![]() ![]() The constable’s AMC Matador slowly lumbered up, knocking over gravestones left and right (most of which were for children and pets, it seemed) and eventually slid to a stop in front of Hardigraw’s headstone. “But to drive up here I’d have to drive over all of these other tombstones,” Bladderford protested, gesturing back at the other ramshackle graves in the sandy, rocky cemetery yard.Ĭlamworth made the jerk-off motion with his hand. Do you have jumper cables? Drive up to right here,” Clamworth pointed at a spot about 20 inches from where they were standing. “It means he told me if you came by, I was to get him going again, so he could help you, because he always thought you were kind of an idiot and would need his help. “So…what does that mean?” the constable asked. Plus, because of Mack’s rigorous diet of expired canned meats and near-constant intake of ketamine, the definition of “alive” or “dead” has been pretty blurry for Mack for a few years now,” Clamworth replied. So both his accountant and doctor felt his time might be better spent dead. ![]() Legally, yes, he’s dead, but only because he made some poor financial decisions, buying all those Elio reservations. What? What are you talking about? I was at his funeral buffet/orgy two years ago!” “Oh, he’s not exactly dead dead,” Clamworth interrupted. But now he’s gone, laying dead here, and I have no way to–” And because it’s so steeped in car culture, all I can think to do is reach out to Mack, like I always did, as much as I hated it. I suppose habit? I’ve got a case, a real bear of a case, and it’s deeply car-related. “I don’t really have a good reason, if I’m honest. The stone, a slab of granite with a bas-relief of a 1959 Lloyd Alexander flying over a flaming bear, was adorned with a number of signs reading NO URINATING and DO NOT PEE ON THE GRAVES and PLEASE DO NOT URINATE HERE, all of which were getting liberally coated with rich, redolent urine the color of a Fiat 124’s front side marker lamps. Enjoy.]Ĭonstable Bladderford, guided by the loud spattering sounds of the pencil-girthed column of urine issuing from the man, approached the gravesite. When it comes to automotive-based detective/crime short stories - especially ones that feature the taillight subculture - I think you’ll find this to be among the most, um, existent. Mack Hardigraw isn’t technically the same since we’d like to cover our asses a bit, but I think if you’d like some background on these characters, those links should work well. [ Note: Welcome to The Autopian’s somewhat-regular fiction series, Mack Hardigraw! The predecessor series (well, two of them) of car mysteries can be found here and here. ![]() Whether you chose to call the ruined landscape known as Hat Trick Gorge a graveyard or junkyard really depended upon what had brought you there: Were you looking for a rusty radiator support for your ’77 Gremlin, a nearly-intact human skull, or a few yards of human-skin leather? Of the five visitors currently sweating in the desert sun on this day, two were pulling cylinder heads off an old Volkswagen 411, one was methodically tearing out all the carpet from an Eldorado, one was filling a large suitcase full of human hair - being highly selective based on criteria no one really wants to know - and one, a lanky, haunted-looking figure, was urinating lavishly and loudly against an ornate tombstone inscribed with the name Mack Hardigraw. ![]()
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