896 | Fantasy Expert Fails

896 | Diesel Identifies as an Expert Driver and Wrecks His Father's Car

Chapter 1: Diesel Demands Gas Money and Identifies as a Licensed Driver

As Diesel demands gas money and identifies as a licensed driver, his overconfidence blinds him to the reality of his inexperience. The sports car sits in the backyard like a sleeping dragon—chrome scales dulled by dust, silent, dangerous, and way too tempting.

Diesel stares at it through the kitchen window, already ahead of himself, already at school in his mind. He sees the faces: jaws dropping, eyes widening, the cool kids nodding in grudging respect.

He doesn’t see a machine that can kill him.

He sees a shortcut.

“Dad, can I drive the sports car in the backyard?” Diesel asks, voice full of sudden, unearned confidence. “It’s a waste, just sitting there. I bet it can go fast. I heard you start it once—the muffler had that deep, bellowing rumble. No one’s using it, so I claim it as mine. I’ll drive it to school and make everyone jealous. Even the cool kids will want to be my friends. Where are the keys? Never mind, I found them. See you later.”

Dad looks up from what he’s doing. His expression is unreadable.

“Hmmm,” he says.

That’s it.

Diesel takes the noise as a yes.

He bolts through the back door and beelines for the car. The door groans as he yanks it open. He slides into the driver’s seat and fumbles with the ignition like he’s done it a hundred times in his head.

The engine coughs.

And dies.

He glances at the dashboard. The gas needle is empty. He clenches his jaw and stomps back toward the house.

“It won’t start,” Diesel reports, trying to sound calm. “The gauge says it’s out of gas. Where’s a gas can? Can I have some money for gas?”

“Nope,” Dad says, voice steady. “You don’t have a driver’s license yet.”

Diesel scoffs.

In his world, rules are flexible, and identity is everything.

“I can fix that,” he says, straightening his spine like he’s taking an oath. “I hereby identify as a licensed driver, with my father as my witness. So shall it be. I’ll even make a label that says ‘Qualified driver.’ Now, can I have some gas money?”

“Nope,” Dad repeats. “You don’t have the skills to drive a car.”

Skills.

Diesel hates that word.

“I can fix that too,” he insists. He shuts his eyes for a second, like he’s downloading confidence from the universe. “I hereby affirm that I can drive a car. I’ve seen other people drive, and I feel equal to them. Therefore, I cannot be excluded from doing what they do. I imagine myself driving well, mostly racing. My legs are long enough to reach the pedals now. That’s a sign of my qualifications. I officially state that I believe I can drive. So‑shall‑it‑be. Now, can I have some gas money?”

Dad stares at him.

“Nope,” he says. “What are you, some ten‑cent wanna‑be lawyer?”

Diesel rolls his eyes.

“Haven’t you woken up yet?” he says. “Socialism is the new progressive trend. Labels, feelings, and fairness. That’s how it works now.”

His gaze drifts past Dad toward the fence.

“Never mind,” he adds. “I saw an old, rusty gas can in the neighbor’s yard.”

Dad’s eyes sharpen.

“That is not a good idea,” he warns.

Diesel barely hears him.

In his mind, the car is already roaring, the crowd is already staring, and the future is already his.

He heads for the fence.

Chapter 2: Diesel Pours Stolen Gas into the Car and Finds It Supported by Concrete Blocks

After Diesel pours stolen gas into the car and finds it supported by concrete blocks, his arrogant attitude only intensifies. An hour later, Diesel comes back grinning, hands grimy and smelling like old fuel. The neighbor’s rusty gas can dangles empty from one hand.

He doesn’t notice the faint scent of something sour in the air.

He notices that the car started.

“You were wrong, and I was right,” Diesel announces, chest puffed out. “I put in the yucky‑looking gas, and it started right up. It has a great rumble. I pressed the gas slowly, but it wouldn’t move. Then I remembered I had to connect the engine to the wheels by pushing that ball‑stick. The car’s been sitting for a long time, and it made awful grinding noises when I moved the lever around. Super irritating. So I turned up the radio to drown out the scraping. Some neighbors looked out their windows, but I ignored them. I knew I was doing the right thing.”

Dad leans back, face unreadable.

“I did hear quite a ruckus in the backyard,” he says dryly.

“Anyway,” Diesel continues, “I kept moving the gear shift and revving the engine, but the car still didn’t move. I might have broken something, but I was smart enough to notice the tires were spinning fast and not touching the ground. I looked under the car and realized you put it up on concrete blocks—probably to protect the tires. Why didn’t you tell me you did that?”

Dad doesn’t blink.

“I figured a self‑certified expert driver would eventually figure it out,” he replies.

Diesel bristles.

“Well, you put it on the blocks,” he says. “So you’re responsible for taking it off the blocks so I can drive.”

“Incorrect,” Dad says. “You lack the knowledge, the skills, and the clean gas to drive that car.”

Diesel waves him off.

“Never mind,” he says. “I’m already credentialed. I’ll find a way to do it. It’s your fault the blocks are there, but I’ll be the better man and fix the problem you caused.”

