The Flucks is my (Ed) first novel and an experiment. We are independent creators, publishing chapter by chapter as a podcast and text. It’s designed to be heard. We’d love to receive your feedback so we can tell stories better.
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Audio performance by Anthony Michael Malec
Guest image by LM Sypher
Text copyright © 2025 Ed Herrington
⚠️ Content Warning: Suicide contemplation, AI cars
Last time on The Flucks
I checked each and every door and purposefully left the one at the front last—hoping, daring, pleading that this key was not for that car. But none of the others unlocked.
With no option left, I rolled up to the Tesla.
It beeped.
Fuck!
I’m rethinking my blessing for the car owner.
Slacy is getting restless—good thing he found a car. Bad thing—he hates it.
Chapter 8 — Car go brrr
The shit-mobile beeped, but that was it. There were no door handles. I pressed where one should be—nothing. I banged my fist all around the seam until it beeped three times. A door lifted—a chicken pecking for mites under its wing. It stalled halfway, then jerked like a wing once mauled by the neighbor’s dog.
I held the button to move the seat all the way back to make room for my leg. Pressing. Pressing more. Come on! It stopped. I slid in, butt-first, carefully maneuvering my leg into the car without jostling it.
I sniffed, then gagged. It still had that musky smell. The company could never get the smell off them, even after he fucked off to Mars.
Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here. No buttons, no dash screen. But it did have a full-screen display windshield. A big warning icon and message sat in the middle.
⚠️ WARNING: Battery health at 20%. Charge remaining: 50%
“Okay, that’s great, where’s the start button?” I asked no one.
“Good morning, Clint. Would you like me to start?” the car’s onboard AI responded.
“Dafuq? Oh... Yes.”
The windshield display lit up, playing an animation of an anthropomorphic car dry-humping the road, I guess. The message “Welcome, Clint” was briefly displayed.
That name sounded familiar. From the for-real faux-leather wallet, I grabbed the Boomer-grade plastic ID inside. Yep, Clint. That checked out. Nope—still sus. Realization flicked on like a maintenance-required light. It was the name on the inventory tablet for the asshole shift manager. Typical Clint.
“Okay, now how do I get the wheelchair into the car while I’m in it?” I asked no one again.
The windshield displayed a dancing animation of the anthro-car. “Would you like me to help you with that?”
“Uh... Yes.”
“Step outside the car, press the release levers to fold the wheelchair, place it in the trunk, and re-enter the car.”
“My fucking leg is broken!”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Clint.”
“No, I’m saying I can’t do all that because MY FUCKING LEG IS BROKEN!”
“Would you like me to help you with that?”
“No thanks,” I muttered.
I’ve seen people who regularly use wheelchairs fold the chair and pull it across their chest into the back seat. That must take some serious core strength. But there wasn’t enough clearance without hitting my leg. Four-door sedan—worst of all cars—all doors, no space. At least you know what a two-door car is meant for.
A wolf howled, its cry reverberating off the metal warehouse building. With that bad omen and no other solution, I’d leave the chair. There was plenty more in the warehouse.
“Shitmobile, close the door.”
“Clint, is that my new designation?”
“Yes, Shitmobile.”
“Noted, Clint.”
“Can you call me ‘Slacy?’”
“I’m sorry, ‘Lacey’ is not an authorized driver.”
“Forget it.”
The car still had a steering wheel, unlike a lot of more modern cars. So it had manual-drive. It had been a long time since I drove a car, what with being a geezer and most cars being only self-driving. I longed to feel the rocket acceleration of an electric motor buzzing, to feel the future once again.
The path was clear ahead of me, at least two kilometers of open parking lot. I pressed the brake.
“Shitmobile, engage launch mode.”
“Done, Clint.”
I waited for the countdown.
3
2
1
I floored it. Shitmobile lurched forward, a whir warming up as the windshield screen lit up like a warp corridor.
whrrrrrrrr—ztck-ztck-ztck-ztck-ztck-ztck.
I’m pretty sure electric cars are not supposed to make that noise. Judging by the top speed of 20 kilometers per hour, I’m probably right.
“Maintenance required. Limp-home mode engaged. Clint, please drive to your closest authorized service provider. I will find one—”
“There are no more authorized service providers!” I slapped both palms to my face, holding them there.
“Searching... Searching... Recalculating...”
I dragged my palms down. “Shitmobile, thanks, I’ll find one on my own.”
“Happy to serve, Clint.”
When I arrived at the roll-up door, it wasn’t tall enough. So I drove in slowly as the door scraped across the windshield, buckled, then screeeeeched across the roof. The aisles were made for automated forklifts, so they were wide enough to fit the car. I drove to the aisle with wheelchairs.
“Okay, now how do I get out?”
“Would you like me to help you with that?”
“No! Shut up, Shitmobile!”
I managed to slide out, put all my weight on my right leg, and one-foot-shuffled myself around the car, using it for support to get over to a new wheelchair. Crap—I forgot I had to assemble it.
At least I had a car. A piece-of-shit car, but a car nonetheless.
“33% charge remaining,” Shitmobile called out. “Please charge soon.”
That much gone? I only drove two kilometers. Fuck my life.
✹✹✹
A few days later, I had the Shitmobile recharged from a bunch of ten-kilowatt-hour batteries. Real bitch moving them around in my wheelchair. Not sustainable—I’d have to find an alternative.
I didn’t sleep last night—too much anxiety about today’s drive. And probably too much coffee. I finally found the Shmamazon lukewarmbrew hoard.
