If this were a sitcom, I'd already be on Season Two, given how much writing this has been for me. I'm bored of talking about the Snowbaroo models for now, so you'll have to stick around to hear more about the Impasta, Outrun, TRX, BRA, Decent, Forager, and Crossback. Whew, that's gonna be a lot to cover.

Anyway, the main issue with our location was that Dark Dimension Ford lay right on the line between Dark Dimension, New York and some other New York town. Bedfordville, or something along those lines. When Dark Dimension Ford's owner came in, he had really bad eyesight and couldn't figure out how to employ Google Maps, so he just assumed his property was in Dark Dimension, New York. But really, that whole side of the street, including the abandoned Mitsubishi dealership next to Ford, lay in Bedfordville. Everyone at our dealership had been around long enough, except for me and Alex, to see Mitsubishi as our sworn rival. Good thing that Lancet or Lancelot car they had got scrapped, because that was the big TRX competitor for a huge time.

Now, we got a new complication.

Dan Lurkins Snowbaroo set up shop overnight, like a meth lab except more sinister, in that old Mitsubishi building. A day later, they had copied every single vehicle on our lot. Even down to the options and paintjobs! The plasma yellow Crossback with heated seats, roof rails, and tan leather interior? The lowered Outrun with a tow package, sport grille, black cloth interior, and Harman Carmen speakers? Even the TRX with air ride suspension, heated seats, the full SpySight suite, advanced rear and front radar, turbo upgrade package, and sport tuned exhaust?!

Lucky for us, their sales shop consisted of a cracking, sun-bleached parking lot and a showroom marked by weird angular glass protrusions and matte black façade. Our curved front look was totally better looking.

They'd hastily thrown up a Snowbaroo logo over where the Mitsubishi recycling triangle thing once was painted, but you could tell they weren't too concerned about not looking as Snowbaroo, through-and-through as we were.

Yet, it was still a tense moment when George called us together around the hood of a gunmetal grey BRA, like we were going to battle.

"Dan Lurkins moved from some place called Milford, Connecticut," He informed us. "They used to have an older dealership, with that salmon-colored, stone-lined, blue-roofed look. That was the branding we used to have before they renovated and went slate, navy blue, and silver for our look."

"I liked that old look," Ben chimed in a low tone. "It felt more like a villa style."

"They managed to get an exception from Snowbaroo to sell within our radius, as Snowbaroo believes this area is higher-traffic than any of their other locations. Or, they didn't realize how close Bedford is to Dark Dimension." George let out a really heavy sigh, and fixed us all with the look of a real leader.

"Dan Lurkins is the largest dealer in the area. We were the first, but somehow, his dealership is larger than ours."

"George," I frowned, "Are we actually scared of a guy whose Snowbaroo signage is a hand-drawn Snowbaroo logo on a piece of flattened cardboard?"

That made the whole group stop, and look outside at the piece of pizza box with the words, "Snow-Baroo Sold Here," scribbled on it.

"Don't be swayed by their lack of signage, Grisly. Dan Lurkins has impeccable social media presence." Frederick, who'd just spoken, now stepped forward to show me his phone screen. Freddy liked big phones, so it was easy of us all to gather around the iPhone next generation, One-Hundred, Double-XL, Cobalt, Mega-Pro-Pro and see Dan Lurkins' Instagram feed. Figures, he had actual product photos on the ground; all we had were the stock photos provided by Snowbaroo on our website.

"Listen, didn't somebody here buy a camera a few years back?" I looked around the room, my eyes landing on Orv. "Orv! Didn't you guys buy some fruity little trinket for photography at some point?"

"You'd have to talk to Wil about that one," Orv retorted, nudging Wil back to planet earth, since his bro was staring daggers over at Dan Lurkins' service department. Like he had x-ray vision or something, Wil replied with something about tools.

"Hello, crew."

We all spun around, and gasped like they do in the movies, or when those people get "surprised" with a million-dollar check.

Dan Lurkins, if it was actually him, was pressed up against the rear bumper of a Forager, his light blue sweater-vest nearly indiscernible from the vehicle's stock paintwork. As we watched, he unbent his frame – a challenge for someone who looked at least fifty-five – and looked at like me like he'd caught me crawling out of a dumpster that morning.

