The Grumpy Old Man

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 “How could she take the fucking dog?” Roger grumbled underneath the engine, lying flat on his faithful creeper. The creeper was sticky, covered in decades worth of grease and oil and on these hot summer days, Roger felt every time he sat up a little piece more of his willpower was sucked back onto the bloody thing. The wheels of the creeper often jammed, so he’d occasionally be stuck underneath whichever car he was working on, flailing around, trying to get purchase on anything he could to push himself back out again.

A few metres away, Roscoe sat on an upturned milk crate, eating an orange, listening to the old bloke whinge. They were both counting the days until Roger retired and left him the shop.

“I. Gave. Her. Everything” Roger muttered darkly, tightening up the screws as he finished the 5th oil change for the day, his fingers worn and dirty, as they always were, accustomed to this type of work.

“Built her a house, never cheated on her, though I could’ve” he smacked his lips, which were dry and cracked, ready for a beer. “I could’ve had any woman in town”.

Roscoe sighed, and peeled the skin off another slice of syrupy orange.

“AND” Roger continued, getting warmed up for his usual nail in Debbie’s coffin, twisting the final screw back into place “The bitch never even said THANK YOU for keeping that prick of a Holden in good -”

Roscoe heard the tink as the screw ripped through the thin metal and oil poured over Rogers head.

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