You towed your broken down beat up, used, rusted old Chevy into my workshop smelling like crap, and looking a whole lot worse she had a busted engine sputtered like a plane (but not in a good way) you leaked black oil all over my floors stains of which I still can’t remove no matter how many gallons of bleach I use the radiator, well let’s just say had seen better days the interior leather seats were torn and the once slick body looked like you had ******* some mafia kingpin so I spent my days and nights greased up and elbow deep, in your muck trying desperately, but lovingly to do what a mechanic does best and I was leaking time like I owned it, when I could’ve should’ve found a more profitable fixer upper I told myself, no convinced myself otherwise and eventually, against the odds, fixed you then some schmo walks in a bulging from both pockets from wads of cash and grabs you right outta my hands the you I returned to a shiny beauty as best I could with the tools I had well then, maybe I did fix you I just never realised, I was doing it for someone else.