Life Under A Car

Nikki has met her soulmate and it is a 1992 Chevrolet Caprice. She knows it fits her perfectly because if it was any lower, she’d die. It had been a stupid thing to sleep in a parking lot and a downright miraculous thing to awaken in said parking lot under said car without a sudden concussion. No, her fist took the brunt of the damage as it accidentally jabbed solid Detroit steel. All and all she is safe but virtually pinned.

The only option she can see is to be bit by a radioactive spider or gain the ability to teleport. She’s tried grabbing at random objects in hope of doing like Keanu Reeves did in Speed. Sadly though, she does not have the upper body strength necessary to hug tightly to the transmission, nor the screwdriver to stab it for extra hold. She only has her petite body in need of tone and her voice, her loud shrill voice.

“Help!”

“Que?”

“Help!”

“Oh si, si.”

Luckily, I’m stuck under a damn car is not a message that has to be translated, it’s simply understood as the default problem to be fixed if you are obviously stuck under a damn car. Manuel ever the helpful human, grabs the petite ginger woman by the arms and pulls cautiously until Nikki is free. He hopes that this will one day come back to him and so does Nikki although she knows she can’t repay him.

“Gracias.”

With that Nikki uses her entire Spanish vocabulary. Manuel smiles and nods and turns back towards work as he is ten minutes from unemployment. Barefoot and dirty, Nikki sits next to the car apparently stoned to any passerby. For thirty minute,s the car was her prison and her home. She scorned the former but mourns the latter.

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