I love laying in my hammock in my back yard in Texas. I watch the fireflies rise like sparks. I listen to the cicadas sing in the trees. It's peaceful, except for those damn boys from Fort Hood, roaring by on their motorcycles, and in their hot rods. They're a bunch of immature punks!

I wish I could move away from Fort Hood so I could get some peace and quiet, but it's convenient to roll out of bed and be at work within a half hour. I work as a mechanic on post. I have a truck and a car at home that I'm always too tired to work on.

Both my vehicles tend to break down at the same time. I am too tired to fix them. I walk around the corner to a dealership that specializes in ripping off soldiers. I point at a cute little car.

“I want this one,” I say to the salesman.

“Ok. I'll go get the keys for a test drive,” he says, and jogs toward the building.

He climbs into the driver's seat. The car is nice inside. It has black leather bucket seats. It smells like a sweaty young white guy. The salesman punches it and I'm pushed back into the seat. I wonder why he's driving like a jerk. I wonder why I'm not driving; it's my test drive. He pulls off into a residential area.

“Switch me sides and drive a few blocks,” he says.

I get in and roll the car sedately through the quiet residential neighborhood. It drives nice, and doesn't sound like it has any mechanical problems. The salesman slaps his forehead and wipes his face.

I sign the paperwork.

The salesman says, “Don't let ANYONE drive your car.”

I get it insured.

The insurance lady says, “Don't let ANYONE drive your car.”

I go to work and all the mechanics come out and look at my car.

They tell me it has an LS1 engine in it, a Corvette engine.

They say, "This is a real car."

One by one they all ask, "Can I drive it?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

The check engine light went off in my car. I take it to the auto-parts store and hook it up to a computer. We figure out that it has hollow catalytic converters, so I take it back to the dealership and make them put new ones on.

I tell the guys at work.

“You castrated it!” says my friend called Ball-joint. He looks so disappointed. “You lose so much horsepower and gas mileage with those damn things. I always hollow mine out.”

One really unique thing about my car is that she has had her computer chips swapped out for racing chips, has custom exhaust, an air-intake snorkel, and high-performance spark plug wires installed, but she has no cosmetic improvements. She is small, sleek, and silver. Cars pull out in front of me all the time because she is invisible.

I name my car Jetsy. She flies. She has taught me to be a pilot. I race by my house at two in the morning, roaring. I race the soldiers from stoplight to stoplight. I race down quiet residential streets. I discover that she can start from the stop sign, get up to eighty mph and stop at the stop sign at the other end of the city block. I'm such an immature punk! I've never felt so alive.