Charmander Car and the Devil's Lettuce | The Long Drive

Описание: Jaybird has renamed the hatchback.

It’s no longer just shiny—it’s sacred. The *Charmander Car*. A monument to combustion and evolution, painted in flares of volcanic orange and ember red. Its tailpipe sparks like a fire-type starter’s dream. Every mile feels like it’s leveling up.

But the slope ahead is unnatural. Too steep. Too long. The diesel-and-oil barrel, his trusted fuel hoard, becomes an anchor—bloated, sloshing, heavy with cursed promise. Jaybird sighs. He knows what must be done.

He releases it.

The barrel begins its descent, clanking with resentment as it tumbles end-over-end down the cracked road. Jaybird waits, breath held like a sniper in a snowstorm. Then he aims. Then—

💥 *BOOM.*

The blast is enormous. It paints the hilltop in flashbulb white. Jaybird is hurled backwards, cooked instantly—limbs akimbo, thoughts scattered, eyes blank. A death so vivid he sees every second play out in triplicate.

But then... he’s back. Standing. Breathing.

Reloaded.

Confused.

He rolls the barrel again. Same process. This time, farther. This time, he lives. And yet the memory of dying is etched too deep—like ash on retinas. Jaybird becomes convinced that the explosion exposed more than just physics. It revealed the *Devil’s Lettuce*.

According to Jaybird, it’s not just fuel—it’s myth. A supernatural plant-based contaminant. “They sneak it into diesel blends,” he insists, eyes twitching. “It’s grown on church rooftops and haunted rest stops. You don’t burn it, it burns you. Farmers use it to bend gravity. I saw a janitor sweep a whole hill with it once. I swear.”

(The lettuce in question is, in reality, completely mundane. Possibly romaine.)

But Jaybird won’t hear it. He starts seeing signs everywhere. Small roadside structures become suspicious shrines. Some contain cold meat—still twitching. Others harbor janitors. Their mops trace strange symbols on linoleum. Their eyes follow him, glowing faintly.

The *Charmander Car*, now lighter, bursts forward with savage joy. It skids around corners like a riled reptile, blinking its headlights in Morse code messages Jaybird pretends to understand. With every gallon burned, he feels more distant from reality. He begins speaking to the car directly, calling it “Commander Flamewheel” and insisting it once beat a Volvo in hand-to-hand combat.

Each day, he drives faster. Not out of desire, but out of *need*. He must stay ahead of the lettuce’s influence. Ahead of the mop-code. Ahead of the memory of his own death. The janitors hum to each other in reversed lullabies. Jaybird listens. Jaybird speeds up.

The Charmander Car purrs approval.