“Well, why’d you park there?” asks Tully.
Before you can reply that the parking spot was clearly marked as Customer Parking for Estimates, Tully continues, “Do you expect me to check out your car in the parking lot? Bring it into the bay, Christ!”
You decide to keep your silence. You’ve heard good things about Tully and don’t wish to anger him. Angering Tully, you’ve been told, might be a grave mistake.
A soft yellow glow rises from under Tully’s shirt, as if he has some sort of colored light bulb under his dark blue coveralls. You don’t ask about it – you don’t want to know.
“What seems to be the problem?” Tully asks as you step out of your car onto the shop bay floor.
“It’s weird,” you explain, “whatever I tell the car to do, it does the opposite.”
Tully stares at you silently, as if waiting for you to finish your explanation.
“It’s like this: when you asked me to drive it in here, I was pressing the brake when I moved forward, then I hit the gas to stop it.”
Tully claws pensively at his white beard. Without a word, he walks off the shop floor into the office. After only a few moments, he reappears carrying a wicker basket, dressed in a floral jumper and green riding cloak, his head adorned with a sloppy ginger wig in a pigtail style.
“Oh my!” Tully says loudly, as if giving a stage performance. “Grandmother sure was insistent I get every one of these delicate eggs to market! Sounds like if we don’t turn a profit this month we may lose the farm,” he continues, skipping merrily in front of your car. “What ever would I do if I don’t make it to the town square with these eggs intact?”
Without warning, your car surges forward, firmly tapping Tully and sending him sprawling onto the oily concrete shop floor. The basket he’s holding tips over, but instead of eggs a couple dozen ping pong balls spill messily onto the ground. He rights himself and stands up, taking off his ridiculous ensemble and stripping down once again to his mechanic’s jumpsuit.
He brushes off his knees and looks you dead in the eye without an ounce of humor. “Your vehicle’s been possessed by a minor trickster god, son, that’s plain as day. The fee’ll be considerable what with parts, dead chickens, herbs, bones, frog’s eyes, ambient music, and labor.”
“When can you start?” you ask, too bewildered to protest.
“After the solstice, a’course. Don’t want to anger the pantheon when we only got one coyote on our tails, do we boy?” he yells, letting out a hearty laugh.
You don’t get it.