After hours, in the garaged darkness of a wealthy man’s mechanical stable--among the Bentleys, Jaguars, and Mercedes Benz—sits the forgotten
grandfather of today’s sleek, non-angular generation. While the youngsters wait in arrogant anticipation of being appointed the evening conveyance
to neon-lit excess, the black Packard sleeps in unnoticed dignity, his plugs sparking while he dreams to relive nights long past, when
he was Lord of this Fleet.
Night after night, he reigned over the road, devouring the pavement underneath him in stealth of insulated opulence, as his headlights penetrated the
darkness with which he seamlessly joined. Rare was the occasion when he allowed another to overtake him in the passing lane, for he
was King of the Highway. His workings purred underneath a steady and precisely tuned rumble; a melodious machine that had never once failed in
countless days of service. His body was massive and impervious. The dignity of his black paint nearly outshone the chrome. His windows, also, were
black as the night, protecting his passengers with impenetrable deepness from the curious world outside.
These youngsters surrounding him now--most of whom are not even as old as his last layer of wax--never replace him in these gasoline
dreams.
And yet, he feels no need to compete with these hotheaded gluttons of fuel. He knows their metal is thin and nearly obsolete in manufacture, while
their interiors are sadly upholstered in names all preceded by ‘faux.’
In his elderly mechanical wisdom he knows that they have scarce hope for living beyond their brief heyday of service, and no promise of a chance to
live twice.
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The best part about this is the imagery, especially in the middle portion. you took a seemingly boring topic, one that has little emotion if any and
turned it into someone's vibrant past memory. well done.
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