Dad watches him head back outside.

“I see,” he says quietly.

The car waits.

So does the lesson.

Chapter 3: Diesel Smashes the Car Window and Saws Off the Clutch Pedal

While Diesel smashes the car window and saws off the clutch pedal, he wrongly assumes these reckless actions prove his expertise. Another hour passes.

Diesel comes in panting, shirt smeared with grease and dust, eyes blazing with offended pride.

“I finally got all the blocks out,” he says. “But the jack is defective. When I jacked it up, it kept scrunching the metal on the car’s sides. Worst design ever. Now the doors won’t open because the bottom part is all squished. Fortunately, the driver’s window cracked, so I didn’t feel bad about smashing out the rest of the glass so I could climb in. The cracked window is the jack’s fault. This is all your fault, actually, because you refused to take responsibility for putting the car on blocks.”

He crosses his arms, waiting for an apology.

“Besides,” Diesel adds, “you own the faulty jack, so everything is your fault. How soon can you have the doors, sides, and window fixed? Where are the big band‑aids? Never mind, I found them.”

Dad looks up briefly.

“OK,” he says.

Diesel hears no anger.

He mistakes that for approval.

“When I lowered the car,” Diesel calls from the hall as he grabs tools, “my sharp, discerning eyes noticed the two front tires were almost flat. They still have some air, so I believe they’ll work. I’m not driving on the highway—just around the neighborhood so my classmates can see me. I’ll let it be. The tires will work.”

Dad sets his work aside.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he warns.

Diesel snorts.

“You were wrong last time,” he says. “I’ll trust my beliefs. Oh, by the way: the stick‑shift ball has ‘N’ for normal, and 1, 2, 3, and 4. I believe the ‘R’ stands for really fast and furious. Also, why did they put in an extra pedal? There’s one for going and one for stopping. I took a hacksaw and cut off the unneeded middle pedal because it was in my way and confusing me. Good thing I labeled myself an expert—it helped me figure everything out without your help.”

Dad’s eyebrows rise.

His gaze lingers on the hacksaw in Diesel’s grip.

“Interesting,” Dad says.

The word hangs there.

So does everything Diesel refuses to hear.

Chapter 4: Diesel Destroys the Mailbox and Crashes the Car into the Neighbor's Porch

When Diesel destroys the mailbox and crashes the car into the neighbor's porch, he immediately tries to dodge all responsibility for the disaster. A thunderous crash shakes the house.

Metal screams.

Wood splinters.

Diesel stumbles inside, face pale, words tumbling over each other.

“There’s something wrong with that car,” he blurts. “I wanted a powerful start, so I put it in ‘R.’ Someone changed things so it goes backward and didn’t label it with a ‘B.’ It’s not my fault I smashed into the fence. Everyone knows ‘B’ should mean backing up. We need to sue the carmakers and make them pay for the fence. Why didn’t you tell me ‘R’ is mislabeled?”

Dad lowers his book.

“You never asked,” he says. “And I said it was not a good idea.”

Diesel pushes past it.

“Oh well. Even experts are allowed a few minor mistakes. That’s how people learn,” he says quickly. “Honestly, the car looks cooler without a rear bumper. The engine must be old, though. It sounds like it’s full of sand. It sputters and chokes sometimes. Why did you keep such a messed‑up car? I’ll let you buy me a new one for my birthday, since I’ve proven what a good believer I am. I’ll come back after I make a spectacle of myself. I’ll be the talk of the town.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dad says.

Diesel doesn’t listen.

He never does.

The next sound is worse: a grinding roar, a high‑pitched shriek of metal, a deep, sickening crunch.

Diesel returns clutching his arm.

“That wasn’t my fault,” he groans. “Where are the arm splints?”

“What happened?” Dad asks, a trace of weariness seeping into his voice.

Diesel sinks into a chair, weaving the story so he’s the victim of everything but himself.

“The fence was blocking the car from going forward,” he says. “So I floored the gas as they do in movies. Suddenly, the car lurched forward without any warning lights on the dashboard. I mean, why didn’t a light pop up that said ‘Hey, you’re moving fast now’? I tried to turn the wheel to miss the fence across the yard, but it was hard to steer. Maybe the steering is rusty. Or maybe it was the two flat tires, but that’s not on me. You should’ve kept the air pressure up. It’s your car. You should have told people not to drive it. Why didn’t you tell me flat tires make steering hard?”

“You never asked,” Dad says again, “and I said it was not a good idea.”

Diesel throws up his hands.

“You keep saying the same thing,” he complains. “Why are you so negative? I’m equal to you. Parents always want to exclude teens from driving the cars they think they own. I forgive you. But you’d better find someone to fix both fences. They look ugly, all broken down. It’s your house. You’re responsible for keeping it looking nice. I’ll have to be patient and endure the mess until you do your duty.”

He glances toward the window.

“Oh—were you expecting any important mail?” Diesel asks. “I saw it blowing down the street, but I wasn’t expecting anything, so I didn’t bother chasing it. It’s your mail, so you should probably start running. It’s pretty windy.”

