Due to a lot of troubles with his 77 Ford Bronco, Walter enlisted my help to remove the gas tank and check the fuel lines. That fucking Bronco of his is a hole in the world that exists only to consume money.
You can’t convince him of that, though. I wasn’t aware that one could become addicted to seventies Broncos, but our dear Walter has fallen victim. He spends all his money for parts for his, and even spends his spare time looking at other people’s Broncos on the internet. He swears he can quit any time he wants.
Anyway, he had his gas tank off and various parts lying around yesterday, so I went out there to see what was up.
“How’s it goin’ there, Walt?”
“Come here and help me pour this gas out.”
He wanted to pour the gas out of the tank and into a plastic tank he had found in the shed so he could check for garbage in the gas. He’d already blown through the gas lines and found no blockage.
He needed me to hold the funnel.
He lifted the dirty tank and sort of rested it on his legs as he bent over it with his arms around it. He was grunting and sweating something fierce.
“You want me to do that?” I asked.
“Naw. I’m fucking this cat. You’re just holding the tail.”
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