While Tully was always honest and straightforward with you and offered a reasonable price on quality car care, you’ve decided to shop around for your transmission problems because you are a vacuous shithead.
After just two days of your fully-loaded ’02 Chevy Aveo factory irregular value package being in the shop, Chip’s Auto Doers (“We’ll Do Stuff to Your Car!”) calls and says they’re done with your car. While you have Chip on the phone, you ask if they can come pick you up and bring you to the shop. Chip makes a fart noise into the phone and hangs up.
A three-hour walk later, you pass through the door into the shop’s reception area. A small bell jingles above your head, shaking Chip, asleep reclined in an office chair behind the front desk, awake.
Chip rubs his eyes as he stands. He stares at you from across the counter. When you fail to say anything, he silently raises his hands, palms up, to each side of his head. What? his gesture demands.
“Umm…you called and said you were done with my car?” you explain.
Chip eyes you suspiciously. “What?”
Before you can finish repeating yourself, Chip cuts you off.
“Are you a fucking cop?” he shouts. He pulls a sawed-off shotgun from under the counter, grabs your by your shirt collar, and pressed two twelve-gauge barrels flush against your forehead.
“What?” you ask, confused and terrified. “No! I’m a holistic high school guidance counselor! Please don’t kill me!”
“Oh, good,” Chip says, and breathes a sigh of relief. He does not release you from his grip or take the gun away from your forehead. “What did you want?”
“My…” you stumble over your words, your eyes darting back and forth between Chip’s wild brown eyes and the gun digging into your forehead.
Chip catches on. “Oh, heh heh,” he chuckles, taking the shooter away from your noggin and placing it back under the counter.
You compose yourself and continue. “My car.”
A spark of recognition appears on Chip’s face. “Right!” He snaps his fingers and points a finger-gun at you. “The piece of shit!”
You open your mouth to spew an ill-advised indignant rebuttal, but quickly realize he’s right. “Yeah,” you sigh.
Chip walks into the shop and motions for you to follow him.
Stepping into the shop area, you see your car in a bay, a pile of gears and other transmission parts around it. It certainly doesn’t look ready.
Chip steps to your car and fumbles around inside. For a moment you think he’s fumbling with the parking brake.
“Look, guy, you got a real winner here. Everything was shit inside it. Came that way, I’m sure, but it appears years of fucky driving have made it even worse.”
“Hey, now wa-“
Chip raises a hand to silence you, shaking his head slowly. “Anyway, we’re done.”
You look around at the parts that litter the ground around the car, then back up at Chip, who is now standing in front of the hood. “What are you talking about? My transmission and half the engine are on the ground. It can’t possibly be fixed!”
“Guy, guy,” Chip scolds, “I didn’t say anything about it being fixed.” He lifts a single foot onto the hood and gives an effortless push to your car. As it rolls out of the shop, down the incline and into traffic, Chip smiles “I said we were done with it.”