The Curse Of The Red Rocket
by Kye Fitzgerald
Simon Massey, Sean Fanning, Paul Daniel, Sean MacGugan and I decided to get ourselves together for a road trip up the coast of NSW. Road trips are always a great Aussie adventure, but ours was more like a horror movie.
First I went to pick up the hire car for the trip.
The guy working there had a pentagon tattooed on his wrist and seemed young for someone to
be running a car hire business. I introduced myself and asked for a suitable vehicle -
something worthy of a surf expedition. Hire car man stared at me with dilated pupils and a
wry smile, and whispered, "I used to go to school with you." He stepped closer,
I could smell the death ringing on his breath as he whispered again with a wink,
"I'll give you a special deal on a car, she's a real cherry." Hire Car Man
showed me the car and it was a cherry alright. A cherry bomb! 
It was then that I realized I must have been a real
dick at school. The hair on my neck stood up as I visualized my face planting a Mack truck
on the Pacific Highway in this piece of junk. "I call her the Red Rocket"
whispered the Hire Car Man as he slapped me on the back and pushed me into the driver's
seat. When he closed the door behind me I could hear the car growl, a growl that you could
hear coming from hungry stomachs. I was sitting in the belly of the beast.
I picked up the guys and we hit the road, driving in searing heat checking out surf spots along the coast only to get more and more frustrated by the ceaseless flat spell. Each day we would buy the newspaper to check the weather map, hoping for a low depression or a cyclone to produce some swell. For days, nothing. To relieve the boredom we would turn to this cryptic password puzzle and between the five of us we could never answer one question.
We continued on our slow and sluggish way up the coast with smoke pouring out the rail pipe. Boom! A tire blew out. Thank God the Red Rocket couldn't go over 80k's an hour because it would have taken our lives if it could. You're probably thinking a flat tire isn't that much of dilemma...but it is when your spare is flat as well. This gave us hours of cryptic crossword fun on the side of the road waiting for help. We still couldn't answer one question.
The next day the surf was still flat and the Rocket predictably broke down again. I remember this day because this is the day I wanted to end it all. Everything was making me mad. I was sure that I was stupid, stinky and ugly and I also felt I had an incredibly irritating personality. I was positive the other guys sucked and I was sure they thought I sucked, even though we were all mates. But something happened that day that changed things. If it was for the better, I don't know. But something definitely changed.
I was tinkering around with the Rocket's engine
trying to figure out why she wouldn't start. In frustration I cut my hand, badly. Blood
went everywhere, all over the 
engine and all over the car. Feeling hopeless I tried to start her one more
time. She started. We hit the road again and as I bled on its floor the Rocket's
performance began to improve. The needle on the speedo began to nudge past the 80km per
hour mark, then 90 and then even 100k's. I noticed the smoke had stopped blowing out the
exhaust and before I knew what was going on the Red Rocket was traveling at a smooth
130km's an hour. My own confidence was returning. I was starting to feel sexy and smart.
My cut hand was almost feeling erotic even though the bleeding was profuse. I could tell
the other blokes were feeling better. We were mates again as we powered up the coast.
That night we answered all the questions in the cryptic crossword and the next day the waves pumped. It was obvious that the Red Rocket needed blood, and if it was blood it wanted then blood it was going to get. We began sacrificing lizzards and small birds to the Rocket and it feasted. The waves pumped and for the next couple of days we surfed ourselves mad. The cryptic crossword wasn't even a challenge anymore. We became addicted to the feeling of superior intelligence and sick waves. The Red Rocket was beginning to look good. Eventually the small birds were not enough so we began mowing down possums and koalas on the road, traveling at a smooth and easy 150km's an hour. The Red Rocket had us, we were traveling in the belly of the beast and we were traveling that long road straight to paradise.
After another day of surfing and eyeing of koalas,
we met a guy who wore cool sandals. He didn't tell us who he was but we knew he was the
guy who could play the guitar better than Jimi Hendrix. He was cooler than James Dean and
could score any girl he ever wanted. He could dance better than Travolta and he was
funnier than Jim Carrey. He could also taste the best cake you have ever tasted. I think
we might have met face to face with Jesus. He reminded us that school holidays were almost
over, and the Red Rocket had to be returned to Sydney. He was right, so we began driving
that long road out of heaven back to Sydney. The curse was broken. 
The closer we got to Sydney the slower the Rocket would go, the needle slowly dropping below the standard 80k's per hour mark. The engine started to splutter and smoke began pouring out of the tail pipe again. I was tempted to take out a dog or a cat on the road just for one more day of fine surf, but I knew that would be the end of us all. We were like smack junkies going cold turkey driving along the cold road that night.
By the time we got back to Sydney the Red Rocket was back to her normal bomb self. I dropped the guys off and returned the Rocket to her rightful owner. Hire Car Man was surprised to see me. Handing over the keys was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I felt flat stupid, knowing I could never answer the cryptic crossword again. Hire Car Man knew how I was feeling, that wry grin surfaced and I whispered, "I guess I'll see you again next summer?" I left feeling a little better.