<div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/EQWMuQc.jpg[/url])</div><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="bbc_u">Lisa Yamata</span></span><br/><span class="bbc_u">Location</span>- Jason Hunt's Garage<br/><span class="bbc_u">Date &amp; Time</span>- March 11th, 2006. 1:08 PM<br/><span class="bbc_u">Tag</span>- Aaron<br/><hr/><hr/><br/>For a minute, Lisa stood there, seething over her workbench. Normally, an oil pan took no time at all but this one was almost got the best of her. Both hands gripped upon the edge of the bench, head leaned over, a few droplets of sweat falling off of her forehead and nose, staining the battered and bruised surface, Lisa looked like she wanted to<em>break</em>something. The moment that utility hatch opened up, perhaps she found that target.<br/><br/><strong>"For a second, I thought that ratchet on the bench was a part of your music. S'everything alright?"</strong><br/><br/>Lisa turned her head and looked directly to Aaron as his silhouetted in the doorway. She pushes off the work bench and turns to face him, ratchet in hand, and took a single step toward the silhouetted man. "Is everything ok? No, tell Lee that, the next time one of these seventh gen, first off the fucking production line, pieces of tinfoil comes rolling in, he is doing the entire god damn workup...." The ratchet fell down to her side, her mind seeing the, proverbial, red as she flies off into a....well typical rant mode.<br/><br/>"...seeing as these bolts were made with some piece of shit, hand me down, reforged metal that shears off after six years? One sheared off the moment I touched the thing with the imact hammer, these three snapped the moment I started pushing on it. Had to tap four bolts,<em>four</em>. And Lee is telling me it's going to take an hour. It's been almost<em>three</em>!"<br/><br/>Lisa just stood there, chest heaving heavily under her well worn jumpsuit, mouth lulled open in a state of almost rage. Slowly her facial expression changed, the anger subsiding to a state of pure annoyance before she snorted once. "I veto all Civics from the year two thousand to two thousand and one. This is going to take me all god damn day and I don't even<em>want</em>to be here past three." It was true, she wanted to hit the road. That red RX-7 in the parking lot was burning a hole in her mind. More specifically, the Navarro event was all she could think about. Having spent so much time tweaking every setting of her ECU, nearly removed all of the non essential bits of the interior outside of the front seat and the radio, and adjusting the suspension to hug turns, Lisa wanted to be out<em>driving</em>.<br/><br/>"So, yea, there is a bit of a fuckin' problem." She finished with an answer to his initial question. It was of no question that she<em>could</em>finish this project. She has dealt with far more complicated and frustrating repairs with....similar results in her demeanor, but ever since she found out about this event, it was like a plague upon her mind.  The anticipation and anxiety for this event was taking a toll. She was even easier to frustrate!