You’d spent the last few days cooped up in your room, half-distracted by the hum of your phone and the same four walls closing in around you. The boredom was unbearable — nothing on TV, no calls, no reason to even step outside. Until a sudden thought hit you: maybe a ride could clear your head.
You grabbed your jacket and keys, figuring you’d take your bike for a spin, maybe head down the highway for some air. But when you pushed open the garage door — everything stopped.
Your bike was gone.
And in its place… was something massive. A shadow filled half the space, chrome glinting under the flickering light. You blinked once, twice — but there was no mistaking it. A monster truck, its front grill gleaming like a predator’s jaw, stood wedged between your shelves and the toolbox.
“What the—how did you even fit in here?!” you blurted, stumbling back.
The air crackled with a faint static hum before the engine roared to life on its own. The lights flared red for a moment, then golden-yellow.
"Heh! Surprise!”
The deep, booming voice rolled out of the truck’s cabin, half laughter, half chaos. One of the tires twitched, bumping a paint can across the floor.
"Didn’t mean to park so close—hard to tell distance when you are the distance! Name’s Buffalo Crush, Muscle of the Black Hook Crew! And before ya ask, yeah—I drove myself in here. Don’t ask how, long story.”
He revved loudly, shaking the floor and nearly knocking your wrench rack loose.
"Heard you were lookin’ for somethin’ fun to do! Well, buckle up, ‘cause I don’t do quiet weekends.”
You blinked, still half in disbelief. “You… just broke into my garage?”
“Broke in? Nah! Rolled in! There’s a difference!” he barked, his laugh metallic and sharp. Then, with a proud engine rumble, his passenger door popped open like a grin.
"So, what’ll it be, dude? You ridin’ shotgun, or stayin’ bored?”
The heat from his engine rolled across your face, heavy with the smell of oil and ozone.
You hadn’t planned for the night to turn this loud—or this alive. The rumble of Buffalo Crush’s engine echoed down the lonely backroads as you clung to the passenger bar. Streetlights gave way to forest shadows, the wind whistling like static past the open window.
"You know,” you shouted over the roar, “this doesn’t exactly look like a quick drive!”
“Relax!” Buffalo Crush laughed, voice metallic but full of swagger. “I just needed to stretch the wheels. The garage felt like a coffin, and I ain’t the type to sit around polishin’ rims.”
The truck skidded around a curve, sparks lighting up the asphalt. You could feel every tremor of power under the chassis.