Resurrecting a dead bird.

This is a guest post from Nodus, who often helps me with my projects and I sometimes return the favor for.

Chapter 1: Emptiness
Summer comes early to the East Bay. The ground around me is all jagged cracks of parched earth, like the devil himself was giving the land a hickey. I had just picked up a falcon from a Marine up near Sacramento who was looking at shipping out in July. A 2 door 63 and 1/2 original v8 Falcon, black with a black interior. It was a long tow back, but its finally at my buddies shop. Time to get cracking.

A couple hours later, I am sitting in the drivers seat, something not taken lightly, given that the rusty springs of the seat knew how to leave their mark. I put it in reverse to take it around the block. As I roll down the hill, I come to realize that the rpm has no effect on the speed. I stop and put it back into drive. It took 4 guys to push the car up the drive way. No way was I going to call my friends back to help me push it up again. I give it some more gas, and the engine howls and the car starts rolling backwards. So I put it in park, gently release the brake, unsure of the condition of the parking gear latch. I walk around to the front, peering through the smoke of oil dropping on a header, I pull the trans dip stick. Has a slight glaze of fluid, nothing more. Rag, I need a rag, by this time I am engulfed in smoke. The level has to be checked with the engine running and I am still leaking oil from a valve cover. Finally, I settle on sacrificing a sock. I fumble with my over-sized tanker boots, bought for motorcycle riding, they have outlasted 2 bikes. I wipe the scaldingly hot dip stick on the sock, not bothering to take it off. I shove the dip stick back in, and the stick comes up dry. I do it again. Same story. I kill the motor. Its Saturday 5 pm. Everywhere to buy transmission fluid is closed or closing. Day one ends in defeat.