County Road Four by Author Edward J. Baker

"...He rolled the door open to the storage barn he built to house his many collectibles. Disconnecting the battery charger he had hooked up last night while he sneaked a cigar and double scotch, he closed the hood on the midnight black 1972 Plymouth Roadrunner. With so many things clouding his mind lately, he spent much more time out there tinkering with his toys. Collecting cars was an interesting hobby, perfect for one who owned a once very successful collision repair shop. This vehicle was the newest addition to his collection, so the eighty some miles he would drive today would not affect the value. This particular car, one of the last big block Roadrunners built in Detroit was a virgin addition that would only increase in value. Terry had purchased this car new in the late fall of seventy-one. Upon hearing the roar of the big block engine, he motored to the street and started his journey to the bank in Jackson, roughly a forty-mile drive north of Oakdale. He allowed himself plenty of time in case of encountering further unexpected problems to follow his current unlucky streak. The weather appeared perfect for a leisurely cruise in the powerful machine...."

"As he drove out of the lazy and winding curves into the clear stretch of swampy lowlands, he noticed a black line of fierce lightning filled storm clouds rolling across Big Bear Lake. Wow, this is gonna be a big one, he thought as he closed his window, pulled the headlight switch and activated the windshield wipers. Slowing to a safer speed of fifty-five miles-an-hour, he considered stopping to wait out the storm, but his two young sons waited for him at home and he could not disappoint them. Of all the mistakes his pas held, he would never do anything to dishearten Mike and Joey.

Just a he visualized the dangerous curve sign through the extremely heavy downpour, in a tenth of a second, there was a deafening blast followed by an overpowering and uncontrollable tearing at the steering wheel. "

"Twenty-one-year-old Jim, known to most as J.D. rambled aimlessly down the road, radio cranked, and as usual on a Friday night, half tanked from alcohol and beer. This was his life for nearly five years, since their father died of prostate cancer in 1970.

Jim wheeled up to the parked cars, nearly scraping the rear of the Chevy II. "What the hell? That piece of junk won't start again?"

Steve and Mark could see Jim had again spent too much time at the Night Owl Bar. It had become common for him to take a drive after last call to finish the six-pack-to-go order."

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