The Champ

         "Damnit!" I heard Butch shout.  A wrench flew across the room, whizzing by Uncle Jack, only missing his head by about five feet.
         "Now, Butch, don't be destroyin' my shop and killin' people," Uncle Jack chided in his odd, calm tone.  He wasn't a small man by any stretch of the imagination.  He was muscular, and could have a temper when he wanted to, but most times, he was the most even tempered man I had ever known.  I loved to hear him talk, both because of his voice and because of the way his entire face told the story, not just his lips.
         "Sorry, Uncle Jack!" Butch hollered, still struggling under the hood of the Studebaker Champ brought in three days before.  It almost looked like the front end had swallowed my husband.  His legs dangled from the edge, conductor boots waving around as he reached in.  I fully expected to see teeth come out and hear a "gulp" at any moment.
         This all started when Old Mr. Offenbeck brought it in after finding it in someone's field out in Lockhart.  It was almost drivable, just needed a battery. At least, that's what he told us.  When we took a closer look, the truck was badly in need of a brake job, a new fuel tank, plugs, wiring, and various other little things.  For Butch, it should have been easy.  Tedious, but easy.
         Instead, it seemed like Mr. Offenbeck's new toy was cursed.  Not only was it in worse shape than we anticipated, but it seemed like the truck didn't want to be fixed.  I stood there, arms folded, watching Butch as Uncle Jack got bored and wandered back up to the office.  Butch pried himself out of the truck's mouth and hopped into the cab to start it.
         Nothin'.  Oh, the truck coughed a little, teasing as if it would actually start, but really it was nothing.  It was on Butch's last nerve.  Rally Days started the day after tomorrow, and this danged truck was just one big frustration.  He zipped back under the hood again, tinkering and banging, cursing like a sailor.  I turned and looked up at the office window and saw Uncle Jack, a wicked grin spread across his face.
         The next thing I knew, Butch yanked himself out from under the hood again, and hopped back in the cab.  He tried starting it, sweat beadhing on his forehead like a body builder at Muscle Beach, begging the engine to turn...
         "VROOM!" yelled the truck, smoke pouring from the exhaust.  With a sputter, the engine continued running, rattling and shaking like a magic fingers mattress.  Butch threw his head back on the seat and laughed like a mad man.  Uncle Jack trurned on his perch and walked back into his office.
         "'Bout time!" he called from inside.  I gave the customary Wicked Wolves howl, and Butch kept laughing as if he'd gone off his rocker.  The truck was, by no means, finished.  Just conquered.  For now.
         At least the day ended better than it started.