The Man Who Hated Little Cars, Part Seven

At first all they could see was a wheel, or more accurately a tire, but they could see that its tread was gigantic, easily the width of a garden row, and steadily rolling down forward toward them.

Then more, and more, it emerged, silencing everyone as it roared to itself, a towering, flaming giant that barely fit through the hangar doors. No one said a word or snapped a photo as it rolled out, all of them just silently backing away, craning their necks skyward to try and see the top.

It dwarfed everything, including the hangar - from its massive, refrigerator-sized doors to a trunklid like the roof of a house, terminating in bold, swooping tailfins that reached back several yards, each more than twice the length of a conventional car. The doorhandles stretched four feet across, workable only by electric release latches buried beneath the skin. A dozen bolts secured each monumental wheel, each lugnut larger than a coffee pot. The windshield looked like it had been originally intended for skyscraper, which it had - the headlights came from a demolished lighthouse. A chrome extension ladder reached down from the doorsill. It was clearly a - no - The, Behemoth.

Virgil, the proud, tiny father, smiled wide upon his creation.

A few reporters recognized Don Kline, project manager at Chrysler, five stories up, in the drivers’ seat, looking thrilled. The distance and altitude, combined with a few remaining wisps of rising morning fog, concealed his subtle expression of concern.

Down on the ground, Virgil peered up at him, grinning, not noticing anything wrong.

As the engine flared higher, flames reaching several car-lengths back, a few flecks of paint from the hangar began peeling off and drifting back into the dark hole, glowing embers wafting down to the cement floor below.