"You! Snow Brush Boy!" He staggered forward, uncorked his spine, and pointed towards the parking lot. I didn't really hear what he instructed me to do, because I was looking at his face and hair, and realizing that he looked just like that cartoon guy from that holiday special. No one probably remembers it, old Rankin and Bass thing, but there was this guy, "Snow Miser." Dan Lurkins looked just like that guy. I half-expected him to snap his fingers and turn everything around him into snow, just like that Snow Miser guy did...

He also sort of looked like Neil Patrick Harris with grey hair, so I don't know.

"I'll own this place soon enough, so don't worry about writing a letter to the powers that be, George..." Dan Lurkins eyed us all with this impish disdain, like we'd forgotten to put deodorant on. His creeping ways reminded me of that annoying guy in the Harvey Blotter series, that one with all the folks in cloaks and with little twigs they did sorcery with. The character was the evil henchman type, so it was weird that Dan Lurkins would run the show.

"Don't get too cozy yourself, Lurkins." It was Isaac's turn to give our competitor a what-for, but we all knew Isaac was a man of penned destruction. You could bet that he'd rip Dan Lurkins a new one if he had some time, ink, and a pad of paper.

Lurkins, who knew nothing of the rivalries Isaac had proudly cultivated, just guffawed in a snotty way. Literally, snotty. It was like his nose was dripping and he inhaled, which caused him to cough a little. He must've been outside before this or something, or it was his spring thaw – if we were taking the Snow Miser analogy.

"Get out of my dealership, Lurkins," George commanded, his bossy side finally kicking in. "I'll see to it that we coexist in the best interest of the Snowbaroo brand and it's customers."

Lurkins snorted some more, like he was trying to conserve on tissues by reabsorbing his snot down his gullet.

Alex, who I caught out of the corner of my eye, hanging out near Ben and the brothers, looked like the sound and similar thought had begun to turn her stomach.

"Have a warm day!" The parting hail came from Orv, given we all knew, a warm day was the worst day for Snowbaroo sales.

Then, we kicked into overdrive. Like those scenes in movies and stuff, where all the cool-guy heroes mount their motorcycles and blast off into danger, our dealership became a hive of order-taking.

"Orv, get me the Rolodex of all our past customers from the last decade!" That was Isaac, who's also our head of financing in addition to his master mechanic stuff.

"I've got that list of cars needing a service, Wil!" Alex, who could work the phones faster than an old switchboard person.

"Ben, in my office!" George, obviously. He was the only one besides Ben with a closing office door.

Frederick was busy prepping what I hoped would be an op-ed or anonymous review of Dan Lurkins. He was super ethical about the power of the press, as a newspaper columnist, so I figured he'd just talk about the latest developments in Dark Dimension's local IGA. "New milk refrigeration system keeps Dark Dimension IGA cooler than ever!" Stuff like that.

And as for me? Snow Scraper Boy had a super-important job.

"Grisly! Get your ass to Slammed Rover of Dark Dimension! And ask for Alé."

Ben, he was always pretty gruff when his morning coffee got cut short. Or maybe he'd had a bad night's sleep or something.

"Yessir!"

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***

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I plodded along in my good old Jealousy wagon – Wil had reassembled it while we awaited those jet engines, minus the original bumper; it now had a Hawkeye-light front bumper. It was a cold day, but not particularly snowy. Slammed Rover was up the street a long ways, in a pretty small place designed to look like a ski lodge or something. The cars were all parked on this rocky trestle, sort of cemented into place but looking like a rocky overhang.

Like the name suggested, these cars were of the "slammed" variety. With a ride height even lower than our lowered Outrun model, I pity the folks who'd have to drive the potholed roads of Dark Dimension with one of these machines. Luckily, the only folks gaudy or rich enough to dig them were from out-of-town. Hence, why the dealership had sold a total of, like, three cars since they opened years ago. I'd heard they only staffed one or two salespeople and that the owner had to own three other Slammed Rover dealerships in LA, Vegas, and Fort Lauderdale to keep the lights on.

When I walked in, my suspicions were confirmed.

