Chapter 1: Sam's 'new' car
*Disclaimer* I do NOT own Transformers or anything related. It's sad but true. I only can claim ownership of my OC, Lissa. This story is for enjoyment only. It has coarse lanquage. It is based off of the 2007 movie. Reminder this is for enjoyment only. So ENJOY!
Before time began there was the cube. We know not where it comes from, only that it holds the power to create worlds and fill them with life. That is how our race was born. For a time, we lived in harmony, but like all great power, some wanted it for good, others for evil. And so began the war, a war that ravaged our planet until it was consumed by death, and the cube was lost to the far reaches of space. We scattered across the galaxy, hoping to find it and rebuild our home, searching every star, every world. And just when all hope seemed lost, message of a new discovery drew us to an unknown planet called earth. But we were already too late...
"Okay, Mr. Witwicky, you're up."
I watched as Sam, my best friend and neighbor, walked to the front of the class to give his genealogy report. He dumped the contents of his bag onto the table and quickly gathered it up. "Sorry I got a lot of stuff." Sam muttered. I already knew this was going to be a train wreck.
"Okay. For my family..." Sam stopped as a rubber band hit him in the forehead. I glared daggers at the back of Trent's head. "Who did...Who did that? People! Responsibility." Mr. Hosney spoke, pointing his finger at the class. Sam continued.
"Okay. So, for my family genealogy report, I decided to do it on my great-great-grandfather, who was a famous man, Captain Archibald Witwicky. Very famous explorer. In fact, he was one of the first to explore the Arctic Circle, which was a big deal." Sam held out an old map. "In 1897, he took 41 brave sailors straight into the Arctic Shelf..."
I looked out the window daydreaming. I already heard the story of Archibald Witwicky a hundred times so that Sam could practice. 'All you need is one more A Sam and you get a car. This paper has to be an A or you won't get one!' I was pulled from my thoughts as Sam finished his report.
"...So that's the story right? And here we have some of the basic instruments and tools used by 19th-century seamen." The class burst into laughter at the word 'seamen'. Mr. Hosney held his red quiet sign in an attempt at restoring order. "This here is the quadrant. Which you can get for 80 bucks. It's all for sale by the way. Like the sextant here." Sam said, causing the class to laugh yet again and Mr. Hosney to hold up the sign again. "$50 for this, which is a bargain. These are pretty cool. These are my grandfathers glasses." He held up the old pair of glasses. "I haven't quite gotten them appraised yet, but they've seen many cool things."Sam said.
"Are you going to sell me his liver?" Mr. Hosney interrupted. "Mr. Witwicky, this isn't show and sell. It's the 11th grade. I don't think your grandfather would be particularly proud of what you're doing." He said in a bored under tone.
"I know. I'm sorry. I just, you know, this is all going towards my car fund." Sam sighed. "You can tell your folks. It's on eBay. I take . Cold hard cash works, too. And the compass makes a great gift for Columbus Day."
"Sam!" The teacher warned.
"Sorry." He shuffled through some papers then held up two large sheets of paper, one was an old newspaper. "Unfortunately, my great-great-grandfather, the genius that he was, wound up going blind and crazy in a psycho ward, drawing these strange symbols and babbling on about some giant ice man that he thought he discovered-" Sam was cut off by the bell.
"Okay. Might be a pop quiz tomorrow. Might not." Mr. Hosney called out as everyone fled the room. "Sleep in fear tonight." Holding up his grandfathers glasses, Sam tried to sell them to passerby. "Here, you want? Here, 50. 40? 30?"
"Sam, interesting presentation." I smirked. He smiled. "Thanks, Lissa." He sounded worried.
"Sam?" The teacher called.
"Good luck. I'll be waiting outside with your dad." I said leaving Sam to face his destiny alone.
I leaned against the car door waiting to hear if Sam had gotten his A. When he burst through the doors and was chanting. "Yes! Yes,yes." I smiled and then quickly jumped in the back while Sam jumped in the front.
