The Price Of Progress

My music is playing. It's good. It makes me want to drive. That is just what I am doing, driving. On the road for hours. On THIS road for hours. This road we have all driven on. It is THE road. Not A. THE.
I feel disconnected from the world. Another car has not passed for some time. All I see are endless fields. All homes, unoccupied, barren. I am driving on the surface of the moon. I pass a deserted gas station. It is but a crater. I call it "Mare Imbrium", and chuckle to myself. I am clever. I think of the foolishness of early astronomers and their belief of lunar seas. These seas where nothing but craters, as desolate as the land I now drive through.
The music stops.

I am annoyed by this lack of noise. It allows my thoughts, my not so pleasant thoughts, to surface. I seek with a cool frantic reach to my music collection and find an album of sufficient noise.
The cacophony calms. Its tempo is more than my heartbeat. My heart rises to the challenge, as does the speed-o-meter. With increased speed the muffled purr of my precision built German Penis Extension grows to a disquieting white noise hum. I turn up the music.
And once again I am at ease, with the road, with myself... the moon. I settle back into my seat. MY seat. I earned it. I press the third positioning button on the dashboard. My seat soundlessly whirs, my back is repositioned. "Relax" the precision crafted German automobile says, "You deserve it, let me take care of everything." I imagine my car has a German accent, and chuckle. "Hyo dezerrve eet." Hehe.
The music calms a bit. My thoughts return.

"The great thing about my creation is its simplicity." The professor slurred. "Imagine...if every car on earth ran 200 miles to the gallon..." His words ran together. "Milstuduhgaln". I looked at him straight on, "That would no doubt be a miracle, sir." I slurred, thought not drunk as he was. "I doubt your claim. Nothing can run so many miles on a single gallon of
petrol." A gleam came into his eyes. "Would you like me to prove it?"
"Show me." I said.

His garage was a disaster. Bric-a-brac in every corner, shelf, and drawer. Numerous gas cans and jars half full of odd colored liquids rested on any open space. However in the middle of this chaos was a single gem, a three and a half thousand pound gem. It was a beautiful 1963 Cadillac Coup Deville, and it was running. The professor closed the door behind us. We were sealed in with the engine. Chug, chug, chug...more locomotive than auto.
"You see, I have had this car running day in and day out for almost a week now... on a single tank of gasoline." He adjusted his glasses on top of his red nose. "And the device I retrofitted this vehicle with cost me thirty seven dollars to construct, and an hour to install." It may have been my imagination, but the engine seemed to idle more quickly for a second, in enthusiastic agreement. He glanced at the car and patted the luxuriously overwide hood. "And, if you hadn’t noticed, there is no ventilation in this garage." I looked about myself. Both doors were solidly closed and all the windows were nailed shut. I turned my gaze to him once again, puzzled. "The vehicle that stands before you puts out such a negligible amount of pollutants, its exhaust is as safe to breath as water vapor." He grinned. I laughed a mean and scornful laugh. "Only a fool would believe such clap-trap. There is no way to derive water vapor from gasoline combustion." He seemed taken aback. He drew closer to the car and ran his hand back and forth on the hood, as if to sooth a wound I had caused it.
"I assure you, sir, I speak the truth. I would stake my life on it."

"Would you...?" I grinned.
"If the exhaust is as pure as you say, surely you could breath directly from the pipe itself?" He looked at me above his glasses. "Yes...I suppose."
"I have very powerful friends professor, if you can prove to me the cleanliness of this car, I can persuade them to fund your further research. Maybe even a lab of your own..."
The professor looked about himself, at his decrepit garage, at his second-hand tools. "Alright." He said.
He walked to the rear of the car and knelt down near the exhaust pipe. I followed and stood behind him. "I must have a good view, I don’t want any funny business."
"I’m only in the business of saving the world, sir." said he.
He bent down half way and then sat back up. He raised his bony hand as if to give a toast. "To the future of the world!" he cheered, and placed his mouth on the exhaust pipe. "To the world." I muttered, and kicked the back of his head with my British made steel-toed boot.
His body was twitching, but I was sure he was dead. The pipe had driven itself through the back of his neck severing his brainstem.
~

His body was still twitching like a crushed insect as I doused him with gasoline. I walked around the Cadillac one last time, taking in each and every detail. I took the key out of the ignition then popped the hood and took inventory of the engine. Everything seemed to be in place. No, there was one thing that didn’t belong. A small black box was attached to the fuel line before it entered the carburetor. I reached into my pocket and withdrew my precision-machined Solingen steeled folding knife. It opened with a satisfying “Snick”. After a few moments of cutting I had freed it of the fuel line and placed it in a plastic baggy. I soaked the expansive interior with gas before covering every surface in the garage. For safety sake I made a trail of slower burning kerosene from the puddle of gas to outside of the garage. I discarded my gas-covered gloves and lit an imported Turkish cigarette. After a few sweet drags I carefully placed the cigarette half way on the trail of kerosene, took one last look at my work, and walked briskly to my car.
With the windows rolled down, I parked a couple blocks away.
Then the symphony began.

“Whoosh” As the cigarette cherry reached the kerosene trail. Faintly in the rear-view I could see the flames creep steadily to the garage. “Foom” As the flame trail reached the main puddle. The introduction was through; the time had come for the first movement. “DOOM” Went the muffled explosion of the gas tank. Flames were leaping from the garage door now. I imagined in my minds eye the profesors corpse engulfed in black and brown gasoline flames, his body still moving. I hoped he was still moving. Now comes the crescendo! Pow! Pop! BLAM! Go the tanks of gas and other flammable substances that volatile garage housed. Great billowing clouds of black smoke poured from the door, signaling the final movement. It was time for me to leave. The firemen would arrive soon, to tune their instruments and play their song.

~

I call my contact, as I have countless times before, and we arrange a meeting. I find him in a parking garage. He is smoking a cigarette. I feel like Mulder from the X-Files. I wonder if he feels like the “Cancer Man”. “Our benefactors are pleased with your work.” He says. Drag. “Were you able to able to locate the item?” Drag. I slowly reach into my pocket and remove the baggie. He takes it and gives it a once over. Drag. “Amazing.” Drag. “Such a small device could have changed the lives of millions.” Drag. “And cost our clients millions.” I said, wanting a cigarette. He nodded and took one last drag and dropped his smoke to the ground. “They will make millions from it in due time.” He placed the baggy in his coat pocket than retrieved a fat manila envelope. “Your payment.” He said. I took the envelope and tested its weight. It felt about right. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. Drag. “Care for a smoke?” Drag. “I’d kill for one.” I said.