Late. Always.

A dusty dark blue tarp is removed with finesse. A mushroom cloud of dust explodes throughout the garage. He coughs and takes a few steps back while waving his hand in front of his face. The dust settles, as does his anxiety.

Ben Lynch stares at a maroon 1991 Ford F-150. Not the best truck. But, it was cheap, and it got Ben where he needed to go; anywhere, and everywhere. The truck was found many moons ago on a small used car lot that housed about ten vehicles. The office was one room inside a tiny brick shack. The owner of the car lot was nice. He would have probably traded that truck for a free cup of water, but Ben paid him a whopping $1,225. No questions asked. Both parties made out like bandits.

They look at each other like two former friends, maybe with benefits, who haven’t seen each other in years, and that’s because they had an awkward separation, but they’d still fuck right now without hesitation. Not Ben and the owner of the car lot, oh gosh no. This is the way Ben and the truck are staring at each other. Thankfully they’re not going to commit coitus. Or, is it cartus? This is more about the smolder Ben’s giving to this hunk of worthless metal.

Ben steps forward and rubs his hand on the hood, and then taps on it three times. He runs his finger through the dust and creates a trail that extends the length of the hood and eventually tapers off somewhere near the passenger side rearview mirror. He whistles the theme song to the hit television show Sandford and Son, and then stops as he smacks the back of the truck on the tailgate like a bad little F-150. Ben bites his lip and lets out a light growl.

There’s something about the first vehicle that you fell in love with. It might not be a long bed. It might not be four wheel drive. It might need you to go underneath it today, remove the exhaust, and replace it with a new one. You’ll come to find out that it’s not just the exhaust that’s the issue, but there’s a gasket underneath the hood that’s causing the truck to sound like a dollar store potbelly pig in heat. This’ll all get fixed and then somehow the starter will go bad, again. Yes, there’s something about the first stupid, piece of shit, vehicle that you fell in love with.

Ben’s first car was a Cutlass. Once again, this guy hasn’t had luck with cars. He took a lovely lady on a date one day and the Cutlass suddenly stopped working. The tow truck driver said it had something to do with large rods that had snapped. He said that it would cost more to fix than to junk the car and buy a similar vehicle. The good news is that this situation birthed this stunning boxy automobile that Ben’s currently drooling on.

He slides underneath the truck and uses a Sawzall to cut through the exhaust pipe. The blade jams three quarters of the way through. Ben squeezes the trigger once and the tool jerks back into his shoulder. His irritated eyes pan slowly toward where the Sawzall slammed against his clavicle. His jaw muscles pulsate, flex, and wave, as he tightly grinds his teeth. Ben slowly slides the blade from the incision and lays the tool away from him. His hands grip the pipe tight enough so that his knuckles go white, and then he angrily twists while letting out an exhausted growl. The pipe snaps off and he tosses it away without hesitation as it pings across the concrete garage floor.

There’s a moment, after the minor tantrum, that Ben lay on his back and stared into the grain and flakes of rust that coat the undercarriage. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath while wondering what the point might be in continuously salvaging this worthless truck. He’ll take it out for a stroll later today and then park it underneath a tarp inside the garage. This wasn’t about the truck. The truck is a distraction. Ben wants to get his mind off losing another chance at becoming a champion. It’s not the best distraction, but who can’t enjoy a good chance to replace the muffler on one of their whips? Why are there no hands being raised? Ah, fuck it, he’s a God damned idiot, but let’s keep reading.

Later that afternoon Ben enters his home and walks through the kitchen where his wife and children are eating breakfast. Ben’s covered in oil, dirt, and unidentifiable spatter. His once plain white t-shirt is torn in several spots and coated in splotches of brown and black. He runs his fingers through his oily brown hair and removes a tattered red towel from the back pocket of his grease stained khakis. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and then whips open the refrigerator so that he can remove a frosty sixteen ounce can of Coors Light. There’s no hesitation in popping the tab.

Ben’s oldest daughter is about to ask her father how he’s doing, but her mother taps her on the shoulder. Macey looks over at her disapproving mother. Claire, Ben’s gorgeous blonde wife, shakes her head and uses her maternal telepathy to relay the message that perhaps now’s not the time to address her father. Macey’s brow furrows because she’s not sure that she understands why her mother is trying to keep the decibel level down to zero. That’s when Claire motions her hands around her waist, and then slices her throat with her index finger. Macey’s eyes widen and her jaw drops. She forgot that her father hasn’t spoken since he was defeated by Sebastian Gold and lost his opportunity to become a champion.

Two losses in a row, and both were very big matches. There were a lot of questions that Ben asked himself following his failure to become the Alias champion. There are no answers at the bottom of the Coors Light can, unfortunately. He crushes the aluminum can into a coin only using one hand, and then nonchalantly summons the soul of Larry Bird for a hook shot into an open trash can in the corner of the kitchen. Ben lets out an obnoxious burp, scratches his swollen belly, and exits the kitchen.

