<div class="floatright">(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/45/fc/78/45fc7896a65333614db7f2bb84ae9dcf.jpg)</div>"Some simple maintenance yes."<br/><br/>Of course I had an idea what the problem was. The car sounded rough as hell. As if it was being choked and then not allowed to breath again fully. Alarm bells rang in my head. This guy owns one of the rarest and most sought after muscle cars in the world, appreciates the originality of my Camaro but has no idea how to maintain his own car. Then there is the sickening romantic stuff with his girlfriend. The kissing, the sweet talk. Fucking disgusting.<br/><br/>In my mind he goes home at the end of the day, dropping the girl off at her parents, bringing the Mustang back to it's real owner and and he drives home in some crappy Honda Civic. Just be yourself. Amy's wisdom. Fuck it.<br/><br/>There was something about these two people though. Probably another skill picked up in the desert. Intuition. Or whatever. He is goodlooking. VERY goodlooking and even though I don't like it, the man has some serious swagger. The woman is... probably in control of him. But he might give her the impression that she is. Maybe he buys her stuff to keep her happy. But then again, a guy like him can get any woman he wants. So why is he with her?<br/><br/>"Keys?"<br/><br/>I could have turned them down and normally I would have. Anybody stepping into my shop with an attitude like that, slapping me on the ass can fuck right off. And to be honest, he and his girlfriend could. But me turning down the chance to have a closer look at a real Boss 9. Fuck no. Hell must be freezing over first. With the keys now in my hands, I get in, start the engine and immediately know that my initial guess that the sparkplugs are bad is confirmed. I rev the engine a little bit, (he did the same thing after all) and feel and hear the asthmatic engine crying out for air. Slowly I drive the car into the garage fully and out of the hot California sun.<br/><br/>I get out, pop the hood and walk around the shop to get my toolbox and a cloth. With the toolcase driving and the cloth around my neck I bend over the engine.<br/><br/>"Where did you get it?"<br/><br/>The engine is cleaner than most cars, again indicating to me that he knows what a gem he has got and maintains it well and the ignition wires come off easily. I take one sparkplug out and inspect it and then show it to him.<br/><br/>"These are dirty. Want me to replace them?"<br/><br/>Putting it aside, I inspect the engine a bit further. I take the lid off the airfilter cover and immediately spot the problem.<br/><br/>"Got a mice problem?"<br/><br/>I pry the airfilter loose and show it to him. A dead mouse, mostly decomposed and bits of fur and bones and leaves and dirt jiggle about the airfilter as I shake it a little bit.<br/><br/>"Do you need the car back today?"