The whole tire fell off!

We once owned a nasty gold-colored van with headlights so dim people thought the brights were the normal lights. I leaned out the window with a regular flashlight to shine it on the road and it was brighter than the headlights. On top of that, an idiot smashed into the right headlight when it was snowing. Of course it was a punk driving one of those fancy status trucks. Those kind of guys can't drive and they definitely can't park.

This van couldn't go up hills, it could hardly speed up, the breaks were screeching, the clock broke, it smelled, and broke down every month or so. How could it possibly be worse?

One morning, I was driving my parents to the store and the van was weaving like the wind was raging. I was so confused. I was also feeling kind of bleah and the speed demons on the road would just have to find a way to pass me. They could crash for all I cared. I was driving at exactly 35 mph through town. The lawbreakers with high blood pressure were at 50. As a result, the ugly gold van was driving along all alone.

Right before the intersection, the whole van went nuts and wove all over the place. There was this hideous grinding noise. Somehow I pulled over onto the sidewalk. Everybody jumped out of the van and we found out the whole tire had snapped off. The rubber part hadn't blown out. I mean, the whole tire fell off. It had snapped at the part where the steering wheel turns the tire.

The cops and everybody who showed up concluded that had we been going any faster, we would have flipped.

Now I knew I had been an inch from death or mutilation. I went home, sat on the couch, and just watched Batman for the rest of the day.

It was about that time this punk showed up to see what he could do with the dead van. He asked me if I was the writer everyone was talking about. Talking about indeed. At the time I had like seven publications and things were in a sadder state of affairs than now. I said I was a writer.

The punk got all happy and then he said, "You should get published!"

"I'm already published. I've published short stories. Would you like to read some of them?"

"Oh, I only read good things."

You know, you don't go insulting someone without proof, and you definitely don't do it after they've almost died. The punk didn't read anything, he said I should publish a book and tell everyone he gave me the idea, and then he didn't even fix the stupid van.

We ended up with this blue monstrosity that refused to drive forward, left a film on your clothes, and the ceiling was falling apart. As for the punk, I can only think, "There's that creature," when I see him.

Oh yeah, please come read, download, or buy the book the creature probably thinks he inspired. It's available worldwide.

https://www.amazon.com/Nri-Kryne-Monsters-Demons-Book-ebook/dp/B08GZR31B9