The Wrench

A lot of people make assumptions about Trick Fenwick based on the fact he’s a mechanic. They think he’s one of those macho men, all gruff-and-tumble, very alpha, very to-the-point. He is all of these things to some extent, but not to the extent peopel assume from his appearance.

Another thing people tend to assume based on Trick’s appearance and profession is that he’s straight. These people go from puzzled to perplexed to downright offended when they witness Trick’s boyfriend Enrique Valdez coming into the shop, flamboyantly strutting about and kissing his man sweetly on the cheek.

It isn’t just the revelation of Trick’s gayness—it’s also the fact that his boyfriend is Latino, and they’ve also assumed from the mechanic’s appearance that he’s at least casually racist. But Trick is no more racist than he is a cherry-flavored McMuffin.

However, once people discover that Trick is a gay man with a Latin lover, they start to act on an entirely new set of equally erroneous assumptions. Like the idea that he likes Musicals or has an especially keen sense of fashion (“Oh honey,” Enrique lovingly mocks) or that he’s some pansy liberal pushover snowflake who will bend to the wishes of organized crime after they capture his boyfriend and threaten dire consequences should he not comply. Let us be perfectly clear: All assumptions made about Trick Fenwick are false.

Because the one thing nobody “assumes” just from looking at Trick, even after verifying that he’s a mechanic, is the one thing that is most important about him: Trick Fenwick can communicate with machines.

It isn’t like “talking”—not exactly. Machines don’t use words like humans do, so it’s almost like a kinetic sign language, but one that can be practiced from across the room.

Computers he can talk to, also, being as how they’re machines, too. But he doesn’t like them. They’re moody and full of themselves, overblown with their own “complexity”, even though, for crying out loud, it all boils down to the same mathematics.

They also don’t respond well to wrenches.

Of all the workshop tools, the wrench is Trick Fenwick’s favorite and out of all the wrenches he owns, his favorite is the eleven-inch cast-iron beauty he likes to call Delilah. He calls her that because no matter how uppity any of his machines get on him, with the help of old Delilah, he can cut their hair and make ‘em settle.

Any time his straight friends or colleagues or idiot customers hear him complaining about how the government and the church keep screwing over gay people and they tell him and his boyfriend they need to “get a grip”—it’s always Delilah Trick likes to think about, and all the things a wrench can do.

“You at least gonna leave any of ‘em in one piece?” Delilah asks him. (Wrenches, you see, they’re machines, too.)

“Don’t see what for,” says Trick, hanging Delilah off his belt and strapping himself onto his motorcycle, Mike.

“What?” says Mike the bike, waking up. “What’s going on?”

Trick explains the situation. “Say what?” says Mike the bike.

“Those assholes, I always knew they was trouble.”

“That why you were flirting with their Lamborghini?”

“I wasn’t gonna try nothing, just pumpin’ her for information.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Far as machinery went, the only other thing Trick Fenwick brought along with him was his cell-phone, Connie, who complained the whole way how Trick wasn’t paying her enough attention—kept telling him he should call the cops, or he was going the wrong way.

“I could smash her for ya,” said Delilah.

“Nah,” said Trick. “Don’t need her now, but we might soon.”

Now, here’s the part where I really wish there was more to the story, some set of complications or amusing circumstances at least, but really it was just a straight-up rescue situation featuring a superhero underestimated by some third-tier villains in the classical manner. See, the supposedly organized criminals made a mistake they didn’t even realize by holing up in an abandoned warehouse filled with discarded but still perfectly functional relics who, with their 1960s values, made Connie the cell-phone feel out of place and vaguely threatened as a millennial.

But because they were still functional, they were easy to manipulate and they came on and freaked the everliving fuck out of the kidnapper’s goons and even ended up trudging out of their old trappings and squashing a couple of them.

I would go into more detail right now but unfortunately, I don’t speak machine like Trick Fenwick does.

“What took you so long, Baby?” asked Enrique.

“Connie,” Trick blamed. “Wouldn’t shut up about G.P.S.”

“You should have left her at home.”

“Yeah, well, I know that now, I just, I don’t know, I assumed this would be, I don’t know, hard?”

“Oh, Trickicito,” Enrique coo’d. “You should know better than anyone living, you should never make any assumptions.”

About Polypsyches

I write, regardless of medium or genre, but mostly I manage a complex combined Science-Fiction/Fantasy Universe--in other words, I'm building Geek Heaven. With some other stuff on the side. View all posts by Polypsyches

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