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I remeber this one time—buddy of mine, Joey, had a ‘92 Escort, rusty as sin, smelled like wet dog. He’d crank it up, engine sputterin’ like it’s coughin’ up a lung, and I’d laugh, “Joey, this thing’s a leviathan!” He’d grin, “Bernie, it’s my whale!”—straight outta the movie, “A whale’s a beast!” That car hauled us to rallies, protests, you name it. Broke down 16 times one summer—SIXTEEN! I was pissed, kickin’ the tire, yellin’, “Ford, you call this reliable?!” But damn, it was freedom, y’know? No billionaire handouts, just grit.

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But back to the job. Ion finally shows up, like, an hour late. He’s all flustered, saying he got caught up in some “important business.” Yeah, right. I’m thinking, “Dude, your ‘business’ better be worth my time.” We get to work, and I’m trying to keep my cool. But then, the equipment? It’s all messed up. Like, how do you mess up radio gear? I’m losing it.

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