Chop Shop by Yves Jaques

The fumes are thick today. I always like the blowzy feeling you get, the spirits evaping off a freshly sprayed car. This one's a stock early ninety's Vette. Was bronze, now it's red. Got brought in last night. Somebody woke up sad today. Off to work, and hey! Car's gone.

Yeah, we're working at the chop shop. We've been working all day when I see Toady take a look through the eye of a spanner. He says, "Let's go. Let's go. Let's go."

His glass eye framed by the wrench looks all wet. It makes me think about frozen eyeballs and the story my mom used to tell about how they'd freeze frog eyeballs and use them as marbles, that's how poor she was when she was a kid.

Toady says, "Let's go take a joy joy ride ride. See what we can find. See what we can find by the side of the road." And the spanner's still pressed hard up against the socket, pushing his eye into the wrench's mouth. He's a weird fucker, that Toady. But he's done right by me.

So we roll out of the yard and onto the state route in a Benzo, mostly chopped. It's already been painted another color and newly licensed. Grind down and re-tool the VIN's on the engine and chassis and it'll be ready for a buyer. Some asshole with a wad who doesn't need financing.

Toady likes it here just off SR-99. It's anonymous and cheap; convenient for the rustlers that haul the cars in, convenient for the buyers that haul them back out. And it's close to Toady's favorites too.