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It was a hot sunny day and I was arriving home after a hard day at the office in rural Minnesota. The air conditioning was humming to the tunes of Jon Mayer on the radio, and I was thoroughly comfortable in my fully automatic, completely adjustable plush seats. Ah yes. Life as a new car owner was sweet indeed.
As I pulled into my driveway, a flash of silver caught the corner of my eye. I looked quickly to the left, where the flash had come from, but saw nothing. I let the flash slip from my mind as I pulled into the garage. As I was exiting my car, the flash appeared through the window, and this time I saw it. Outside, lurking in the field, was the remains of my 1985 Buick Century. The look on it's face was of anger and hurt. The grill was snarled upwards in a crooked, demented grin. The headlights flashed repeatedly in a menacing manner, sending a shot of fear directly to my bones.
While frozen with fear, I heard a terrible roar as the unmuffled engine of the silver rust machine roared to life. Plumes of steel blue smoke rose from the rear of the car, and dark streams of dirt shot from the tires as the car bolted towards my current position. The noise was deafening as the rust-laden engine burned to a fiery red. The car was enraged with hate, the hate of disposable life.
Within moments, the vehicle had dismantled my new car and was examining it for useful parts. I was sure that I was the next victim. As the car reassembled itself from new parts and old, I saw before me a living creature of mass destructive capabilities. Just as the creature was bearing down on me, ready to rip through my body, a loud and booming mechanical voice reigned down upon us. "Vehicle not serviced by a licensed auto dealer, warranty is void." And at the very moment, the vehicle crumpled into a giant pile of useless shit. | 
