The Doctor Dies

I have not had an empty weekend in a couple months, which makes my level of personal cray-cray shoot through the roof.  My ears get hot.  I itch.  My leg twitches.

Tomorrow is another busy Saturday: I am putting out to pasture my beloved car, Doctor David Fritz Shirley Baker.  He’s served me well for eleven years (sort of; I was out of the country for a lot of his life).  Lately, though, keeping him in tip-top shape is proving to be more costly than he’s worth (sorry, dear).

And so, tomorrow, Doctor David will be left alone and cold in the driveway as I head out to pick up my new car.  This will be my fourth, and probably the least startling of the lot (does this mean I’m becoming an adult?).  But he/she will need a name.

Any suggestions?

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Brian

I studied and lived in Japan, got a Master's Degree in Sociology from the University of Oxford and an MFA from Fairleigh Dickinson University. Now I write SFF novels about cerebral people suffering post-modern angst who cope by drinking lots of wine. And misusing magic.

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