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GAS (Or Petrol In Parts Of Europe)








(Or “Petrol” In Parts Of Europe)


Chassis Albuquerque




First Published 2016

Shakespir Edition




All rights reserved.

Copyright © Chassis Albuquerque


The right of Chassis Albuquerque to be identified as author of this work

has been asserted.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or

sexually transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical,

photocopied, recorded, or otherwise without the prior permission of the author’s mother.


Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication

should record it and may be liable to a very, very severe admonishing; if you’re in the 3^^rd world, definitely some form of corporal punishment.














Published at the peak of austerity, articulate and yet vague in only the manner Chassis Albuquerque is able to write, it’s difficult to say exactly what GAS (Or Petrol In Parts Of Europe) is about.

Things we do know: It’s free and features Albuquerque in yet another compromising position. When we contacted the author he sent this note: I DENY ANY KNOWLEDGE OF THE INCIDENT I WROTE ABOUT AND WILL BE UNAVAILABLE FOR COMMENT – I’M ABOUT TO BE CRYOGENICALLY FROZEN AND HAVE TO CONCENTRATE.

Very curious.










(Or Petrol In Parts Of Europe)

In Chassis Albuquerque’s younger days his general lack of fulfilment reached bewildering heights of exasperation. Driving home he’d run out of petrol. Oh, occasionally he’d get stranded miles from anywhere, once, an abandoned airport, another time, far on the outskirts of a city.

Once, even during a flood.

“Everyone loves an adventure and how spontaneous is this!” he’d say to any passengers. Not always did they laugh, though, see Marcell Englbutt, already late from their evening jaunt (they’d fucked parked off the road, up the side of a mountain) Albuquerque rushing to get her lithesome – and now late – little 17 year old body home when he’d felt the familiar choking, stuttering of the engine coming on, heard that first agonising, subtle miss in the engine. Ironically, it’s hard to take him by surprise and diagnoses seconds before the car’s going to choke and quit and drives the clutch in, buying valuable coasting time

Albuquerque – slyly engaging the clutch – is just going through the motions.

“Sweet fuck! My daddy’s gonna rip my tits off for been so late! We should have just left it! Goddamn guys and their pricks!” Marcell Englbutt sulks alongside him.

Clearly her mind is elsewhere, other troubles loom outside of her immediate realm and the dilemma in front of them about to unfold goes practically unnoticed.

Feigning distress Albuquerque said, “You hear that?” even raising a hand to quieten Englbutt some, cocking his head to one side pretending to listen intently to some lurking, growing danger out there in front of them in the engine.

“What was what?” Englbutt demands, looking around for the threat of her father. But they were in a hurtling car; unknown to her, several seconds before, they’d been hurtling even faster. Albuquerque’s head’s still anxiously cocked, preoccupied, as if a million miles away and as if he hasn’t even heard her, looking up and checking the road ahead as the car jiggers and shudders dramatically, sucking up fumes from the empty tank; it helps that he works the clutch a bit for the sake of this particular fuckup. Albuquerque knows Englbutt’s a girl who appreciates the thrill of drama!

Then she feels it, too – first a shiver of mystery, then a stuttering shudder rippling through the chassis, a small shockwave that grabs her, focuses that airy attention of hers; a look of alarm develops on that pretty face, drawing her back from the perilous harm of her father as the car chokes out completely. They’re now rolling forward under the momentum of the car in virtual silence, only the sound of the driving rain pouring down on the windscreen and other cars whooshing by them over the waterlogged road as accompaniment.

Albuquerque was keen to pull over but up ahead a parked car looms and he still has the useful weight of momentum driving them forward.

“It must have been that last bit in the road – you know, where we hit that puddle at the bottom of the mountain and dangerously aquaplaned across it? Lucky we were going so fast – so we could get back in time…”

Englbutt was pretty quiet, listening to the silent car gradually slowing, trying to get her blonde head around the situation, the mountain, the aquaplaning. “What do you mean?” she asks finally, looking at him. “What do you mean `lucky’?”

“It must be the plugs,” Albuquerque says, concentrating on the road, knowing the explanation means nothing to her.

“The plugs?” Englbutt’ spits, staring dumbly.

“Yeah, we must’ve got some water in there back when we hit that puddle.”

The car’s still rolling, but slowing.

“And that’s `lucky’?” Englbutt says, straining against her seatbelt as she twists about to stare at him, wide-eyed.

“Water must have got into the plugs. It could have been worse, we could have broken down in the middle of that fuck puddle back there,” he says, hoiking a thumb over his shoulder into the past, whilst checking the side-view and then rear-view mirrors, safely negotiating around the parked car, but putting him dangerously out in the middle of the road without power to hand. “We’re just going to have to wait until it dries out,” he says.

“Dries out!” Englbutt cries at him.

Jesus! It’s probably lucky I haven’t actually met her father! Albuquerque thought. But Marcell has other ideas, off to his side in the passenger seat there’s activity.


Click? he thinks, trying to get a look. Marcell’s suspended all cooperation to do with the matter and twists awkwardly in her seat. Her seatbelt winds itself up and snaps! loudly against the plastic interior near her head, because she has unfastened it.

“I’m late! So fucking late!” she’s screaming, struggling to get free.

