From Russia with Love . . . Death of my Beloved 206

доброе утро!   That is apparently “good morning” in Russian sayeth the fine folks at Google.  Damned glad we moved to France rather than Siberia.  As you know, the wife has spent the better part of the week in Moscow chasing down her career while the gents and I have held down the fort here in France.  Fearing that our emotional condition was wavering a bit, I had arranged an outing to visit some friends in the center of Bordeaux.  We were looking forward to the visit and each of us seemed overly excited to be getting out of the house for a bit.  I tended to the domestic chores during the early hours of our day in an effort to give us a relaxed afternoon and evening out and about.  With everyone dressed and fairly well groomed, I went to fire up the 206 for our journey into civilization.  FAILURE!  She whined, stammered, whimpered and wheezed, but would not start.  Eventually she stopped breathing all together and all that could be heard from the monitors was the ominous flat line.  Time of death . . . 4:01 P.M.

I called our friends and informed them that we would be delayed.  Based upon the autopsy, the cause of death seemed to be a failing battery.  I called to neighbor to see about a jump and they very kindly agreed to assist.  The lady of the house arrived in her Mercedes and a very delicate set of jumper cables that were surely meant to jump start a watch battery rather than my sickly Peugeot.  Without a moment to spare, I screamed “CLEAR” and gave the heart of my little lion a low voltage jolt.  Nothing.  Again . . . “CLEAR”.  Her instruments flickered for a moment, but she returned to defibrillation.  It was determined that our crash cart was not equipped with the instruments necessary to breathe life back into the failing lungs of my 206.  We would have to wait for her husband’s return with a sturdier set of jumper cables.  I phoned my friends and let them know we would have to reschedule for another date.  The boys were sad and we agreed to say a prayer and play a round of “Taps” for our fallen 206.

We went about the remainder of our day, occasionally giving a glimpse out the window at the now frozen corpse of our trusty 206.  Soon enough, a knock came at the door.  It was the neighbor.  He had the wild look of Dr. Frankenstein in his eye and insisted that he could bring our 206 back from the grave.  The ritual commenced and some chickens were sacrificed.  With the ritual fires burning and incantations murmured with delicate precision, we once again endeavored to re-animate the now mummified 206.  Like some unholy mix of hell hound and mechanical demon, she soon growled to life to await her master’s next command.  I am fearful for what we have done.  Perhaps our grief has overshadowed rational judgment.  What we have brought forth could surely be our undoing.  Quickly, my neighbor retreated and my 206 just sat their growling and grunting as if possessed.   At any moment, I expected her to regurgitate a stream of pea soup from her tail pipe as her headlights spun around in circles.

I decided it was best to let her marinate . . . to steep a bit in her evil juices.  I retreated into the safety of our home and left her grumbling in tongues out in the driveway.  When I returned several minutes later, it seemed she had calmed a bit and let me approach to lay her to rest for the evening.  I knew not what I would find come morning or what twists and turns the remainder of the week might hold.  I have, however, decided one thing for certain.  After all of the trials and tribulations, I believe the trusty 206 deserves a proper name and after much consideration I have decided on “Christine”.  Pray for me.  R.