Chapter 3: Sam's Beetle

Twin thrusters propel the modified F-22 onward. The sonic boom normally to be associated with the plane reaching high velocities. The noise, it was unlike anything witnesses have ever heard; it was not unlike a scream.

Communications in the vicinity of the sonic attack immediately falter. The disrupting wake of the speeding plane's passing, effecting technologies as an electromagnetic pulse.

The city, once known as being the city of light; it now blackened. Power outages spanned a five hundred radius; marking the unknown weapon's are of effect.

Paris, now in rear of the afterburners' sky trail; the raptor altered directions on a purpose. Miles passed faster than can be possibly conceived by human understanding of science technologies.

Vintage of design, the Volkswagen Beetle; it was not the best of vehicles to lay eyes upon. As money would have it, Sam found quickly that it served his purpose to fix the car rather than junk it. The tow truck arriving for a salvage shop offering only about fifty dollars to take the old automobile away.
Sam refused. He had spent too much on the little old beetle. The driver, he sent Sam to a place where he could get the car fixed at a minimal cost. the mechanic team consisted of a guy about the same age as him and a young girl that seemed to be his daughter.
The guy, he could not remember his name; but he seemed to know a lot about old cars, and for him fixing up the beetle was a piece of cake; that is if cars ate cake.
Something about the duo seemed strange to Sam. Neither of the two seemed to be the type that worked for a salvage yard, but they fixed up his car; and Sam was not in a place to complain.
Sam, he had been for a time known for familiarity with fast sports cars and for the hottest in selections of women.

Life, it had quickly taken a fouled turn. The last job he held, well Sam; he lost it. His temper in the wake of so many- conflicts and complications, it had not been the greatest in sense of controlled responses to promote positive experience.

Now in his mid thirties, Sam Witwicky had been filed on as being an alien robot sympathizer. This taking place in the wake of the Cybertron and Earth Transformers space bridge disaster.

Sam, he had willingly broken ties with all things Transformers, and yet; the government, they still had eyes placed to watch him in each and everything he did.

The Anti Transformers Task Force (A.T.T.F) was still in the stages of development. They new of his past associations with the Autobots, and they would not hear of his claims that he had been an unwilling participant. By their reckoning, Sam had given refuge to a number of giant alien robot invaders. Now he was in more trouble than he cared to be in.

Sam Witwicky, the one whom at one time in the past would have been heralded as being a hero; he was now tagged by an ankle bracelet that had been attached to his right leg, and he was quite literally being treated as a terrorist.

Worse still, the only job he could get was working in a scrapyard.

Sam's new job; it was separating recyclables from the garbage. Not the most glamorous of work, but hey; somebody has to do it, right?

Sam Witwicky, he hated the new job. It reminded him that thanks to his past, he was getting nowhere in life.

For the middle aged garbage sorter, there was some strange irony in his being hired to separate precious metals and green items from crap; in an attempt to free up the landfills of excessive waste.

His last girl friend, she was one that appreciated all things deemed to be sustainable, and his lack of interest caused their untimely separation.

Sam, he was feeling that his life too was crap, and that anything he now accomplished would be practically worthless. This making it almost fitting that he should work in garbage, trash that at times may be piled high enough to tower over his head.

Sam Witwicky, was late to awaken for work this day. This had been the second time in the month of his late rising, and he really didn't care.

Tearing off the sun rotted tarp, Sam scratched at his stubble of growth beneath his chin. Streetwise preparedness causing the middle aged garbage worker to check all tires, starting from the front left tire and rounding the beetle in a complete circle to the front right. Sam Witwicky caught himself glaring on the ridiculous looking front grill, the hood and the headlights.

"What are you looking at, you piece of crap? You best start today, or it's the heap for you; just like the rest of the trash."

Sam half expected the little yellow bug to talk back to him as he returned to the driver's side door.

Pulling his keys from his pocket with his left, and reaching for the handle with his right; the middle aged garbage worker was surprised to find that the car door had been unlocked.

Sam did not think too much of this. He really did not like the car, and in the night's binging of beer and of whiskey; he probably just did not realize that he had left the doors unlocked.

One jet streaked immediately by overhead, making Sam wish he had awakened sooner for some breakfast and coffee. His head was now pounding in a reminder of last night's alcoholic beverages appreciations.

The jet was flying low, and the force of its passing nearly nocked him off from his feet.

"Hey! This is a no fly zone!"

Sam Witwicky raised his right hand in a fist and cursed on the pilot as the jet drew fast away to be only a blur of a dot in the distance.

One elderly woman walked quickly by the raging garbage worker. Before the jet made its overhead pass, she had been walking her little pug of a dog. The woman was now carrying the panting canine, moving cautiously away from Sam and from his rages.

Sam Witwicky could not help but stare in recognition on the fur hugging wrap that her dog was safely secured in. The middle aged garbage worker thinking to himself musingly that he could probably use something like that for himself.

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