Ever wonder what would happen if Christine was found in the year 2011 by a couple of gay guys? Maybe she's lost a little evil? Maybe more out to protect her lover boys?
A/N:You'll have to excuse me, I've never POSTED fanfic but have been writing it for years in notebooks during english class in highschool... no wonder I scraped by with a D+. I know it needs some work, the plot is a little weak but I'd like to turn it into a chapter-story. Shake the rust off of my rocker panels and get into writing hardcore again. Please Rate, reply with comments. Any are welcome. ALL critisism is constructive at this point. Oh, and might I add, I do not own Stephen King's characters, plots, etc... all the new stuff is mine though.
There were two friends, Tony and Eric, living in the sleepy town of Romney, WV. Tony had gone off of the deep end, finally, and decided that drugs WERE better than hugs. Such a shame. While Eric, madly in love with Tony, sat and prayed. Prayed hard for a miracle that seemed impossible to find.
Eric and Tony were both twenty years old, being friends for just under two years. Never could separate them. Everyone thought they were together, and as much as Eric deluded himself into believing they were, they were not. Eric continued to work hard at Plymouth Rock Chicken Processing Plant in Moorefield, long after Tony was fired. Hey, gotta keep the bread on the table somehow, though with bills it seemed like that was the ONLY thing they could afford.
While working there, Tony got mixed up into some heavy drugs. And heavy people. He had caught the disease that seemingly plagued Hampshire County, perscription drugs. And all the while, Eric watched him slowly decay into a pill-popper.
Eric's parents couldn't take it. Eric, Doris, and Derek tried to help Tony get clean, but he just kept going back to Rennold's Acres Road where that little broken down shack held at least $1,000 worth of perscription drugs and a dozen or so pill poppers smoking and snorting them. Finally, they threw away his remaining possesions in their house and tried their hardest to forget. Eric couldn't keep him off of his mind. Eric, being a devoted home-body-type christian, kept praying. Maybe one night coming home to Tony laying on the couch in Eric's bedroom. Or pulling up into the driveway riding Dixie Lee Rose, Tony's black metal steed of a 1996 Honda Shadow VLX 600 V-Twin. But none came true.
One day, Eric was driving with his other best friend, a 68 year old woman by the name of Margie, in her '05 Hyundai Santa Fe, out on Rt. 220/50 going towards Keyser, Eric saw the one thing that he has wished for all of his life, a car from the 1950's. It sat in a farm field, rusty, paint faded to a dull pink. The Hyudai came to a screeching hault, Margie cursing and Eric wide-eyed.
He pulled into the driveway not realizing this was the prayer he'd been chanting over and over again at night before he went to sleep. An older man, looking too young to be a 'Nam vet, but too wizened to not be a veteran of some war or another, hobbled out of the house wearing a flannel shirt and a pair of blue-jeans. He looked at Eric with reumy eyes and wheezed " Whatya want, boy?" Eric looked at his shoes and mumbled "Is the car for sale, sir?"
The old man pointed to his tan 1996 Buick LeSabre, and said "That? Hell no boy, that's the last car I'll ever own." Eric shook his head and looked into the man's eyes. "No, I meant the Plymouth over there. The '58. How much do you want for her?" Margie shook her head and said in her raspy old voice, "Eric, you don't know if that car runs. The way things are now, repairing it alone will take years. You don't make much slaving away at the plant." Eric ignored her, as did the old man. "Name's Arnie. Arnie Cunningham. Boy, that was my first car. Bought 'er in 78, much in the same condition she is now. But she's always run for me. Never gave me a lick o' trouble. She still runs, ma'am. Hell, she's even considered road legal. You don't believe me, I'll go get tha paperwork. All I want is all I payed for her back then though."
He placed a crooked, arthritis-ridden finger to his temple, as though he had to press a button to retrieve the file. "I believe it was two-fifty, and I won't take a dime less." Eric whipped out his wallet, still bulging from cashing his check and ready to go grocery shopping at Shop 'N Save, and pulled out twelve-twenty dollar bills and a ten.
"Eric, your mother is going to kill you.", Margie said under her breath. Eric forgot Margie was there at all, and handed the old man the cash. "I'm gonna return with the paperwork and the receipt. You handle the DMV, I hate that crock-pot of curdling shit."
Eric walked over to the car, a 1958 Plymouth 2-door hardtop. The emblem on the rear quarter-panel said "Fury", but Eric knew from research that they never came in red and white It struck Eric as odd but he ignored it. The keys were in the ignition, and, startling Eric, Cunningham said "Start 'er up, boy. She's a-waitin' on ya." Still speechless, he opened the door, pulled the choke, and keyed the ignition. The engine turned over and sputtered to life. The black-haired boy cheered and revved the engine. It sputtered and caught, the 318 V8 roaring along with his cheers.
Eric poked his head out the window, and asked Marge. "Margie, dear, could you drive home behind me? I wanna show Momma and Pop." Margie shook her head and said "I ain't stayin'. Your parents'll turn on me and then it's goodbye kitty."
Eric backed out of the spot it sat, and drove down the long drive triumphantly, knowing damn well he just became the coolest fag in Romney. Arnie smiled to Eric and waved in the rear-view window. Eric blipped the horn and hit the gas, spraying dirt and raising dust.
He tested the brakes, which squealed from disuse but worked fine. The transmission had trouble shifting at first but it smoothed out about five miles down the road. Margie followed at a cautious distance, afraid of the boy behind the wheel of the car. She cruised down the highway at a steady 65 mph, engine humming. Eric turned on the radio and it was already tuned in to AM 690, WELD, Hardy County's home of the golden-oldies. "Back in Baby's Arms" by Patsy Cline played.
