You wouldn’t expect that a car driven by a ghost needs repairs, especially not when the car is also a ghost. Yeah, that’s right. I’m the Ghost Driver. My life was a happy one, defined for the most part by a single invention. I was born in a car. I learned to drive before I learned to ride a bike. I got married in a car. My death, at the ripe old age of thirty-three, was in a car. I died doing what I loved: driving at 227 km/h. My lifetime goal was to drive a car that could break the sound barrier. The crash that finished the job was thanks to an errant cow on the road. When we collided, three things happened. I became a ghost. My car became a ghost. And the cow became a ghost. So began our adventures. Ghost Driver, Ghost Car and Ghost Cow. The Three G’s, as we soon became known.
When I rock up at my local mechanic, I’m not sure what they’re more surprised by; a ghost wearing sunglasses, or a ghost cow wearing sunglasses. We think they make us look cooler. Now personally I think I have the best mechanic within Brunswick, (or as Ghost Cow calls them, the best moochanic) but they still can’t seem to believe that we exist. They’ve worked on Ghost Car more times than I can count, and every time they ask if this is some sort of elaborate prank. It’s not a prank, I say, and would you please be careful with Ghost Car’s ghost engine, it’s very sensitive. They’re a bit like car doctors, my mechanics. I’m glad that they’re the closest car repair shop near me, not that I’d be complaining about driving further. But Ghost Cow isn’t the biggest fan of long drives, and I’ve got to keep him happy. If it were up to me, I’d drive all the way to the next state over just to crash into a ghost stobie pole. It’s certainly on my afterlife bucket list.