"So?" Mr. Witwicky questioned.
"A-, It's an A, though." Sam smiled back and forth between me and his dad. "Wait, wait, wait. I can't see. It's an A." Mr. Witwicky announced.
"So I'm good?" Sam asked hopefully.
"You're good."
"You did it Sam!" I cried and reached out and placed a hand on his head and messed his hair up.
"I have a little surprise for you, son." I looked out the window and noticed that Mr. Witwicky was pulling up to a Porsche dealership.
"What kind of..." Sam fell silent when he saw the dealership and his eyes grew big.
"Yeah, a little surprise." Mr. Witwicky laughed. 'Something isn't right...Sam's dad would never buy Sam a Porsche...would he?' I thought as we passed shiny new porches.
"No. No, no, no. no. Dad! Oh, you got to be kidding me." Sam cheered from the front seat.
"Yeah. I am. You're not getting a Porsche." Mr. Witwicky laughed at Sam's disappointed face.
"I knew it." I sighed. "You think that's funny?" Sam questioned. As we approached a run down dealership.
"Yeah, I think it's funny." Mr. Witwicky laughed.
"What's wrong with you?"Sam asked.
"You think I'd really get you a Porsche for your first car?" He laughed again this time I giggled from the back.
"I don't want to talk to you two for the rest of this whole thing." Sam muttered as we past a strange clown."Lighten up, Sam!" I giggled. "Oh,come on. It's just a practical joke." Mr. Witwicky tried to reason with his son.
"It's not a funny joke." Sam sulked.
A man walked out of his office to survey his dealership and noticed a man dressed as a clown. He hollered "Manny!"
"What?" the man known as Manny hollered from the garage.
"Get your cousin out of that damn clown suit. He's having a heat stroke again. Scaring white folks." He stated. "I'm hot! Makeup's melting. It hurts my eyes." The clown cried.
"Here? No,no,no, what is this?" Sam said looking at all the piece of crap cars. "You said...You said half a car, not half a piece of crap, Dad."
"When I was your age, I'd have been happy with four wheels and an engine." Mr. Witwicky tried to reason. "Maybe, but have you looked at this place?" I said watching a man chase the clown around.
"Okay, let me explain something to you. Okay?" Sam said. "You ever see 40-Year-Old Virgin?" Sam asked his dad.
"Yeah."
"Okay that's what this is." Sam pointed to a nearby car. "And this is 50-year-old virgin." Sam pointed to the car next to it. "Okay. You want me to live that life?"
"No sacrifice, no victory." Mr. Witwicky recited the family motto.
"Yeah, no victory. You know, I got it. The old Witwicky motto, Dad."
"Right."
I walked away figuring I would at least look for a decent car for Sam. I figured the conversation they were having was a father-son talk. I walked away just as the owner of this 'dealership' walked up to them.
"Gentlemen. Bobby Bolivia, like the country, except without the runs." He shook both Sam's father's hand. "How can I help you?"
"Well, my son here, looking to buy his first car."
"You come to see me?" Bobby said shocked. "I had to." Sam said annoyed. 'Yeah. Had to. Because I highly doubt anyone would volunteer to come in here.' I thought as I wondered the lot. A glint of yellow caught my eye as I was walking by. I stopped to see a 1976 Chevrolet Camaro. It had two black racing strips down the middle. 'Sam has to get this car! It's perfect!' I immediately walked over to it.
"What's a good looking car like yourself doing here?" I asked while running my hand over the hood. The car shook slightly, causing me to stare at the car in confusion. 'Did the car just shake?' I thought. I decided to ignore it. It was probably just my imagination. I brushed my fingers along the hood till I felt the handle to the driver's side. In the distance I could hear Uncle Bobby B. "Hey, Mammy!" I looked in the direction he was screaming at and noticed an older woman flipping him off. "Don't be like that. If I had a rock, I'd bust your head, bitch." I frowned. "Seriously, what are you doing here?" I asked the car as I opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat. I put my hands on the steering wheel. This was it the car Sam had to get. "Sam! Come check out this beautiful car! It's perfect!" I squealed with happiness.
