The Necroparticon
or Book of Dead Parts
Wherein is Spoken of Parts No Longer Working,
Even of Parts whose Inventory is No More Known of Men,
and Motors Whose Pistons are Seized,
Which Yet Runneth Still.
Even of Parts whose Inventory is No More Known of Men,
and Motors Whose Pistons are Seized,
Which Yet Runneth Still.
The Stranger approached me in a salvage yard outside Detroit,
where I sought a wiper motor for a '69 Montclair. His weak grip and shuffling gait,
the odd angle at which he carried his toolbox and the unnatural sheen of his lapel all marked him as a dabbler in the Dark
Mechanics. His breath stank of brake fluid, and his notched fingers fiddled absently with a broken tire gauge he kept in the pocket of his stained monkeysuit.
I declined his offer of a transaction involving worn brake shoes, and when he saw I was no weekend spark plug twiddler, he disgorged his tale.
It was an old story, full of failed parts and broken warranties. Now he spent an eternity among the briar-choked lanes of salvage yards,
wandering like the apparition of some soul sent to perdition in a flaming ball of broken glass and twisted, blackened steel.
"I'm looking for an upper control arm for a '61 Fireflite." he wheezed, glancing furtively away and twitching slightly.
"Impossible!" I gasped, "DeSoto discontinued the Fireflite after '59! By '61 DeSoto was just a nameplate on a Dodge chassis!"
"I'll pay." He replied, "I have a large NOS supply of retreaded truck tires..."
His voice trailed away, and a few tiny crystals of broken safety glass tumbled from his cuff to fall among the dusty thistles. I knew him then for a damned soul...
"I'm looking for an upper control arm for a '61 Fireflite." he wheezed, glancing furtively away and twitching slightly.
"Impossible!" I gasped, "DeSoto discontinued the Fireflite after '59! By '61 DeSoto was just a nameplate on a Dodge chassis!"
"I'll pay." He replied, "I have a large NOS supply of retreaded truck tires..."
His voice trailed away, and a few tiny crystals of broken safety glass tumbled from his cuff to fall among the dusty thistles. I knew him then for a damned soul...
™