive so you could say absolutely whatever tbh

[exorkismos]

so you had no idea either

Marcus doesn't really do vehicle maintenance, or certainly not on this scale. His truck has worked thus far out of a mix of luck and improvised patch-fixes. But he knows enough about the innards of the thing to be able to do as Joan tells him, however sniffy he gets about taking orders, and the collar works wonders when it comes to getting the best deals. He's not really supposed to wear it anymore. He doesn't like wearing it, it's stiff and uncomfortable and he sweats beneath it. Needs must, though. It's not long before Judith Frankenchevy is ready to go, looking distinctly more patchwork but also distinctly more road-worthy.

Joan's giving him a good deal. He insists on buying her a burger once the truck's fixed, partly to prove he can and partly because he's guilty about lying to her.

*

"Jesus," Marcus says, sounding a bit horrified but also a bit delighted. He's laughing as he decelerates, coming down off a long, relatively empty straight: big, chest-heaving laughs, not quite hysterical but definitely a little manic. He has to shout over the music, deep soul roaring over the noise of the engine. "Was this what you meant? About it being fun to watch me drive this? Because it's way more fun to actually drive it. And no, you ain't taking over. Jesus Christ, kid."

fingerguns, signs blood pact, etc.

[poleaxed]

She did, actually, have an idea for the name of the car, but it's embarrassing enough that she'll keep it to herself unless pressed. She opts for names that are a twist of an insult; it's always been her nature to pull down than uplift. Not a positive trait, but she's stuck with it either way. She knows what she is, and there's no changing it.

Marcus is better than her, anyway. He's an asshole, but he gets the job done. Helps put in a motor, which isn't a small thing for one or two people. He gets them enough cash that she'll be fine for a while when they hit MA, and probably be able to eat on the way there. It works out.

For now, anyway.

Seeing him lose his damn mind over his truck acting like a real truck-- much less a souped up one-- is as good as she expected. "Everybody deserves to drive with a formula one engine once in their lives. Which is what that is. I have before, so I'll just watch you decimate the local wildlife."

But she's grinning, stretching the scar on her lip. Can't help that, either.

[exorkismos]

"I ain't gonna hit anything," he protests, though to be honest he wonders if he'd even register a bump — everything feels a bit off, enough that he was irritable with it at first until he hit his stride.

"Were you serious about not telling me how you got this?"

[poleaxed]

She turns his head to give him a very flat look, expressionless save for the jaded look in her eyes and the angle of her brow. She's hunched over to the side in her seat, one leg up on the dashboard and an elbow sticking into the divider, head in her hands. The seatbelt is a loose suggestion around her hips.

It's calculated laziness; she has an image to project even now.

"So now you wanna know."

[exorkismos]

"Yeah, so, from what I remember — " Marcus makes a change of gear into semi-violent punctuation, angling a sharp look at her under raised brows. "You were taking apart my car without my say-so at the time, excuse me for having other concerns."

And, blandly, as he looks back to the road with just a suggestion of a grin: "Also thought you could be lying about how good it is."

[poleaxed]

Staring out the window, she says in a light but serious tone, "I don't lie," and then, joking, "It's a sin."

She considers the facts carefully, though. Keeping shit to yourself, that's fine under her generally inflexible moral code. "I'll tell you, but it involves me being naked for like the majority of it, and I'm just not sure that's a confession you wanna hear."

[exorkismos]

“Huh.”

Eyebrows right up. Marcus looks vaguely alarmed, as only a fifty year old not-particularly-heterosexual priest can when asked if he wants to hear stories about naked young women.

“I mean, am I gonna enjoy the story despite that?”

[poleaxed]

She rolls a shoulder. "I gave up trying to figure out what people'd enjoy about me in eighth grade. Here. Let's- here's the short version. This song you been assaulting me with."

She has been listening. Really listening-- it's impossible not to, with how loud he plays it. It's not, really, that bad, she just likes him which means she has to sink her teeth into something, to make it hers, to draw it out, to make friendship real. The difference between her liking someone and hating them isn't kindness, it's indifference, and she pays attention to every little twitch Marcus lays out.

She listens to the song.

Mama, they call her bad girl, all because she wanted to be free.

