Jim Toad worked his dark sweaty hands into the grime of human existence and emerged with dirty, grease caked hair that reminded his sweatbaby rachel of the face of the good lord himself. He could feel the subtle and intimate vibrations of his Dick’s Dealer Ford Focus as he slammed a sinewed muscular arm with a hammer attached to it into the frame of the automobile, the king of kings. 

Jim, son of Gim, cranked a socket wrench into the socket of broken, battered soul, he wept for children yet to be born and licked a sweet, green frog as he marinated how he would revive God’s light into his starter so he could get the hell out of his frozen ass driveway. He dropped the frog and jumped to freedom, away. 

Jim’s kid brother, limmy Can, ran around the car in a joy that only a child that does not know the hardship of a massive labor strike or a brutal strawberry picking plant at the ends of the Earth. Has God forsaken them? The Toads? The Focus rumbled and turned over like Atlas holding up the world and for grueling hours there was no relief. 

Coriander Cane Toad, Jim’s departed and broken father, along with his uncle, John, wailed and threw rocks into the sand. They thought they saw water in the sand and thought how to farm it. They could make a farm at the end of the world, they said. The Sun would grant them favor and the dust would settle on the land of God’s chosen 

Jim cracked his hand back and forth over the tailpipe and spoke sweet dirty words to his Focus, his only real companion. No friend knew him as well as his Ford. The Ford understood his problems. His wants. His needs. 

Jim licked his lips and knew he would coax the sweet Jesus out of the car if it was the last thing his ragged, sinewed body did.