Dad stands, frowning.

“Why wasn’t my mail in the mailbox?” he asks.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? My car is powerful,” Diesel says, pride flickering back. “I can’t wait until you get everything repaired. The car bulldozed right through the fence and flattened the mailbox. I felt so empowered. You might not want to answer that pounding on the front door.”

A heavy fist hammers the front door.

Dad looks at him.

“Who do you think that is?” he asks.

Diesel shrugs.

“The guy across the street always parks his car across from our mailbox,” he says. “I saw his face when my—uh, your—car kept going after demolishing the mailbox and scattering your mail all over his yard. I don’t know why he parked in harm’s way. You should’ve been there to take pictures. I hit his wimpy little car so hard I shoved it up on his sidewalk, across his yard, and onto his porch. What a cheap porch. It caved in like cardboard. It needed to be replaced anyway.”

“Porches aren’t designed for demolition‑derby practice,” Dad remarks.

“The guy looked angry and violent, so I left the car and came home for lunch,” Diesel continues. “All this driving practice made me hungry. I couldn’t drive it back anyway— the engine exploded and sent up a thick cloud of black smoke.”

Dad sniffs.

“I thought I smelled something burning,” he says.

“Our other neighbor owes us a new engine,” Diesel adds. “His gas destroyed my—uh, your—engine. He left a can of bad gas in his backyard labeled ‘good gas.’ With the power invested in me, I’ve decided I never called dibs on this car at all. It was never mine. It’s your car, and you’re responsible for whatever it chooses to do—even if it drives itself across the street while I sit there behind the wheel. None of this is my fault. So‑shall‑it‑be. You should call a tow truck. Fixing it will take a while.”

Dad peers out the window at the smoking wreck.

“That’s the first time you’ve been right all day,” he says.

“Or better—just have them tow it away and junk it,” Diesel suggests. “We’ll need more parking when I get my new car for my birthday next month. I can see it in my creative imagination, so I say, ‘So shall it appear.’ I’ll keep reminding you so you don’t forget.”

A deafening crash rattles the hallway.

The front door is no longer a door.

It’s a flattened board.

Dad winces.

“What was that?” he asks.

“Oh, you heard that too? You have good hearing for an old man,” Diesel says. “The guy across the street must lift weights. He’s huge. He just flattened our front door, and he’s running toward us. Should I offer him a soda? Cool— is he holding the new Remington double‑barreled 9mm semi‑automatic pistol with a 40‑round clip? You have to have huge hands to handle something like that. I never thought I’d see one this close. Do you think he has a concealed‑carry permit? Never mind. Dumb question. He’s not hiding it. He must want to show it to you. The front end, at least. Ask him where he got it and how much it cost.”

“I wasn’t planning on company today,” Dad says.

Diesel suddenly remembers something.

“Oh—right,” he says quickly. “I just remembered I planned to spend the next week at my friend’s house. I need to leave now, or I’ll be late. You taught me to be on time. I’m good at remembering things on my own. Aren’t you proud of me for being creative, independent, and resourceful?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He slips toward the back door.

“You don’t have to answer,” Diesel calls over his shoulder. “You’ve got company. Did he pick up any of your mail from his lawn? Probably not. People are so lazy and irresponsible these days. I’ve had enough driving for the day. I’ll ride my bike. At least that doesn’t drive off by itself, blow up, or need gasoline.”

He disappears out the back.

In the hallway, boots stomp closer.

Dad stands where he is, listening to the echo of everything that just happened.

One car.

One boy who thinks labels make him an expert.

One wrecked yard, one flattened mailbox, one furious neighbor.

And one very clear lesson is that when belief tries to replace skill, blame always finds a new target.

Chapter Synopsis:

Without a driver's license or any prior driving experience, Diesel convinces himself he is an expert driver by simply self-identifying as one. After pouring stolen gas into his father's dusty sports car, he wrecks the car's doors on concrete blocks, smashes the window, and hacks off the clutch pedal with a hacksaw. Mistaking "R" for a speed mode rather than reverse, Diesel plows through the yard fence, obliterates the mailbox, and crashes the car completely across the street into a neighbor's front porch. When the furious neighbor bursts through the front door with a firearm, Diesel completely refuses to take accountability, blames everyone else, and flees out the back door on his bicycle.

Core Themes & Laws:

• The catastrophic danger of confusing self-declared identity and wishful thinking with actual skills and preparation

• How the refusal to accept reality and mentorship leads to compounding physical and financial disaster

• The absolute absurdity of trying to bend mechanical laws and physical limits with labels and feelings

• The ultimate avoidance of responsibility, where blame is shifted onto parents, neighbors, car manufacturers, and the vehicle itself

Key Entities Featured in this Document:

• Diesel: An excessively overconfident teenager who relies on self-identification to justify driving without a license, destroying his father's car, and wrecking a neighbor's property

• Dad: A patient, deadpan father who watches Diesel's self-inflicted disasters unfold with quiet resignation

• The Neighbor: A furious homeowner whose fence, mailbox, and porch are destroyed when Diesel crashes the sports car into his yard