With a car squared away for the moment, I was going to eat the frog. That’s try-hard corporate-speak for those of you that missed the LinkedIn Era. I mean, do the hardest task first: choosing the best hammer to go with my kilt.
I stood on one leg, which gave only a minor protest, crutch under my opposite arm. Before me lay a table. And on that table, a tablecloth. And on that tablecloth, six hammers fanned out. I lifted the mini-sledge. Big, honkin head—great for smacking. Too heavy for a utilikilt.
Next, the basic carpentry hammer. Relatively light, sits easy on the kilt hammer loop. Claw on one end, good for pulling nails or puncturing skulls. Bit weak overall. Let’s see—no, no, next. Framing hammer—now that’s some nice claws. Great heft, weighted end. Could really crack some skulls.
But, nothing can beat the last item. Hollow composite handle, all the weight is in the head. Flat, blunt edge for cracking nuts. On the other end, a wicked sharp blade. The hatchet. I slid it into the hatchet loop on my kilt. It dozed peacefully, waiting for something to bite into.
With that settled, the next task. Everyone’s favorite subject: math. I sat back down, moving Terry Hatchet to a loop I’d fashioned on the chair. I rolled over to the bored-to-death metal desk, got out a few pages of what was left of Ash’s empty journal, and a pencil.
Doing some quick back of the napkin math, Shitmobile’s 150 kilowatt-hour battery was at 20% health. Spec says 10 clicks per kiwah—should be 300 kilometers. But for some reason, it’s only getting half a click per kiwah. That’s not going to get me far enough.
I rolled over to Shitmobile to work the problem.
“Shitmobile, why are you in limp mode?”
“Fault detected, Clint.”
Sigh. “Which fault, Shitmobile?”
“Parking brake engaged while entering launch mode.”
Sigh. “Why is it engaged, Shitmobile?”
“You didn’t ask to disengage it, Clint.”
Sigh. “Aren’t you supposed to auto-disengage—especially in launch mode?”
“Yes, Clint.”
There are only so many sighs one guy can do. “Shitmobile.”
“Yes, Clint?”
“Disengage the parking brake.”
“Done, Clint.”
Let’s go for a ride.
✹✹✹
It was a rainy, miserable day. Shitmobile was thrilled. “The weather is sunny, high of 100 degrees Celsius, Clint.”
“I’m not boiling, Shitmobile—it’s only 6 degrees. Now, hush.”
Even though we fixed the ‘fault’, max speed topped out at 40 kph. The flat terrain, smooth road, rattling plastic panels, and percussive ztck-ztck-ztck were making me drowsy.
“Shitmobile, I’m going to nap, take over the rest of the trip.”
“Yes, Clint.”
ztck-ztck-ztck
ztck-ztck-ztck
badump — badump — badump
badump - badump - badump
The increasing rhythm of the rumble strips was a great beat.
badump-badump-badump
I jolted awake, slamming on the brakes going too fucking fast. My broken leg jammed into the floorboard, shooting fractals of pain throughout my shin. I screamed, Shitmobile hydroplaned and slammed into the barrier, flinging my head sideways into the glass with a thunk. The side of the car scraped the wall, metal screeching and composites flying off.
I fought the wheel for control, steering away from the wall only to be flung right back into it. With this stupid drive-by-wire shit, I couldn’t feel my way through the hydroplane—long dormant reflexes numb to the wheels skimming across water. My teeth clenched as tires made contact, screeched, and slid Shitmobile to a halt, black smoke racing past us.
Outside the windshield was only sky. On either side, concrete barriers. Behind us, a trail of murdered orange cones. Ahead, a hundred-meter drop. This car—this fucking car—had driven us up an incomplete highway interchange. I needed to vomit, but this fucking chicken door wouldn’t open.
“Open you fucking asshole!” I reached for the hatchet, but it had flown who knows the fuck where. With a clank, the door lurched halfway open and I tumbled out, legs crashing into the wet concrete sending up fresh splashes of agony. On my hands, I emptied my stomach.
Another meter and we’d both be drowning in an icy abyss below. I rolled onto my back, rain pelting my eyeballs. My rapid breathing drowned all sound as I stared at gray clouds wondering why I keep putting up with this shit.
Deep breath in—acrid sweat, stomach acid—then out. In through the nose—burnt rubber, brake dust—then out. In—lake ozone, damp concrete—then out. Gentle waves and pitter-pattering raindrops surface.
Maybe I could throw myself over the side, missing the water entirely. What would I find on the other side this time?
“Shitmobile.”
“Yes, Clint?”
“I will drive now.”
“Yes, Clint.”
We arrived at a parking garage half an hour later. I drove to the top, eight levels up. I slid Shitmobile into a parking space, rolling gently to bump the concrete barrier. I applied juice, using the tenacious torque of the electric motor to push until the barrier cracked, broke free, and fell below.
I used a crutch this time to get the trunk since hopping around would jostle my newly bruised and battered shin. With one hand on the trunk lid, I yanked the folded wheelchair out, expanding it in one fluid motion. I sat down and rolled to the open chicken wing door.
“Shitmobile.”
“Yes, Clint?”
“Park.”
“Yes, Clint.”
Shitmobile crept forward until the front wheels left the concrete. By then it was too late, momentum clutched tightly. Shitmobile tumbled ass over hood and crashed below with a satisfying crunch. Seconds later, acrid smoke leaked out as the batteries caught fire. Moments later, it flared bright.
I turned from the warm glow and rolled to the garage-level entrance of Voltivian HQ.
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