A hangover so strong it could bring murderers to your doorstep.’ A strong title for a limerick, I thought to myself.

Maybe I’d use it, maybe I’d forget entirely. All I knew is I really needed to get to my phone asap. The fate of my entire poem collection was at stake. Locked away in my notepad app.

I shuffled about in the backseat of the Mitsubishi Galant. It stunk of vape. I can’t stand vapes. They smell like candyman sex potions.

The man with Viking braids turned to us and said “Alright boys, this is it.” as we parked up in the front yard of a lacklustre towing facility.

Cracked concrete driveway with weeds and a lonely daisy growing from within the cracks. Repainted yet rusty corrugated iron fencing placed to form a crude fence.

An unplugged, dented, yellowing refrigerator with worn sealing dumped beside us on the front yard patch of gravel we were parked.

Michael and I hopped out of the Galant, and were hit with the thick stench of burnt oil and raw diesel. We quickly gazed up at a faded wooden sign that greeted Mighty Tow.

Now that I’d seen the business name blown up that big on the side of a wooden sign; I realised just how terrible that name choice was. Mighty Toe; sounds like a mechanic with a footjob addiction.

I brandished a worn smile “Cheers for that guys, hopefully never see you again.” I said to the two attempted kidnappers.

“Likewise my guy.” agreed the Viking braid man, offering a row of knuckles.

I tapped his row of knuckles with my row of knuckles, before turning my head and locking eyes with a middle aged office lady seated inside Mighty Tow.

I began to take the initial steps towards the building while Michael said farewell. Captain Toothless ripped up some rubber outside Mighty tow before pulling off, leaving in a massive cloud of smoke.

“What a shitbox.” Michael muttered, swatting away the black smoke.

“For sure.” I agreed, grabbing the door handle.

I gave it a twist, and damn near tore the thing off. I looked up at the office lady, and gave her an expression that read Open the door you pompous jelly.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The notion was lost in translation as she stood from her desk and began to waddle over with a mannequin-like grin, brandishing coffee stained teeth.

The office lady was dressed in spotless carpentry coveralls. Thick blue reading glasses. And a tight perm that rested upon her broad shoulders.

I watched her as she waddled towards me, stopped a half metre from the door and pressed on a telecommunication button located on the floral printed shop wall.

“The Door Doesn’t work I’m afraid, how can I help?” She asked us.

“Hey there Miss, my truck was towed by one of your workers last night. Just wondering if we could have a look at it?” Michael asked.

The office lady relayed this information to herself, as was evident with the way she scanned the top of her mind with her eyes.

The office lady nodded frantically and then pointed across to a loose gate that was next to the scrap metal fence, “Head in there. Craig will show you around.”

Michael flicked her a thumbs up, “Cheers for that.” and headed along his way. I gave her a wave and followed after him.

Past the rusty gate, deep within the metallic trenches of doom, was a man sporting a rugged Holden cap, a sunburned shirtless singlet (That’s a singlet tanned into the skin, despite being shirtless .) ripped Dickies pants and thrashed steel cap boots.

“Craig, I presume?” greeted Michael.

“That would be right.” Craig confirmed, wiggling a radio out of a busted Honda Civic.

“I believe my car was towed here last night.” Michael began, looking around at the car yard graveyard.

“Did you see me?” asked Craig, placing the radio down among a pile of others.

“I think it was someone else.” I piped up, before drifting into the background.

“You’re sure we towed you?” Craig asked, moving towards a gutted Nissan bluebird, beginning to thumb through a ring of keys.

Michael double blinked then looked back at me, “That’s what my brother reckons.”

Craig shook his head, “Some low life broke into my garage last night and stole one of my trucks.”

“Are you saying I got duped?” Michael asked, his jaw beginning to clench.

“There’s a high probability, but you’re free to look around all you like.” Craig answered, opening the boot of the Nissan Bluebird.

Michael threw his head into his hands. Then looked around and moved close towards Craig, “I’m sorry–you got your truck stolen; and you’re so chill about that?”

“I’m insured. Are you?” Craig responded, standing 5 foot 5 inches tall.

“Christ sake! I need that truck!” Michael cursed, spitting on the gravel.

“You look hungover, were you drinking?” Craig asked, not expecting an answer.

I could see Michael rubbing his fingertips against his palms. I nudged him out of the way lightly; “Have you heard any leads from the cops? Surely a marked vehicle would stand out like a sore thumb?”

“Nothing yet. But I’ll be sure to let you two know as soon as I hear something. My number is 021-Leave-now-and -report-the-vehicle. This isn’t my problem.”

Michael grinned tightly, and balled his fists. I grabbed him by the elbow and led him back towards the rusted gate.

“How about we do that aye? Head over to Charlie’s and report the vehicle.” I offered Michael.

“Yeah, it could be worth a shot. Since we’re here.” Michael agreed, opening the gate.