I don’t know if I ever told yis this before, but Cyril loves monster trucks more than pretty much anything else in life.
Only, he did me one better.
Now, my wife Minnie and Cyril’s wife Joan are in this big tiff because Joan didn’t tell Minnie she won the money until a few months after it happened. And I guess that hurt Minnie’s feelin’s because they’re supposed to be the best of friends and, well, you know how women are about stuff like that.
So now the only time I see Cyril is every morning when the usual gang of us – that’s me, Murph, Timmy, Tommy and Cyril – take up our usual spot in Tim Hortons to have our coffee and chew the fat.
Anyways, one day this week we were all gettin’ ready to finish our coffee and leave when Cyril asks me if I wanna take a ride with him somewheres. So I says why not, and I hop in his truck with him.
Know where we’re goin’? he says with a big grin on his face.
Ain’t got a clue, I said.
Ever hear of this fella out in Birch Grove that builds monster trucks? he says.
Builds monster trucks? I say.
That’s right, buddy. A fella that builds monster trucks. They calls him Monster Truck Jesus.
Now I was a bit skeptical because if somebody like that exists around here, you’d think you’d already know about him, eh? So we drive out to Birch Grove and Cyril’s drivin’ down the road right slow until he spots a broom stuck upside down at the end of a driveway that leads into the woods. You’d never even know it was there unless you were lookin’ for it.
Here it is, he says. And we pulled down the driveway and drove along for a bit with the branches whackin’ the windshield and the side of the truck.
Somebody actually lives back here? I says, and just as I said it the trees parted and we were in front of this big old red barn, like you’d see on a farm somewhere. All around the barn, there was car parts – engines and transmissions and stripped bodies up on blocks. Off to the side there was three trucks – just half-tons – but each one of them was on these big monster truck tires about five feet high.
Look at that! Cyril said, pointin’ at them. I told ya – he builds monster trucks!
And then just like that, the barn door swings open and there he is – sort of a skinny fella, in his 40s somewhere, with long hair and a beard. Rather than overalls, he was wearin’ this kind of long flowy white smock that was spotted here and there with engine grease and transmission fluid. And even on his feet, he was wearin’ like brown leather sandals.
That, Cyril said, is Monster Truck Jesus.
And I swear to cripes, if I wasn’t prepared for it, I would’ve thought it was time for me to meet my maker.
I got ‘er all ready for ya, the grease monkey prophet said to Cyril as he flipped him a set of keys.
That’s when I caught a glimpse of it for the first time. Sittin’ there in the barn was this great big beast of a vehicle – it had great big back wheels like a tractor, but small front wheels like a regular truck. The body looked like a cross between a snowplow and a VW Beetle. It was bright yellow with red racin’ stripes, and I noticed that on the hood there was an airbrushed painting of Hulk Hogan (only it wasn’t done that good so he looked cross-eyed).
I calls it “The Hulkster”!! Cyril says. (Cyril’s crazy about wrestlin’, too, eh.) Hop in! he says. Let’s take ‘er for a spin!
So a few minutes later we’re flyin’ through Birch Grove in the Hulkster, headin’ toward Port Morien and while Cyril’s tryin’ to bury the needle, I’m tryin’ to keep my head from bouncin’ off the roof and the windshield.
Whadya think? Cyril said.
She’s somethin’ else! I said.
D’ ya think I can store it in your back yard for a while? Cyril said.
What?! I said. Minnie’ll kill me!