Operation Car Retrieval

The taste of the Two-Finger Tequila was obnoxious. Each of them tried to prove their superior drinking skills over the others, but if truth be told, none of them were prepared for the power that tequila would wield over them. The drinking crew consisted of five men and one woman. Four of the men were longtime friends of the woman, while the fifth was an add-on — the mailman. He’d been having an affair with one of her roommates. The poor fella had no clue what kind of adventures the other five usually found themselves in. But he was about to find out.

Many fragments of failed conversation brought about laughter, fleeting bursts of so-called brilliance, and exaggerated words of grandiosity — all fueled by the manifestation of the tequila. Theories stumbled out of their untrained minds as they tackled the world’s biggest problems with the confidence of intoxicated scholars. They were the unproven experts of every topic. None was the wiser. Yes, it would be fair to say they had it all together. Clearly, the tequila hadn’t clouded their intellect or decision-making skills in the slightest.

Or so they thought…

The topic somehow wandered to the woman’s car — a 1976 Grand Prix, dressed in bright red paint, white leather interior, a quarter white vinyl roof, and a portable 8-track player. She called it a beauty, and it was. The 400 four-barrel engine was pure power waiting to be unleashed. The original factory rims had been swapped for sleek black centerlines, giving it an even bolder edge. That car didn’t just drive — it owned the road.

But the woman was upset. The tequila had hijacked the conversation, and her frustration poured out. She wanted her car back. Her now-ex-boyfriend had successfully stolen it from her twice. Each of them believed it was their car, so police involvement was pointless — a waste of time and paperwork.

The curious men wanted to know how she had gotten the car back the first time. In their minds, if it worked once, it could work again. But she shook her head — that plan wouldn’t cut it this time. They challenged her, certain she just wasn’t thinking clearly. Frustrated, she leaned forward and decided to tell them the full story of the first car shanghai.

They needed to understand that no two situations with this guy were ever the same. He was as unpredictable as the Two-Finger Tequila they’d just polished off. Grabbing a beer, the men settled into their seats, ready to hear about her escapade.

She took a deep breath, swirling the beer in her hand, as the men leaned in, waiting for the rest of the tale. "So," she began, "we both lived with my uncle about four hours away at the time. The car? Bought it from one of my uncles’ friends. The rims? Those came from my cousin. A whole lot of connections are tied up in one car." She paused, letting them take it in.

"Now, there was a payment plan in place. My ex had worked something out with the cousin and my uncle’s friend. The plan was that we would share the car, use it together. I paid the initial down payment, and everything seemed fine. But then…" She sighed, rubbing her temples as if reliving the moment.

“Tragedy struck. His dad died. I had a job, couldn’t leave. He said he’d take the car, go to the funeral, and come back in a few days. Simple, right? Yeah. Except… he never came back.”

Two weeks passed before frustration set in, gnawing at her thoughts like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She couldn’t stop imagining what her ex might be doing, or where he could have taken the car. But then, as if the universe had heard her silent prayers, the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires broke through her reverie.

She darted to the front porch, heart racing, hoping beyond hope that it was him, finally returning the car.

But no.

The car wasn’t hers.

It was her uncle’s, pulling into the driveway early from work. Her stomach sank, and for a brief, bitter moment, she allowed herself to feel the sting of disappointment.

Her uncle parked and stepped out, his boots kicking up dust as he approached the house. He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze softening when he saw her standing there, already expecting the worst.

“Thought I might be the one bringing it home, huh?” he asked, his voice calm but knowing.

She nodded, trying to suppress the wave of frustration threatening to choke her. Her uncle didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded $20 bill, holding it out toward her.

Confusion clouded her face as she stared at the money in his hand.

“What’s this for?” she asked, taking the bill but not quite sure what to make of it.

His look was not a look of suggestion. The look was a look of expectation. As she took the money, the uncle said, “Go get your car. This is enough money to get you back here. In the morning, I will take you to the bus station. You will get on the bus, go get the car, and return here. Do you understand?”

Stunned and unsure of what to do, she took the money and tucked it into her pocket, her mind racing with questions she couldn’t yet answer. There was no turning back now. The next morning, as her uncle had instructed, she was on the bus by 6 AM, the early morning mist still hanging low over the sleepy town.

"Operation Car Retrieval" was officially underway.

She sat quietly by the window, staring out as the bus rumbled along the highway. The farther she got from home, the heavier the knot in her stomach became. She wasn’t sure what had driven her to agree to this mad quest, but the sense of determination now settled over her like a cloak. She knew one thing for certain: there was no turning back. She would not return unless she had that car in hand.

