<div class="floatright">(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/29/ad/fc/29adfc435de331350c06d80ea76ced43.jpg)</div>One of the things you learn when in the military, is to keep your calm. Self control. Driving down the street on top of a Humvee manning a .50 cal and not mowing down every single one of those ungratefull fucks takes a lot of it. We've all thought about it. We risk our lives or worse to free them from a tyrant in the name of our country. For Uncle Sam and freedom. Well Uncle Sam can fuck right off a cliff and freedom.... Freedom is a fucking illusion.<br/><br/>My country needed me and recruited me. They gave me a gun and shipped me off to some God forsaken sand bowl to kill a bunch of twats. ISIS, Al Qaida, Taliban... US Army... It's all the fucking same. We fight for ideals somebody else has and we're just the pawns. Replacable, worthless pawns. We fight because we are told to. Brainwashed to believe that we are fighting for the right cause and if we win, everything will be better.<br/><br/>It's all a bunch of fucking lies conjured up to trick the gullible and the simpletons. You cut the head off the beast and it will just grow back an even uglier face than before. And the funniest thing is, Americans believe they are free. Heck, our anthem even hails it. Tell you what though... Land of the free?? My fucking skinny ass. We get to chose between two fucks, both as stupid as a bin lid to represent us. We even have to register ourselves to be able to vote. Registering people. It's what Hitler forced the Jews to do in WWII. And now in order to vote, we have to register ourselves. But hey, we're the land of the free and the home of the brave.<br/><br/>Except when we're shot at. Then we run and hide. Or when there's bushfires. Then we run and hide. Or when our head of state fucks the country over. Then we just sit on our ass and twiddle our thumbs. Fucking bullshit.<br/><br/>Yes... I am fucked up. I've seen shit in those deserts that no human being should have to see. I've risked my life for a country that doesn't give a fuck about me and then I've come back to a country that cares even less. That kinda stuff fucks you up. People dying for no reason other than the illusion of freedom.<br/><br/>Somehow I've ended up in California. The least free state of all the fucking states in the US. But the climate is nice, the people are chill and the scenery is rather lovely. I suppose for a fucked up person like me, that's good enough. I've also managed to combine my two passions. Roleplaying and cars. Roleplaying because... well escapism probably. Steampunk is a big thing. Underrated and snowed in by the high fantasy fucking elves and trolls and their fancy swords and spells. I'll take a steampowered hammer anyday. So in the front of the shop people, mostly youth, can come and craft their pieces, play some tabletop games, have a bite to eat and drink and be creative otherwise.<br/><br/>In the back is the car workshop. Just as the front workshop it's fully designed in steampunk design. Wooden floors, lots of brass, copper, exposed plumbing and cogs.<br/><br/>My little paradise. My escape from reality and a way to forget about seeing my girlfriend get butchered, about my nightmares and about the little fucks my government gives about me. Then there's my other pride and joy. Bingles. I don't know why I called it that but it was the first name that got to me. I know others call it Bumblebee but honestly, that little twat has got nothing on Bingles. It's a yellow 1973 Camaro, tastefully restored to mostly original. I didn't put big wheels on it, like those clueless tv shows always do, nor did I make it louder or change the engine. Just stock. As Chevrolet intended it.<br/><div class="floatleft">(https://assets.hemmings.com/uimage/63527942-770-0@2X.jpg?rev=4)</div><br/>Today I was working on it, clearing out a bit of dust from an earlier blast through the desert when what has to be the biggest cock in the state walked in. He drove in first actually. Immediately I knew his car sounded broken. Then he made the mistake of calling for my boss and thirdly, his biggest mistake, to slap me on the ass.<br/><br/>Self control.<br/><br/>"You are talking to my boss, your car needs new sparkplugs and if you lay your scruffy fingers on me again, I will break them, work you to the floor, punch you into unconsciousness and then I'll call the police for harassment."<br/><br/>I looked at him and his girlfriend. Or fuckbuddy. Whatever. Cute couple. Surely she could do better though. But who am I to judge.<br/><br/>"So the question now really is, do you trust a woman to change your sparkplugs or not?"<br/><br/>I grabbed a towel and wiped some dirt off my hands.