Murilee picked his latest Junkyard Find, a 1982 Cadillac Cimarron, specifically because he thought it had a Crabspirits tale in it somewhere. Crabspirits didn’t disappoint.
Terrance lived by his own terms.
Terrance walked down the steps out to the street. He stretched a bit, and took in the sights of another beautiful day in Jingletown. Beautiful, if not, scorchingly hot. He fished his keychain with it’s accompanying lanyard out of his pocket. Fingers easily felt, and found the round GM door key as if second-nature. Terrance unlocked the 1982 Cadillac Cimarron, and pulled the chrome handle to gain access in a swift motion. He let the door swing open on its own accord, so as to minimize the transfer of searing heat to his hand. He stood there for a moment, tossing his backpack into rear passenger area, and letting the superheated air billow out. When the time was right, he slid himself into the pleather-lined oven. His buttocks and back began to cook quickly through his basketball jersey, and shorts. “Hoh hoh hoaaaa. Damn.” Terrance leaned across to the passenger side to wind down the mechanical window. It was a mistake. His supporting forearm broiled on the seat before he could get a singular revolution out of the crank. “DAMN!” Terrance exited the Cimarron, and proceeded to open all the doors and windows.
With the venting process completed, Terrance climbed in again, and shut the door. It shut with a metallic click. It was a noise reminiscent of a great number of other GM models over the years, the automotive equivalent of the Wilhelm Scream. The 1.8 was fired up, and the shifter pulled into drive. Terrance and his Cimarron were no stranger to ill remarks.