It's more of a compliment to her than she deserves, but it's good context. "So let's say, short version without extenuating circumstances and way less nudity, the song ends with 'and then the bitch stole my formula one motor in the dead of night and blocked me and my friends' numbers and was never heard from again because she was in another state by morning'."

[exorkismos]

Marcus throws his head back and laughs, happy and appreciative. He doesn’t care about Joan mocking his music: rolls his eyes as obliged, but ‘assaulted’ is a pretty good term for the experience of listening to deep soul, and he’s more than happy to bat around insults with her.

“Is that grand theft auto? Does that count? Jesus, duck, I ain’t sure I’m allowed to drive stolen goods.” But he’s grinning. He doesn’t care. Stealing, real sinful stealing, isn’t done by people like Joan jacking engines or people like him shoplifting energy drinks. Stagy and dramatic, he adds: “Can’t go back inside.”

[poleaxed]

It's the last comment that cracks her, like he's one of the British guys from the Great Escape. She cackles and curls forward in her seat a little; it's not a pretty sound. She recovers quickly, but the echo of a pleased smile is still there when she curls her hair back behind her ear and continues.

"There were extenuating circumstances. Photos that were supposed to be kept private. Rich pricks who had no business going to little drag meets with an engine like this. Workplace discrimination." She says the last bit as though it's a joke. "So stealing was kind of secondary to revenge, which is much more justifiable."

She knows it isn't, according to basically everything ever. She should have turned the other cheek. But she's only got the one left.

[exorkismos]

Yeah, turning the other cheek...Marcus glosses over that one a lot. His lip curls at the litany of justifications for the theft — angry at the engine’s former owner, not Joan.

“God loves a reversal of fortune,” he says quite seriously. “Many that are first shall be last, and the last first.” Hey, a racing pun. It’s not unintentional at all. He gives her a sly, sideways smile. “You ain’t waiting for me to assign you ten Hail Marys, right?”

[poleaxed]

She snorts dismissively. "I know you were a priest, but I just ...can't picture you doing that shit. Confessionals with you must have been the most fucking uncomfortable thing in the world."

But she's smiling, shaking her head. Her hair trails down too long, and she begins pulling it behind her head, grabbing a rubber band from her pocket to keep it back.

[exorkismos]

“Confessionals are alright cos in the box you can’t see facial expressions,” he says. “Trying to keep a straight face if I’m doing it less formally...that’s not easy.”

He’s talking crap. He’s taken plenty of confessions, but few of them in a formal confessional setting. Lots of people who thought they might die. Lots of guilty friends and family members. He takes it seriously. Maybe Joan can tell — or maybe she can’t. His voice is very light.

[poleaxed]

Joan can get the feeling something's off, but she doesn't know what. She assumes he's just pretending he wasn't as shitty a priest as he really was. That's his perogative-- you do a lot of work to become a priest, and nobody wants to feel like they're bad at something they studied up on for so long. But he was defrocked for a reason. It's not like that shit happens every day.

And she just can't see him as choosing to leave it behind. Not by how he talks about it, not by how he acts.

She shrugs. None of this is her business, anyway. Idle observation is just that.

"Well, don't worry. I don't do confessions anymore. Storytelling's different, but I wanted to spare your delicate sensibilities."

[exorkismos]

The song comes rolling to a close with no mention of stolen formula one engines. The mixtape crackles, and there's a distinct shift in recording quality and volume: the next song is much louder and a little clearer. Marcus actually winces and turns it down a little, but then his fingers start tapping the wheel along with it, a grin spreading across his face.

With the distraction, it takes him a moment for her words to sink in. When they do, he rolls his eyes, then shoots her a funny, crumpled-brow look sideways, and say, "Yeah, you got any smelling salts? Ain't good to faint while you're driving a bastard of a thing like this."

[poleaxed]

See, that's the thing, he's too obvious in his enjoyment, and that's a vulnerability. You can't be like that, someone will hurt you. She doesn't want to hurt him, but her reaction is engraved; earnest enthusiasm is dangerous and should be regarded with suspicion. It makes her anxious,as though someone is about to be slapped. She groans and rolls her eyes, slumping back in her seat.

"You're fucking torturing me with this shit," it's actually an okay song, "and you're insulting me hard fucking work? Jesus." She's kidding, mostly. "You're just lucky I couldn't transfer the CD player into this ancient thing."

Because she's a hypocrite, and has her own book of carefully managed mixes in her duffel bag.