And I’m sure my dad’s favorite car in the world was somehow involved.
But my dad and I did share a love for cars and when my old 1968 Chevy Impala’s cam shaft twisted off, he presented me with the car of my old dreams.
A 1974 Mercury Cougar XR-7 350 v8 engine and 4 barrel carb.
I put my foot in that motor and kept it there until he found out. He then sweet talked me out of it in favor of a 1982 Monte Carlo that looked nice but didn’t have the vice.
I still don’t know how he did that.
So it stands to reason, that with my fondness for muscle cars that I would at some point write about one.
And this is how Marilyn came to be.
Although Marilyn hasn’t been out since June, it did cause a brief flutter of controversy in the world of horror fiction writers. Some, though never having read the book at all, concluded it was a k-mart version of Stephen King’s Christine and was thus not worthy of a read.
I don’t think that effected the sales any. I think what has effected sales is because nobody really knows about the book. And I guarantee, Christine never gave anyone a happy ending.
So I’d like to correct that by telling you how Marilyn came to be and where you can purchase a copy of your vary own.
It happened a couple of years ago, on a warm spring day much like today, where I and three of my dearest friends were hanging out at my best friend’s house. She’s of Italian descent and her house always smells wonderfully of fresh baked bread and olive oil. We were drinking cheraz, enjoying the soft warm air wafting from the kitchen window, scented by her rosemary hedge just beyond. Outside our husbands were preparing grills and dutch ovens for a cookout we were planning later on that evening.
After about the third bottle of cheraz went around, the conversation went from common everyday things, such as work and children and what craft project we were on, to the men in our lives. And men who, in the past walked in and out of our lives.
I started thinking about that time back in 1983, when my husband to be and I were dating, and we were cuddled up in the back seat of my beloved Cougar, watching Krull at the drive in theater. And I got an unexpected flareup of the giggles.
My friends wanted in on the private joke and so I told them, which set off another round of giggles from everyone. So with the wine flowing and bread baking and the men grilling outside, a story started forming in my mind.
And about the people who love them.
And love in them.
And what would happen if all these elements came together and you came up with a car that loves its driver so much it gives happy endings.
I’m sure I don’t have to explain that.
And so Marilyn was conceived in the back seat of my imagination.
Marilyn is a 1958 Edsel Citation named after the actress, was top of the line for it’s time, and far ahead of its time in terms of technology. Unfortunately a recession killed off this model as well as the appearance of the horse collar grill. And nobody liked the tele touch transmission.
But I digress.
And so I give to you today a touch of the magic that is Marilyn. She’s a wonderful car. Every teenager’s dream. I love her. I think you’ll love her too.
Bobby made it to the Arizona-New Mexico border before his last cup of coffee gave out and he had to stop for the night. It was well past two a.m. and he’d been driving along the cool desert stretch of highway, admiring the immense cascade of stars, the lopsided moon shining down at him just before it slid past the Dos Cabeza Mountains and out of sight.
He loved the very feel of the car, took pleasure in the smoothness of the ride, the hypnotic hum of the engine. Bobby was enjoying it so much that he hadn’t realized he was beginning to doze off. Marilyn’s horn blared, jarring him awake just in time to see he was sliding off the highway and onto the shoulder. He jerked the car back onto the road. He pulled over by a long and seemingly purposeless guardrail and stopped, his heart hammering in his chest.
That was close, he thought. I need to find a hotel for the night, or at least another truck stop so I can get more coffee. Bobby turned on the overhead light and rummaged for his map. After studying it in the dim light and finding no town in sight, he drove until he came to a nearby rest stop about five miles from where he stopped earlier. He killed the engine, locked the doors, slid back to and dozed.
Soft desert breezes invaded the partially open windows and caressed his face as he made that luxurious slide into sleep. Moments later Bobby found himself floating just above the car parked next to the creepy Joshua trees that crouched in the sodium-drenched lights of the rest stop. Then he settled back into himself. A scent, strong, profound and old, like the perfume his grandmother used to wear, filled the car. A faint mumbling filled the car. Bobby strained to hear.
You know what this looks like? It looks just like that place where those kids went parking, and you know what happened next? Have you heard the story, Vinnie?
Bobby felt the seat slide further back. He rested on the cusp of sleep, aware that something strange but exciting was happening around his groin area, yet was not convinced it wasn’t a dream.
The radio switched on, playing a throaty saxophone infested instrumental that sounded familiar but couldn’t quite place. Damn, he thought dimly. The dial must be stuck on the oldie’s channel. That’s all I’ve been able to get all day. I’ll have to get that fixed when I get back to Austin. Eminem beats the hell out of
Did you know? How did you hear about?
He couldn’t complete the thought because something very interesting was happening between his legs. He opened his eyes and looked down, astonished, as his fly unzipped—slowly and sensually, no zipper faux pas is this, he realized—Bobby found he couldn’t quite think of anything else. The noise on the radio was no longer important. What was happening between his legs was all consuming.
Even with the window partly rolled down, the scent of perfume was so thick he couldn’t breathe. He tried to slide his face near the window to get some air, but an invisible force was holding him down. Jesus, Marilyn, what are you doing to me? He wondered as a heavy but unseen entity climbed onto his lap and began a slow, undulating movement that forced his penis to vacate his tidy whities and stand at attention.
Did you hear about it Vinnie? How did you know?
Bobby couldn’t help it. He hit his mental snooze button, and slid deeper into the seat while the thing on his lap rubbed and gyrated against his groin.
Did you hear? Did you know?
You can purchase a copy at http://www.whispershome.com/