Her uncle had spoken little, but his silence said everything. His actions had been all the instructions she needed: no words were necessary. His body language alone had made it clear—this wasn’t just a retrieval. It was a mission. A test. And failure was not an option.

But the trip itself did little to settle her nerves. She had no idea what she was about to walk into. The last thing she remembered clearly was the ex-boyfriend’s strength—the way he could crush a man’s spirit without even trying. He was a pulpwooder, a giant of a man, towering with the strength of five men. And the worst part? He wasn’t afraid to use that power. She had seen the anger in his eyes before, the recklessness in his movements when things didn’t go his way.

She had to be careful. She couldn’t let him see her, not if she was to have any chance of success.

Her heart raced as the bus continued, each mile taking her further from safety and deeper into unknown territory. She didn’t know what she’d face when she arrived, but one thing was for sure—whatever happened, she would have to be invisible.

The unexpected visit startled her mother. The heavy weight of silence that filled the room said everything. There were no cell phones to bridge the distance between them, no way to reach out and give a warning. But the woman knew her mission had just taken a more serious turn. She quickly explained the reason for her unannounced appearance.

Her mother, despite the worry lines etched deep into her face, looked at her with a knowing glance. As the sister of the uncle, she understood the gravity of the situation. Without missing a beat, she nodded resolutely.

“You go with your brother and get that car.” Her voice was firm, almost rallying, as if they were embarking on a grand adventure. For the briefest of moments, the woman saw the fire in her mother’s eyes—the same fire that had burned in her uncle’s when he’d sent her off that morning.

Her mother’s support was unexpected, but it lit a fire in her as well. She had the blessing of her family now. There was no turning back.

Her brother, tall and lanky, seemed to stand in the doorway, waiting for further instruction. His presence was reassuring, though she knew deep down he wasn’t much protection against the ex. He was no match for the power that lay in the ex-boyfriend’s fists. But that didn’t matter now. The situation had already moved past the point of safety. What mattered now was speed, precision, and an iron will.

Time was of the essence. Nightfall was fast approaching, and with it, the cover of darkness they would need to make their move. They couldn’t afford any more delays.

Her heart pounded as she and her brother gathered what little they needed for the journey. The plan had been set into motion, and it would only unfold once they arrived.

The ex-boyfriend was unpredictable, but she knew one thing for sure—he would never expect them to come for the car when the sun dipped below the horizon. Darkness was their ally now.

The silence of the night settled around them like a thick blanket. The road leading to his parents' house was short and gravel-strewn, a dirt path that stretched through the quiet woods, illuminated only by the faint glow of moonlight. As they approached the house, the woman’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

"Turn off the lights," she instructed her brother, her eyes darting to the house in the distance. "Coast the rest of the way."

Her brother, though not thrilled about the stealthy maneuver, obeyed without question. The 1962 Dodge Satellite, its old engine grumbling softly, rolled through the gravel without making a sound. The tires bit into the dirt as they came to a slow stop in the driveway, hidden from view by the large oak tree that cast its shadow over the area.

The car sat in the driveway. Light spilled from the house, flickering through the curtains. The hum of the television floated into the night, its steady drone a sharp contrast to the tension in her chest. This was it. The moment she’d worked toward all day.

She turned to her brother and gave a sharp nod. Wordless, they slipped from the car, moving with the practiced quiet of people who’d done this before. He stayed behind the Dodge, watching the road, while she moved toward the Grand Prix.

Bingo. The keys were in the ignition. Just like last time. He never changed.

Her fingers brushed the metal, cold, against her skin. A flicker of triumph rose in her chest, but it vanished quickly. As she slid into the driver’s seat, her eyes dropped to the tires. Two flats. Her heart sank a little, but not enough to deter her. She had come too far. She had already committed herself to this.

Work would be ahead of them, no doubt. But nothing, not the ex-boyfriend’s unpredictability nor the flat tires, was going to stop her now. This car was coming with her

The night air was cold, biting into her skin as she worked with practiced hands, her movements swift but deliberate. One flat tire after another was removed. The sound of the wrench turning echoed through the quiet night, mingling with the soft crunch of gravel beneath her boots. With each tire filled and replaced, her confidence grew—yet so did her anxiety. The adrenaline was a constant hum in her chest; each beat a reminder of the danger that lingered just beyond the edges of the darkness.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the tires were back on the Grand Prix. The car sat there, looking almost too good to be true, its once-damaged tires now ready for the road.