Did Ben finish fixing the exhaust? Of course he did. Ben finishes what he starts. Which is something slightly ironic to note, but in this case it’s true. He most likely found a way to be inebriated the remainder of the evening. That was his way of celebrating the fact that he successfully achieved something. How many can say that they replaced the muffler on their own vehicle? Yea, and how many can say that they finished their night with a bucket of popcorn and a nice motion picture? Ben can. He found his therapy in a case of blue mountains, 3 grams of cannabis, and the comfort of a Blaze Claymore classic thriller. In this case it was the re-make of one of the sexiest movies ever: Logan’s Run. It can be streamed. Please do so. Blaze is phenomenal as Jessica 6.

There was something very different about Ben. Brevity, not once his strong point, had suddenly become an everyday routine. Even, in some instances, not speaking for days.  The chair at his desk had not moved, so there were no commercials being made.  Posterity on Fire, an idea spawned by the deranged brain of Ben's roadie, Dean Gullberry, was on pause.  He doesn't seem to think that anyone would care.  Then again - he hasn't spoken with Dean since Culture Shock.  Ben's felt no need to communicate with someone who's not contractually obligated with PRIME.  There's no reason for Ben to trust, or even work with, someone who's name sounds like a rouge spelunking piece of shit on a butt hair.  Dean's tried getting in touch with Ben on several occasions.  Ben ignores every text, and every call.

Hell, Dean even came to Ben's home last week while Ben was mowing the lawn.  Dean tried to stand in Ben's mowing lane to get his attention but realized that Ben wasn't in the mood to give a shit, so Dean stepped aside and witnessed Ben mow past.  Dean's body could've been sprayed all over the green Ohio grass and Ben would've kept mowing.  He can't hear anything anyway, not with Mr. Bungle screams Sweet Charity through his earbuds.

Was it excuses that polluted his thoughts?  Probably.  The voice in his head is always the salesman for a solid excuse.  Ben will give you every bullshit reason in the book for why it just wasn't his night, or how it didn't go his way.  He might even concoct an elaborate story that is so realistic, and so factual, that it's hard to not be true, but it's most definitely false.  He's trying not to fall into that trap.  It's always an excuse.  What's the excuse this time?  He knows.  He knows that he's spent most of his life being nothing.  A whole lot of nothing.

It's not a depression.  No, it's more than that.  It's a passion.  It's an aggression.  It's an odd wake-up call for a man who didn't expect to suddenly have an urge to just go ape-shit on the world.  The gym that Ben frequents?  They've had to replace a lot of equipment over the last few weeks because he's spent hours upon hours unleashing his anger and aggression.  It doesn't seem to bother him that he's having to shell out thousands of dollars to replace equipment, but why should it?  He's doing it on purpose.  Everything that Ben Lynch does serves a purpose.

Claire's mentioned to her best friend that she's not thrilled about what's happening.  He's not sleeping in bed.  Some nights he's not sleeping at all.  He's not assisting with disciplining the children, and in some cases he spends more time spoiling them then helping to right any wrongs.  He barely says a word, and will go out of his way to not speak at all.  She's tried so many times to have a conversation with him.  She's even reached out to Blaze Claymore.  The Hollywood superstar came over while Ben was outside building a free library for his daughter to have in their front yard.  Macey always wanted the neighborhood to exchange books with her, and she wanted a free library that looked just like their canary yellow house.  So, he did that.  Ben ignored anything Blaze did to get his attention, so Blaze left a signed copy of Lethal Weapon 5 inside the free library.  Someone in that neighborhood will be a very happy fan.

It's obvious, isn't it?  Ben's apparently upset with himself over his performance.  He should be, and he knows that he should be.  Everything that everyone says about him is true.  The good, and the bad, it's all true.  It's hard for him to deny it, and he's given up on arguing.  Years of training.  Years of selling character, after character, after character.  Years of abuse.  Not just to himself, but to others.  Years of taking advantage of systems and everybody's time.  Years of raping good people of quality.

And, it hurts him even more to realize that this is no different.  He doesn't care about Scott Hunter, or anything that Scott represents.  He doesn't even want to look at his picture, but unfortunately he has to pass it just about all the time, whether it's on the internet, or on some kind of social media.  But, Ben just doesn't care, and he just doesn't want to care, and that's always going to be the issue.  He knows that he should have been able to do more with the talents that he has, but he's lazy, and he can't stop embracing that mediocrity.  Regardless, Ben will always still have that semblance of Ben Lynch in him.  So, don't mind him when he does have two things to say to Scott Hunter when he sees his picture one final time.

"Fuck you."