Context: The CUSTOMER is at the CAR DEALERSHIP, which has a SALESMAN behind the counter and a SECURITY GUARD watering plants. The customer is visiting today in a sour mood because the vehicle he previously bought from the dealership was faulty and easily got clogged with snow.

The customer patted his hand on the silver sedan as he walked towards the counter.

“How well’s th’car swim?”

“I’m sorry?

“I’m sayin’, how well’s it swim? I’m not sure where your fadder’s from, but Carner Brook’s winters aren’t like most winters. Navigatin’ ‘doze roads – those soupy aqueducts of cigarette-butt-stinkin’ filth – that’s why they call’em potholes, don’tcha know? A big shit soup for the pedestrians to eat and eat and – You know, on the best of days, I’ll be walkin’ ‘round Broadway when the bars close, and the only cars running are the taxis, and the fresh fallen snow is laid upon the intersection’s holiday glow, and the barking of the hounds is the only ‘ting echoing ‘trew the drowned out January night—there are no sounds on this bitch of an earth for once—but ‘den it turns into ice pebbles, ‘den Play-Doh, ‘den soup, ‘den hell-on-earth-frozen-over and repeat, always bein’ kicked up from the tires, gettin’ in every nook and cranny in the bowl—stuck to th’sides of th’curbs like white gristle on a plate.” The disheveled middle-aged man, slouching in his layers of dirt-smeared winter and protective gear, barked the last word through his long, more-salt-than-pepper moustache and beard.

The nervously grimacing salesman discretely made a hand-across-neck gesture towards the security guard, who lowered a watering can and tensely neared the customer before backing off. The three souls were the only ones in the cold, large Hyundai dealership. There were two infinitely sparkling cars inside, on either side of the entrance. One was a silver-coloured sedan; the other, a burgundy convertible. Most of the remaining space in the large building was taken up with plants; palm trees, maple, flowers of the wild, all lined up in a grid-like fashion around each car. There were far more plants inside the building than there were cars outside on the lot. Green ivy ran alongside the interior walls of the automotive cathedral; a strand of leaves bounced listlessly—pat—pat—pat—against one of the three large three-pronged glass ceiling fans as it spun 10 RPM—pat—pat—pat.

The salesman notched the lapel on his white seersucker suit before furrowing his bushy brow. He was a stately man with a mysterious smile, appearing as though he could be either fifty or eighty-five—the creases in his face appeared like an obfuscated Markov chain.

“I assure you, Mister …?,” The customer squinted angrily, denying the salesman his name.

“Sir, I can assure you, the burden of global climate change does not rest on the shoulders of a single local-level car dealership.”

“Luh,” the customer said in a sour tone, puckering his face as though he would spit on the floor, but resisting, “ye knows I don’t give a shit about Yankee climate, it’s cold ‘ere and it’s always been cold ‘ere, and I’d be back on my truck iffid’wurn’t fer that Sout’ China Sea shit jackin’ up d’h’oil over ‘ere. Friggin’ Trump and his fourt’ term, he’s shittin’ he’self in a wheelchair and expects to win d’worl’war.”

“Hmm”, the salesman smirked, chuckling, “then we are on at least one common ground. Might I interest you in a coffee? I may have a vehicle that you’re interested in.”

“Sure b’y,” the customer (whose Ford Nation t-shirt, the first layer of exaggeratedly many, was stuck to his clammy skin) acquiesced, sighing and sitting reluctantly on the brown dachshund-shaped couch. He flipped through the literature on the table: a 2003 Guinness World Records and a Good Housekeeping from November ’86 with Princess Di on the cover dazzled him, each by the holographic material and rainbow font on the Guinness cover, as well as the Lady’s hypnotic gaze.

“Got any’ting more current? B’ys wouldn’t wanna be spreading fake news ‘bout the wrong title-holder of World’s Longest Fingernails, would’ya?”