She slipped into the driver’s seat of her car, heart pounding, hands shaking slightly as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered... then died. Her breath caught in her throat.

She cursed under her breath. Of course.

She tried again, her fingers clenching around the wheel, her eyes narrowing. The engine coughed and sputtered, but it refused to turn over.

Nothing.

Her mind raced. The ex-boyfriend's unpredictable nature lingered like a shadow, but it was the clock ticking down to nightfall that gripped her tightly. Time was slipping away. At any minute, they could be caught. At any moment now, the situation could turn into something far worse.

Fear clutched at her chest, but it was joined by frustration. She slapped the steering wheel in exasperation. The car... there was no gas. Her brother had no gas can.

She could feel the panic bubbling under the surface, threatening to erupt, but she forced it down. This wasn’t the time for panic. There had to be something she could do. She looked around frantically, her gaze shifting from the empty car to the surrounding area, wanting her brain to work faster than it ever had before.

Think. Think fast.

There was no time. She had to find a way out. She had no choice.

As daring as it may sound, she knew exactly what had to be done. With determination, she and her brother pushed the Grand Prix onto the road, facing the exit. Without hesitation, she encouraged him to use the Dodge Satellite to give the car a push. Both vehicles were built like tanks—solid, old-school machines—and she knew they could handle the strain.

He eased the Grand Prix toward the stop sign, inch by inch, until they reached the edge of the next challenge: a busy four-lane highway. Just across the road sat a small store with a gas pump—freedom was in sight, but danger was still close behind.

They waited. The seconds crawled. Then—an opening.

“Give it all you got!” she yelled.

With a final, determined push, the Grand Prix rolled smoothly across the highway, with tires humming on the pavement. She guided the car safely into the parking lot and straight up to the gas pump. Not wasting a second, she waved her brother off. He needed to get out of there before anyone recognized the Satellite or realized what had just happened. She had already prepaid for the gas. Now, she just needed to make it out clean.

But fate had one more card to play.

As the last few dollars of gas flowed into the tank, a voice cut through the night air and sliced straight through her. Her stomach dropped.

He called her name.

She turned slowly, carefully, and saw the ex-boyfriend’s brother approaching. He smiled casually. “Didn’t know you were in town,” he said.

She forced a polite smile, nodded, exchanged a few brief words, and kept her composure. Don’t flinch. Don’t run. Don’t give it away. She played it cool.

As she moved to get back in the car, something caught her eye. The front tire.

The lug nuts were loose.

Her heart thudded like a drum, but her face didn’t flinch. The brother was still inside the store. With adrenaline sharpening every movement, she knelt and tightened the lug nuts with calm, practiced hands. One after the other. No time to second-guess.

She climbed in, turned the key, and the engine roared to life.

Without looking back, she pulled onto the road and made her way to the interstate.

Back to her uncle’s.

Back to safety.

Operation Car Retrieval has been a success.

The men were wide-eyed as she finished the tale of Operation Car Retrieval. More beers had been cracked open during the nail-biting adventure. Then one of them stood up. “We’re getting your car.” And just like that, the mission was on.

Excited mumbles and slurred hero talk echoed like locker room chants. Three men packed the front seat, two in the back with her. The tequila mixed with beer gave them all the courage of lions—or fools.

But this operation wouldn’t go so smoothly.

As they pulled up, there she was—the new girlfriend—arms crossed, phone in hand. She’d already called the ex, blowing the lid off their plan. The guys froze. Not her.

She marched to the car. Her stomach dropped. He’d wrecked it. The frame was bent. That beautiful car—they’d fought over it for months—was trashed.

Tequila-fed fury hit like fire. The keys were, of course, in the ignition. She snatched them and threw them into the irrigation lake. Then, one by one, she shattered the windows, poured dirt in the gas tank and carburetor, slashed every tire, and gutted the seats with the buck knife he’d once given her.

There’d be no more fights over this car. It was done.

The ex showed up. The men stayed put. She faced him, standing on the hood. He came at her. She didn’t flinch. She made it to the backseat, where the mailman had rolled down the window just enough for her to slide in. As she did, the ex pounded the mailman.

They peeled out with the ex in pursuit. When they took a sharp left, the driver—her friend—got thrown from the car. His letterman jacket probably saved his life, but he landed smack in front of a police officer.

The ex and the woman started yelling in the street. The driver got arrested for DUI. The ex’s ride left without him.

And somehow, a girl in a purple VW pulled up and offered them all a lift. Later, the rest headed to post bond.

They came home hours later—humiliated, empty-handed—but singing: “Don’t worry, be happy.”

The car was gone for good.