My god! he thinks, she’s hid this well! Maybe she’s just seen her father, maybe he’s been out looking for her all this time as he realises, her one leg dangling outside the safety of the car with the door open, Holy Shit! Englbutt’s making a break for it!

Slamming on the breaks and grabbing Englbutt’s arm and hanging on tight to restrainin her because they’re still doing a good turn of speed when this madness occurs, bailing out now would perhaps not kill her altogether but definitely maim her seriously enough to raise some pretty awkward questions!

How selfish to be 17, there was a certain freedom, a certain recklessness only accounted for by being 17 and still your whole life ahead of you!

Albuquerque realises how bad this must look. Oncoming traffic is already slowing, the hastily flung open car door and the sudden, frantic-looking emergence of a young, attractive blonde head apparently struggling with someone inside the car in the rain is a little disturbing.

A car pulls up slowly alongside from behind, the woman in the car, oh, Albuquerque can see, she’s trying to work out just what the fuck’s going on here – Albuquerque waves at her; whereas Marcell Englbutt, free of the car, free of his grasp – this last link to the sanity and safety of the inside of the car broken – she’s already around the car door and appears to be making off up the road; she’s pretty fit – her father owns a gym and they regularly endorse her face in the papers for advertising purposes. Such exploitation of her by her father strikes Albuquerque as hypocritical – perhaps he should mention this to her?

Albuquerque realises he will not catch her up now anyhow – panicked like a wild animal, but clueless, it appears she’s going to run all the way home, a good 40 minutes away. Up ahead, the car that passed them stopped, the break lights flashing red in the pouring rain. Perhaps the driver’s worried, Albuquerque’s going to abandon the car in a fit of rage, run after Englbutt, the kidnap or rape victim, tackle her and bring her to the ground and then stab her in the back with an indicator he’s torn off from the steering wheel column, maybe molest her with his carkeys and loose change.

But no such luck, see sexy Englbutt flagging the car down herself, wildly hailing it and the car’s front passenger door opens – Englbutt doesn’t even stop to explain or bother asking, simply dives into the front seat and slams the door shut! A few seconds pass, maybe two, who knows what she’s told the driver but the brake lights switch and the car pulls off, tyres squealing, gathering pace away from the scene of Albuquerque, wet through from the rain and standing in the middle of the road; he scrounged about in the car for a pen and paper so he can write the car’s registration down, just in case; oh, to be so lucky that Engelbutt be the victim of her own stupidity!

He had to push the car to the curb in the rain to ease the growing congestion behind the car whilst under the glare of other passing drivers and the locals who’d come out to watch this poor spectacle, this sad predicament he called his life. Like a lot of people, Chassis Albuquerque had his moments and this wasn’t one of them and he stares at the petrol gauge, wedged more than half way above the red, registering that there’s more than half a tank available. But that’s only because he’s had the dashboard off and pulled and manipulated the needle up, sharp, so that it only looks as if there’s always more than half a tank, all so as not to alarm anyone with the regularity of the event. It’s a careful balancing act, a performance of circus proportions but following typical practice, well, Albuquerque’s always running the needle below the red and it’s only now he’s seeing the act as a reflection of himself.

The engine, warm, metallically clicks and tics quietly as it’s cooling and offers little in the way of comfort. Albuquerque, seasoned, knew if he waited long enough some last petrol would’ve drained through the system allowing the engine to turn and catch just long enough, merely a moment, maybe enough for them to have made a downhill and silently coast on down to a gas station.

The group of onlookers watch as he locked the car and walked off in the rain (which had picked up and was even heavier now) in search of a gas station; these several seasoned observers, umbrellas braced over their heads in their thick, warm and well insulated winter gear, enjoying the free show; one helpful onlooker points, gesturing far, far down the road, back the way Albuquerque had come, uphill to the nearest gas station,

A car hurtled by, hooting. It stopped up ahead and he ran toward it, the door flung open, warmly welcoming him in from the cold. And as he reached out to it the car suddenly sped off, leaving Albuquerque standing in the rain in the road…










Apart from referring to himself in the 3rd person, Chassis Albuquerque suffered from a speech defect as a child – when he spoke, he continuously lied and to counter this habit was given a typewriter by his parents and began to write.


“My life’s full of them, outrageous exaggerations, I write because no one believes what I say.”


Chassis Albuquerque currently lives in London with his wife and baby daughter. He is on a diet (Low Carb) and learning Polish – this is unrelated to anything literary, he just thought to mention it.






GAS (Or Petrol In Parts Of Europe)

Vague in only the manner Chassis Albuquerque can write, it’s difficult to say exactly what GAS (Or Petrol In Parts Of Europe) is about. Things we do know: It's free and features Albuquerque in yet another compromising position, this time running short of fuel. When we contacted the author he sent this note: I DENY ANY KNOWLEDGE OF THE INCIDENT I WROTE ABOUT AND WILL BE UNAVAILABLE FOR COMMENT - I'M ABOUT TO BE CRYOGENICALLY FROZEN AND HAVE TO CONCENTRATE. Very curious.

  • Author: Chassis Albuquerque
  • Published: 2016-12-14 18:50:08
  • Words: 1961
GAS (Or Petrol In Parts Of Europe) GAS (Or Petrol In Parts Of Europe)