"This ain't bad. This one's got racing stripes." Sam said looking over the car and then peering into the open driver's door. "Ain't bad? Its perfect." I whispered to Sam. "Just scoot over, Lissa." I reluctantly scooted over to the passenger side door and ran my hands over the dashboard. The car once again shook. I immediately removed my hands and kept telling myself that it was just my imagination, again.
"Yeah. It got racing...Yeah, what's this? What the heck is this? I don't know anything about this car. Manny!" Bobby yelled. "What?" Manny asked appearing from the garage. "What is this? This car! Check it out!" Bobby ordered Manny. "I don't know, boss! I've never seen it! That's loco!" Manny replied. "Don't go Ricky Ricardo on me, Manny! Find out!" Bobby once again ordered Manny.
"Feels good." Sam murmured under his breath. He wiped the center of the steering wheel off. "Lissa look. Its some sort of weird symbol." I looked over at the steering wheel and sure enough a strange symbol was embedded into it. It looked to be some sort of robot. "Strange." I whispered to myself.
"How much?" I heard the questioning voice of Mr. Witwicky.
"Well, considering the semi-classic nature of the vehicle, with the custom paint job..." Bobby started but was cut off by Sam.
"Yeah, but the paint's faded." Sam stated. Bobby leaned down and peered inside the car, on my side of the car.
"Yeah, but it's custom." Bobby replied. I glared at him.
"It's custom faded?" Sam argued.
"Well, this is your first car. I wouldn't expect you to understand." He said before leaning back up. "Five grand."
"No, I'm not paying over four. Sorry." Mr. Witwicky replied. I looked over at Mr. Witwicky shocked.
"Kids, come on, get out. Get out of the car." Bobby said patting the door.
"No, no, no. You said cars pick their drivers." Sam argued with Bobby.
"Well, sometimes they pick a driver with a cheap-ass father. Out of the car." Bobby ordered us. "Now this one here for four Gs is a beaut." Bobby said turning to the car next to us. I frowned, defeated. I rubbed the dashboard as Sam slowly got out. "Bye perfect car." I mumbled.
"There's a Fiesta with racing stripes over there." Mr. Witwicky tried to make his son feel better. "No, I don't want a Fiesta with racing stripes." Sam sighed. I tried opening the door but it was jammed. "Lissa are you getting out?" Sam questioned me with a look of disappointment. "The door is jammed or something." I said pushing the door as hard as I could. I stopped to rest.
"This is a classic engine right here. I sold a car the other day..." Sam closed his door and right when it shut mine swung open, right into the car Bobby was in. I stared wide eyed at the other car.
"Gee. Holy cow." Sam's dad gasped looking over the damage.
"I'm s-sorry! I didn't me-mean to! The door was jammed and..." I stammered out an apology. "No, no, no. No worries." Bobby interrupted me.
"You all right?" Mr. Witwicky asked me. Sam frowned and peered at me through the window. "Yeah, I'm fine." I answered getting out of the car and closing the door behind me.
"I'll get a sledgehammer and knock this right out. Hey, hey, Manny! Get your clown cousin and get some hammers and come bang this stuff out, baby!" Bobby laughed.
"...greater than man..." the radio played. I turned and looked inside the car. 'Did the car just talk?' I asked myself mentally.
"That one's my favorite, drove it all the way from Alabamy." Bobby laughed looking out a car in the distant. Suddenly the car emitted a noise from the radio, causing all the windows to shatter. "Ahh!" I yelped as I held onto the yellow Camaro for protection. I loosened my grip and served the lot. Glass was everywhere. Every car, except the Camaro, was wrecked. Bobby whimpered and spun in a circle looking at his destroyed cars. Turning to us, he raised four trembling fingers.
"Four thousand."