A flirty-looking chick with long brown locks of beachy posture, cutoff shorts, and sporty-looking running sneakers met me almost immediately at the door to the place. It was like she assumed I was lost, yet was determined to at least eke out a test drive.

"Hello, Alé." She was alone, and the place was lonelier than a McDonald's at midnight, so it figured that she'd be the one Ben had told me to chat up.

Alé immediately seemed to recognize my loyalties. Maybe because of those swank navy-blue Snowbaroo pullover jackets we'd all started wearing...

"Snowbaroo?" Her smile seemed to tell all the rest. "All-wheel drive and Boxer engines, right? Fun times."

"Ben, uh, says I should talk to you. We've got this situation, you see." Who knew if she'd know Ben; after all, Ben was one of those ever-aware folks. He got called "The Hawk" or "Hawkeye" a lot, because he could pick minute things out very easily. Same thing with people, I think.

"How is he? And is George still the owner?" The girl, who was perfectly copper toned in complexion and sported the brightest brown eyes I'd ever seen, seemed to really take interest in the staff at Snowbaroo. Probably because she'd worked for them or something, so I nodded.

"Yeah, they're all there. Anyway, I just wanted to stop by, because Ben said we need you."

Her casual little grin made me shiver, and I started worrying that she was actually flirting on purpose. Luckily, she wasn't.

"I'll leave this place in a heartbeat if the offer's good, but I'd need a darn good commission and base salary. At least in this place, they pay a bit to have me do nothing." Alé retorted this in a way that sounded like she expected to be bored at Dark Dimension Snowbaroo or something. Her voice was like a tinted window and a racing exhaust, inflected with this sort of rasp yet vivified by foreign elements.

"Are you from somewhere?" I found myself asking, suddenly.

Alé, whose eyes had begun drifting out towards the empty parking lot beyond the cramped and plain white showroom, snapped back to me with another one of those elegant grins. It was like a tomboyish, toothy smile, but also super classy at the same time. "Brazil," She replied, the name of the country flourishing off her tongue like she'd brandished it as a fencer does to the rapier.

"Rio, huh? Isn't that place really scummy?" I didn't realize how offensive that probably sounded until it came out, and Alé, who probably owned a timeshare there or something, took major offense.

"Get out, get out! I don't want to even hear it! The next thing you'll probably do is insult my brand, right?" She began backing me towards the door, and I noticed for the first instance how tall she was. I was probably only like an inch taller, and that was due to my gelled-up hair.

Scared was I, so much so that she didn't even need to get too near to me to make an impact. Just like Ben, George, and Isaac, even. But her composure was more one of cunning and ire than downright belligerence and furiousness, which made the whole thing even more disconcerting. Amazing how I'd gone from being the dorky little errand-runner from Snowbaroo to badmouthing her home country.

"We all have pasts!" I managed to squeak, "George was a Chevy guy before Snowbaroo; he had a giant Suburban!"

Alé smiled in a devilish manner. She'd stopped walking towards me, but her overall gorgeousness combined with the level of attitude and coolness she cultivated made me want to just buy a Slammed Rover accessory kit and get out of there!

"I'm so sorry!" My plea was also self-preservation; Ben always got what he asked of folks, and since Alé seemed to know him and George, it followed that I'd be up a creek if there was bad blood between us. "We need to work this out at the dealership though, because a rival of ours just moved in, and we're out of luck if we don't have your help!"

My urgency, I hoped, would fan the flames of her ego. Yet, once again, Alé surprised me.

"I'm not desperate for a job, if that's what you're thinking..." She put a lot of topspin on her r's, so it was almost mesmerizing to listen to, and see that rad smile. Rad, that was the best word for this chick.

"You seem to hold this fort down well," I agreed, not sure what a Slammed Rover salesperson who never really got customers made. Judging by her appearance alone, she did alright. "You'd definitely excel at our dealership."

Her laugh, which I was now treated to, was admittedly as hip as her smirk and the Nike high-tops she donned. I was up against the front glass door to the place, still feeling conflicted about the comment I'd made. Or rather, guilty.

"I'm a pilot for Alighted, so I'm in the air more than I'm here. In Dark Dimension, of all places." Her pointer finger shot out towards me with the speed and precision of a knife. "That's New York, for you. Brazil was so much better climate than here."

