"You're better off without the tropes," she replied. Anyway, the Ghostbusters were kind of skeezy. Especially the one played by Bill Murray. She'd only seen the movie once, but that whole electroshock just to get laid was all kinds of bad touch.
She hadn't even bothered with the sequel.
"And I think the van was a hearse so...hard pass. There are only so many vehicles cool enough for a gig like that, and a hearse ain't one."
In spite of herself, Diana's eyes lit up. She had a lot of vices. Most of them were well-known: Sex, honesty, attention, showtunes, and occasionally reverting to a ten-year-old version of herself.
Less known, however?
"A muscle car! I love the '67! Do you have the 250ci six-cylinder unit or the 283ci V8?"
Yes, that was what she asked. Not the color, not the value, not the condition. Diana Amelia Abel knew a thing or two about engines. Couldn't do any actual repair work to save her unlife. But you couldn't spend as much time in a trucking union as she had without picking up...everything.
The invention of the automobile had been so liberating for her, back in the day. A way to travel fast. A way to move. It made her feel alive in a way that she hadn't expected.
He grins, because he does love talking about his car. Sam likes it well enough, drove it around for four months while Dean was dead, but Dean loves his car.
"She's got a 327 Engine and a Four Barrel Carburetor, and a 502-cubic-inch big-block V8. She got smashed up a few years ago, so I rebuilt her."
Did people actually say 'cherry' any more? Diana collected slang like boys in the 1950s collected baseball cards and grannies in the 1990s collected thimbles. It was fun and exciting and it kept her feeling young. The problem was she had a hard time letting go.
She shook her head. "Sorry about the smashing part, though. That always sucks. I once totalled my 1970 Plymouth Road Runner Superbird. I miss that car!"
It probably wouldn't stop her from using it, but noted.
"Well, guess you're gonna be handy to have around, if some of the passengers have their way." She sighed. "I keep hearing all this talk about rushing the bridge and trying to take control. I've seen Titanic. I don't want this story to end that way."
"Cute and has a brain," she said, giving him a little smile. "I like."
This really wasn't the time or place to flirt. She knew it. She just couldn't help it. It was like breathing, a reflex that kept her anchored to being...you know...human.
Sighing, she shook her head. "Yeah, I mean, storming the bridge sounds romantic and heroic, but I'm not sure any of us can steer so...I'd rather have solid land beneath my feet before doing anything dramatic."
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She hadn't even bothered with the sequel.
"And I think the van was a hearse so...hard pass. There are only so many vehicles cool enough for a gig like that, and a hearse ain't one."
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"Yeah, it was a little...I dunno. Too on the nose? Nah. We use my car, instead. It's a '67 Impala. My dad gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday."
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Less known, however?
"A muscle car! I love the '67! Do you have the 250ci six-cylinder unit or the 283ci V8?"
Yes, that was what she asked. Not the color, not the value, not the condition. Diana Amelia Abel knew a thing or two about engines. Couldn't do any actual repair work to save her unlife. But you couldn't spend as much time in a trucking union as she had without picking up...everything.
The invention of the automobile had been so liberating for her, back in the day. A way to travel fast. A way to move. It made her feel alive in a way that she hadn't expected.
She friggin' loved cars.
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"She's got a 327 Engine and a Four Barrel Carburetor, and a 502-cubic-inch big-block V8. She got smashed up a few years ago, so I rebuilt her."
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Did people actually say 'cherry' any more? Diana collected slang like boys in the 1950s collected baseball cards and grannies in the 1990s collected thimbles. It was fun and exciting and it kept her feeling young. The problem was she had a hard time letting go.
She shook her head. "Sorry about the smashing part, though. That always sucks. I once totalled my 1970 Plymouth Road Runner Superbird. I miss that car!"
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"It did suck. But she's as good as new, now. I've been working on her most of my life...I pretty much rebuilt her, ground up."
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It probably wouldn't stop her from using it, but noted.
"Well, guess you're gonna be handy to have around, if some of the passengers have their way." She sighed. "I keep hearing all this talk about rushing the bridge and trying to take control. I've seen Titanic. I don't want this story to end that way."
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"Yeah, heard some chatter about storming the bridge, too. As much as I want answers and yeah, I'm pissed, that seems kinda rash."
Like, kinda stupid too. What're peopel gonna do, barge in guns blazing and kill the only one who probably knows how to steer the damn thing?
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This really wasn't the time or place to flirt. She knew it. She just couldn't help it. It was like breathing, a reflex that kept her anchored to being...you know...human.
Sighing, she shook her head. "Yeah, I mean, storming the bridge sounds romantic and heroic, but I'm not sure any of us can steer so...I'd rather have solid land beneath my feet before doing anything dramatic."
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"Yeah. Same. I'd rather not bum rush out at sea then just...float until we all die."
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She tossed it back like a shot.