J. W. Whizzer

Owner of Whizzers

Isaiah waited on the side of the state road in his Lexus. Nothing electrical worked, including the windows. Midday sun heated the interior of the car, and he swung open his door, for fresh air.

 A chicken hawk high overhead screeched, and a rodent scuttled from a patch of roadside Johnson grass. Isaiah shuddered when the big bird swooped down, impaled the four-legged creature in its claws, and lifted it into the sky.

 A flash of brightness from an approaching vehicle down the road caught his eye. He shielded his eyes with a hand, and watched a plume of billowing white smoke announce the imminent arrival of Whizzer’s Roadside Service.  

 The big truck eased in behind Isaiah’s Lexus, stopped, and an emergency light bar on the roof of the truck’s cab flashed to life. A white-haired driver with thick glasses eased his big frame to the ground. He brushed at his busy hair with his left hand, and extended his right as he headed toward Isaiah.

 “Howdy son. Guess you spoke with my missus a while ago. I’m J. W. Whizzer and this feller coming our way is my helper, Misfire. Shot hisself in the foot years ago; got a bad limp as a result.”

 A young man in jeans, cowboy boots, and an orange tee-shirt reached around Whizzer. “How do. I’m Misfire.”

 “C’mon boy, let’s see if we can get this gentleman on his way. Come over here and open up the hood. We’ll take a look.”

 “Sure thing, J. W,. but that’s the trunk of the car. The hood’s on the other end.”

 “See what I been tellin’ you Misfire? It’s these blasted new glasses. I gotta go back and get ‘em re-ground or something.”

Note: The above is from one of my works in progress.

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