"You're a pilot?"

"I fly the Bomblaundry Q400, it's one of the most advanced turboprop airliners." Alé continued, subtly not seeming to notice the humor in the airplane's name.

"Bomblaundry?! Is that what you said?" I tried not to scoff, but that sounded like the stupidest name ever.

"No. Bomb-laun-dar-eh. It's French, so though it looks like 'laundry,' it's fancier sounding."

Alé didn't get the chance to finish, because at that point, the second responders showed up. To my relief, it was Wil and Orv; the only ones who probably knew what the heck aviation and laundry had to do with each other.

It was at that point, however, that I received a hasty text from Isaac, who'd accidentally sent his enemy email to our auto trucker guy who brings us new cars, so I had to guide him through how to recall an email and all that. While I was on my phone, I looked up "Bomblaundry," and found out that every new jet came with a lifetime supply of maple candies. It almost made me want to buy one! It was a shame my parents didn't have a two-car garage...

Meanwhile, Wil, Orv, and Alé, the three folks with shortened, three-letter nicknames, were laughing it up like they were at whatever place pilots hang out. I'd seen the show "Wings," so I tried to blend in...

I'd heard somewhere that aviation was all about acronyms – even more than the TRX and the BRA – so I just made up a little bit of a rap in my head, like that music Alex is always pumping.

"Hey guys, that's all great, but please don't go VFR if it's ILS, and watch out for that TCAS, MCAS, RIMCAS, and EICAS. VSV, ECAM, IFR... for the long-haul. Configure and all that, and watch for the gliding thingamajig."

"Glideslope." All three aviators jumped in, serious but somewhat shocked that I'd gotten so many of their little abbreviations.

"Yep, and watch out for the FD on the MCP, with the FMS on the FMC, and the PFD. EFIS, ADS-B, ATIS, and ADIRU." I finished with a sort of triumphant shrug, single-handedly winning myself a proud look from both brothers – who I could tell were probably intimidated, being two experimental pilots next to a commercial pilot – and newfound harmony with Alé. I'd redeemed myself from the Rio comment.

"I'll be happy to accept your offer, effective immediately." Alé had turned back to the brothers and seemed to be indicating some sort of agreement had been made while I was away. And so, in this really odd twist, Alé just strode out of Slammed Rover behind us, locked the door, and proceeded to suggest that a TRX would be nice.

"Not quite, Alé!" Wil and Orv had simultaneously replied, their eerily alike voices blending into one larger entity. "You're going to be the new undercover agent of Snowbaroo; and you're going to promote the Outrun."

I groaned. The Associated Snowbaroo Outrun Club (ASOC) had a local branch which met on the second Friday of every month, in the Dark Dimension Target parking lot. The location had been chosen so that such a large gathering of Outruns would not draw suspicion, though there were rumors that the ASOC, which oversaw all the regional chapters, had covertly made the Snowbaroo Outrun the official car of Colorado. So between ASOC, all the TRX fanatics, and the overall community of Snowies – Snowbaroo enthusiasts – we had our cult status cemented. The move to make Alé our new ASOC representative came just as I found out we'd all be carpooling down to the local chapter leader's place.

Like in that crime movie George made us watch because it had a TRX in it – Brady Driver – we all slipped into the 2015 Outrun that Wil had procured off the lot. And I know what people are thinking, a brand-new 2015 Outrun in 2024? I guess I'll have to save that for the Outrun episode...

"Alé, you take the wheel." Wil instructed, as he rounded the front of the car and jumped into the shotgun seat. I got to sit with Orv in the rather spacious backseat.

Without a word, she fired the car into action, and was just about to take off, when Wil noted a button thing on the center pedestal marked, "X-Mode."

"Don't touch that, okay?" He asked the Brazilian pilot chick, who gave him this short confirmation. Yet, as we pulled out of the parking lot, the appeal was just too much to contend with. Alé gunned the engine on the straightaway road, and depressed the X-Mode button with automotive fervor.

"I hope you don't do that in the airplane," Wil got out, right before the blue haze of St. Elmo's Fire erupted around us and the wormhole projected in front. It was much cooler than when Spielberg's special effects team tried to capture it, trust me!

To be continued...