The Civic sits before you, taking a long drag of its cigarette before exhaling through nitrous purge vents. “You know, I was a hit back in the day,” it says, its voice heavy with years of nicotine and regret. “Back then, in the aughts, this was what everyone wanted. People looked up to me, I was desirable.” Another drag. “I was somebody.”
“I get it. Tastes change, and cars like me get left behind. We’re too much, built too specifically for a look that’s out of fashion. We fly too close to the sun, and when our wings melt off or our intercooler hoses leak, the community that would have caught us is long gone. No one wants the smoothed-over drag-strip body kits, the big wheels with the thinnest of sidewalls, and taking all that off is just too tall a task. Cars like me, we sit outside and rot.”
Another drag of the cigarette.
“God, we had fun, though.”