Knackered Has Nerves of Tinfoil with Benzos

   Hey there, Knackered here.  The power wagons of teen Knackered’s youth hailed throaty pipes and rode with their bellies nearly scraping the ground. The only vehicles sporting diesel engines were tractors and bulldozers which never hit the road.

  Sadly, the gas powered low rider ‘409’ has gone the way of 25 cent gas and Chubby Checkers and the Twist.  Hail the arrival of its contemporary counterpart, the ‘high riding, urban assault vehicle;’ the bane of Knackered’s existence and the ultimate assault on his aging senses.

  Recent days have seen the Knackered nerves on high alert.  Most everything serves to ramp up his startle response and give him the heebee jeebies.  It is not a comfortable sensation.

   With the addition of this new nemesis, he is wavering on the balance of the sensory insanity.  Arriving in the form of pickup trucks, they prowl the neighborhood landscape, somehow targeting fragile souls.  Knackered seems to be one of their favorite victims.

    With wheels as tall as a full grown human, they sport chrome pipes that create continual vibrations cumulating in a sonic boom.  Armed with enough chrome to magnify the sun’s rays to dangerous levels, they assail both eye and ear. Metallic clear coats of polish adorn the sides.  Chrome running boards further complete the package.  Knackered supposes their engines to be the size of his refrigerator.

    Though he doubts they ever leave the pavement, they come equipped with those winch thingies that could pull down any foe.  Trees, plants, dirt clods do not stand a chance.  In instances requiring it Knackered imagines they could go over, around or through any obstacle.  Window decals enhance the formidability of the driver, labelling him/her as ‘bowhunter!’, ‘badass!’, or ‘wicked wench!’.  Knackered wonders about their credibility, but is too much of a weenie to flag them down and ask.

    He has seen people driving these things, but has never seen any individual mount or exit.  He wonders if it can actually be done.  Perhaps it’s achieved by way of texting a spouse or friend to render a step ladder upon their arrival?  But how could they run the errands, pick up the dry cleaning or shop the groceries?  Surely their owners must do these sorts of things. 

   For now, they’re quite content to scare the daylights out of Knackered. This seems best achieved by pulling up to the curb and baring their grills as they accelerate, causing him to stop, drop and cover while he staggers off the sidewalk.  He is not a vengeful soul, and will live to walk another day.  Surely they and their owners will run out of gas at some point.  Of course they will.