is rotating. That explains the dragons, I think. Inside a dark building stands Ruthie. A tall woman in iron with perky breasts behind a leopard-colored bra. JJ lifts the bra. Have you read the Bible, he asks in the gloom?
-Y-Yes, I answer.
You know, Adam and Eve, he says, about to take the panties of and show that beneath it, from a small knob, a power cord is going to the brain.
- She freezes JJ, I say. He stops and hangs the
bra back. I built her in eight hours anyway, she spins, he mutters. We move on among the works of art and enters the garage where the Wango Tango houses. A portable light illuminates under the hood and re-emit the light from the chromed lung of the great Dart block. Along the walls are crowded car parts for real. Not put there as curiosities. Not exhibited
They are just there in the Florida Jungle carefully saved on spikes in heavy timber. Kept for decades, just in case. Benches and floors smell oil and engine parts with names like Edelbrock, Holley, Hooker, Mallory, Scintilla, Isky and Mickey Thompson. JJ sees that I see and a wordless smile spreads across his face.