"I'm thinking that the phanocyaciliator could be rigged into the computer gigbaffle at the wincoup versional textate platen and tyranophy the medial optiate to a grid core of 46 and we'd have her," Gil Bascom muses as he sets up another trial run for his systemic salts conversion apparatus in preparation for a final test before he pours a gallon of his wonder fuel into the little corvair sitting in the driveway of his rambler.
He takes the jug of glow in the dark green liquid back to the radar range he has set up to scan the fuel and puts it inside. He shuts the door and turns the dial. Now let's see what we got, he says to himself.
"Giiillll" comes his wife's voice from inside the house.
"Yes, deeeaarrr," hollers back Gil over the drone of the converted microwave.
"Whaattrrryooouuudoooiinn?" calls his wife.
"Come and see, honey!" he shouts back.
Mrs. Bascom trots out to the driveway where Gil has set up his portable lab.
"Oh, was that from last night?" she asks curiously. "I ate two tacos and there was too much salsa on one of them."
"Not a problem," says Gil, "it's all about combustion, honey, all about combustion. Should be fine."
"Oh, I hope so," said cute little Mrs. Bascom, who won third runner up at the County Fair in the Miss Beautiful Radford County runoff in 2005. They've only been married two years, Gil being in vocational education training to become a mechanic and they had to wait for him to get through his training courses. Mrs. Bascom has become a model homemaker and very thrifty. She had made her own taco shells with masa harina and white flour, some lard and a secret ingredient her friend Martina had told her about.
"Yep, that should do it," says Gill, shutting the microwave door with a slam as he removes the contents onto a countertop. "Ok, honey, take the gas cap off the corvair and let's pour her in."
Mrs. Bascom removes the gas cap with a flourish as though she's removing another cover off a letter on the Prize is Rice show, which she loves. "There you go, honey," she says.
"Thank you, dear. Now would you like to do the honors and turn the key in the ignition, while I roll the table back into the garage?" Gill is so excited he feels as though he's in the pit at the Daytona, getting ready to pack Virgil Cage back into the Screecher.
"Gosh, this is so exciting," says Mrs. Bascom, patting her hairdo. She daintily turns the key in the ignition and the Corvair rumbles to life.
"How many cyclinders under the hood, dear?" she asks Gill, who has overhauled the motor of the trial car prior to starting the fuel experiments.
"Well, I started out with four but I decided five might work better, better ping, you see?" He gets really technical with his descriptions after that and she doesn't listen intently, more interested to see if the car actually moves. She puts it in drive.
"It's going dear," she says. "Where shall I drive it?"
Gill directs her to leave the drive way and head to the stop sign.
"Ok, hun, there's no traffic, how about you hop out and I'll scoot over here and you slide in where I was and we'll take a spin?" He smiles at her affectionately. His hands are black with grease.
"Of course dear," she tells him and pops out of the car and is on the passenger side in no time. Gill slides across the middle of the car and scootches down into the bucket seat. He puts the car in drive again and they head out into the busy thoroughfare of downtown Barkanow.
"Well, would you look at that. There's Andy Milhouse, standing on the corner looking glum. Let's pull over and say hi, shall we?" he asks his wife.
"Of course dear," says Mrs. Bascom, always ready to oblige.
Rolling down the window of the Corvair, Gill pulls over and says hi to his friend, Andy, who indeed does look rather glum.
"What's shakin, big boy?" Gill asks his friend.
"Dude, it's bogus man, I gotta give a ua and I'm fried, what can I do?
Always on the lookout for new angles, Gill volunteers to fuel up the suspect ua and see what it does after resting in the gas tank of the Corvair. "Can't hurt buddy, might help even," he assures him.
Andy looks up with a slight lift at the corners of his mouth. "You think so?" he says.
"We can try," Gill tells his friend.
"Ok, I'm game," says Andy.
A few hours later, Andy Milhouse delivers a small plastic container to the offices of the local testing facility, where he has been required to present himself from time to time due to habits that he has found to be beyond his control. The next morning he gets a call from that same facility.
"Mr. Milhouse," says the testing agent.
"Mmhmm," says Andy, wondering this could be about, since Gill coulddn't promise that anything would change but that it would be worth a try to see if it did anything.
"Well, looks like you're all done with us here, Mr. Milhouse. Just stay in touch ok, don't be shy, but don't get high no more. Your ua indicates you are about to turn into a bear. Not sure how, but that's what the reads are saying. Be careful in the woods now, hear. It's mating season."
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