Soon Eric came over the hill and Romney opened up to him like a long lost friend. First moment he saw Dairy Queen's neon sign, he pulled in for a malt. Margie kept going on down to her home on highway 28.
Malt in one hand, great big steering-wheel in the other, Eric put the TourqueFlite transmission in gear and pointed the nose towards home. The big white semi-victorian two-story wasn't great. The siding was old and stained, missing in places, but it was home to Eric, and his greatest accomplishment. Before he worked at Plymouth Rock, his five-person family lived in a broken down two-bedroom trailer on the outskirts of town. Now, they were middle-class and doing it in style. Doris, Eric's mother, worked at County Pride, the local grocery store, and owned the only 2-door Jeep Cherokee in town. This made her famous, ha ha ha. But life was great, now that Eric worked. His step-father, Derek, was in the construction business but due to the declining economy, he was out of work.
Doris heard the rumbling, though mis-firing, V8 idle into the driveway, and walked outside. The first thing she thought was "Dear God, what has he done now?" Eric shut off the car and jumped out. "TA-DA! Whatya think, Momma?" Doris forced a smile and said "How much was it?" Eric signaled two-fifty and her mouth hung open. She yelled for Derek and Erics two younger brothers, Eon, and Elijah, 9 and 7, respectively. The boys loved it. Derek clicked his tounge and muttered something about money. Eric ignored him just as he had ignored Margie, and said to them, "Who wants a ride?" Eon was already halfway into the car befor Eric could say "ride", and Elijah followed. Doris sat in the passenger seat and gave the das an appraising look. "Don't Worry Baby" by the Beach Boys came on the radio, and as Derek climbed in the back seat and buckled up, Eric fired the engine. Hot already, it started without a problem.
They were halfway through town ("Don't blink or you'll miss it" should be the town slogan) and Eric said, "Wait until I show To-" and stopped. His eyes began to water and he had to pull into the Sheetz gas station. He cried silently, and his mother held him. "Baby, it's gonna be alright. He'll be off of them soon and back to his old self.", Doris said. The engine stalled and the idiot lights glared like angry eyes. Eric keyed the ignition and it fired right up, and the pulled out, Eric still drying his eyes. Eric lit a cigarette and fired up the heater. It was mid-October and already cold as mid-winter. The engine hummed along steady through the rest of town and soon they were on their way to Mountian Top resturaunt. Eric planned on getting everyone an early dinner at the truck stop and leaving the scene at Sheetz in the rearview mirror, but he wasn't expecting what was going to happen next.
He saw Junior, one of Tony's druggie-buddies at the gas pump with a little 1990 Honda CRX that had seen much better days. "Hounddog" by Elvis Presely came on the radio and Eric pulled in, tires screaming and engine letting loose. They came to a stop just behind Junior, and though the needle on the dash said the tank had three-quarters of gasoline, Eric pulled the high-test pump handle and started filling up. Junior gave him a funny look but nothing else, and sat in the car while the pump gurgled gasoline into the Honda's pump clicked in Eric's hand, and he told Doris, "Take Dad and the boys into the diner. I'll be with you guys in a few minutes. Order me a bacon deluxe with extra mayo." They clambered into the diner, and Eric fired up the Plymouth. He rubbed the steeringwheel and said"I think I'll call you Christine, like the book. I always dreamed of having one of my own." Suddenly Christine turned over on her own and the engine idled like the odometer didn't read 82,000 miles. Maybe 282,000 guessing by the age. Eric sat, speechless, and his only thought was "Thank You God".
Eric pulled up beside Junior and yelled over the rumbling engine, "Hey fuck-face, you wanna run?" Junior flipped him off and pulled out of the gas station squealing tires. Eric hammered Christine's throttle and they raced down to town. The Honda skittered and couldn't hold. The 150-mph calibrated speedometer climbed past eighty and still stayed sure-footed. Eric gained on the pill-popper with ease, throttle only pressed half. The odometer started racing backwards and the paint, little by little, started coming back to red, coating with gloss. The pitted chrome cleared, the white-walls gleamed. The dents in the body panels plunked back into their original shape. Soon Eric was racing a brand-new '58 Plymouth and barreling down the mountain. He gave her more gas and the engine screamed like a scorned woman.
Fear crossed Junior's face and he switched gears. The Plymouth kept right up with him, and no fancy foot-work would shake him. The screamed through town doing better than one hundred, lucky traffic was clear. Eric bumped the Honda and it slid, but gained footing again. The transmission dropped into third gear and the tires squealed again. Eric bumped the Honda again, and sent it careening into the creek next to Rt. 50, and kept going. Junior went through the windshield and was impaled on a rogue branch jutting from the creek bed.
Soon Eric was to Middle Ridge when his cell phone rang, the ring-tone "Runaround Sue". The dents left in Christine's bumper plunked out. Eric answered his cell, doing 50 around a 20 mph corner. "Eric?", the familiar voice asked. Eric said "Tony, where are you?" "I'm and Grandma and Pappy's on the ridge." Eric said "I'm coming" and hung up. Christine screamed up the ridge and soon Eric was parking in Tony's driveway. Tony's grandmother ran out and said "He's unconcious." Eric ran inside, gathered Tony in his arms, and carried him to Christine. He fluttered his eyes and said, "Where you been all my life?" in a powerless voice. Eric laughed and said, "Same old Tony"...
Again, this is my first publish, what do y'all think? Let me know if I should write more, or quit. Maybe edit, I know it ain't great. Just rate me. Thanks for your patience.
-Eric