Poor millionaire

The sound wasn’t even mechanical, it was biological. The one that makes your ears bleed. It was the sound of a metal throat being choked by its own corroded vocal cords.

Arthur Pringle leaned over the open hood of his 2003 Audi A3 (a car that had long ago transitioned from vehicle to permanent lawn ornament) and pressed the record button on his cracked smartphone.

“Chug. Click! Hiss. Screech!” — cried out the machine in pain.

Did you hear that Perry? — Arthur muttered into his phone, his voice was a bit raspy from lack of conversation. That wasn’t just a misfire. That was a death rattle mate! Send this to your best mechanic, please! Tell him I’ve checked the fuel pump three times, at least three I think?! It’s not the fuel pump. — he continued.

The neighbors were well aware of Arthur’s routine, since he has been attempting to save his dying — if not dead — car for endless hours, days, weeks and months by now.

Let’s go back a little.
Arthur lived in a property worth approximately four million dollars. It was a cliffside estate in the most exclusive zip code of the coast, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Sapphire Bay. Arthur, however, kept the dusty and wrinkled velvet curtains drawn shut at all times. He didn’t like the ocean, didn’t care about the view either. It was too wet and vast, and frankly, too loud for his taste, which was pretty ironic given that his own existence was a relentless assault of acoustic pollution.