The walking had gotten on Ellie’s last nerve. “If we do not get WHEELS, and NOW,” she bellowed, “we might as well be the Getaway WALKERS, the Getaway TRUDGERS, the Getaway SLOGGERS. I can’t stand the frickin’ humiliation!!”
As they crested the hill in depressed silence, the magnificent beast revealed itself. Where most saw a rusted-out, crap station wagon surrounded by trash and weeds, sporting a canoe no one had even bothered to remove, Ellie saw a rusted-out, totally fixable crap station wagon surrounded by trash and weeds whose canoe she removed with one deft swipe of her beefy left pinky.
“Bobby, TIRES!” she hollered, and the strapping singer dropped to his knees and began to do what he did best; muffled, rubbery strains of “Wrecking Ball” joined the sound of the wind across the ground as he sang each tire back up to 35 psi.
Ken’s fingers, powerful and lithe from replacing so many thick strings on his thrasher bass, were already hard at work un-Kinking rolls of baling wire into long, smooth strands to be used later for securing the fender, doors and Sheila, whose hyperactive cavorting had been giving everyone headaches.
Ellie had by this time bitten the rusty barrel into neat, square pieces to be used as metal patches, but alas, no welding torch. “No WAIT, this’ll be the BEST,” yelled Steve, and grabbed his deadly cello-poon, the tip of which had been arcing like a high-wire ever since he put in the wrong batteries at the last gig. “Alohamora!!” he screamed, and a jagged, purple bolt of energy shot into the delapidated wagon, fusing the gas cap shut. “SHIT!!” Steve collapsed, hands clasped over a mysterious, bleeding “V” on his forehead; the Getaways would later debate vigorously as to whether it stood for “voltage” or “Voldemort.” ‘
Gail was no fool. She knew her mates would spend at least three full hours in such anarchical chaos before getting anything done; the perfect amount of time for her to invent a new fuel from wood distillate and carbonized sagebrush.
The cello-poon was humming pleasantly, with soothing, sympathetic fifths emanating from the wagon’s tailpipe and Bob’s recently-capped front tooth. Oddly calmed, the Getaways put the last finishing touches on the now-gleaming Plymouth, and held their breath as Ellie inserted the key…
The beast roared to life, and the Getaway Drivers climbed aboard in silent, awed reverence of their own capabilities.
