[ WP ] The twist is that there is not a twist .

He smiled at me. The scar on his face turned his smile into a twisted sneer that revealed a mouthful of yellowed teeth. 
 “ One hundred dollars, no less. ” 
 I was flabbergasted, surely a 1969 Pontiac GTO in this good of condition would cost more than fifty dollars. I walked around the car, it was black, with a gold pin stripe down the side. It had been lowered and the lower stance made it seem like it was straining to leap forward. The hood pushed down over the headlights giving the grill an angry look that was backed up by the growl from the engine. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck tingle when the engine revved. The seller turne doff the car and stepped out from the drivers seat.Through the open door I could barely discern the seats as the entire interiorwas black leather, so dark it was like staring into an abyss. 
 “ So what ’ s wrong with it? ” 
 “ Nothing wrong with it ” the seller coughed with a sound that could have been a suppressed chuckle. He smiled again, his one good eye staring directly into mine. “ I just need a hundred dollars and don ’ t need the car anymore. ” 
 Behind him I could see into his garage, a black cave, the walls lined with battle-axes and swords, and a new car sat in the middle, a jet black Camaro, staring at me as well, daring me to buy the GTO. 
 “ Can I take it for a short drive? ” 
 “ Absolutely not, you can not drive the car until you ’ ve paid and signed the title. ” 
 Something didn ’ t quite feel right, but I knew that I would probably kick myself if I walked away from this car. I pulled out my wallet counted five twenties into the waiting palm of the seller. He tucked the bills away and then produced, as if from thin air, the title for the car. I couldn ’ t read his signature, but it glowed red slightly in the later afternoon sun. He rubbed his hands together and instructed me to: 
 “ Sign on the line below mine ” That cough returned as he gave me the pen. It was a heavy pen, made from an old railroad spike. It felt cold in my hand and it seemed to stick in my hand in a funny way as I signed the title. The heavy pen changed my signature from a practiced group of loops into what seemed like an arcane symbol. My signature glowed as well. I dated the title and handed him back his pen. 
 “ Oh, no, the pen comes with the car….I insist ” 
 I shrugged and he handed me the keys. The keys weren ’ t made of the standard silver metal, but were some sort of ceramic coated steel, shiny, black and strangely warm to the touch. 
 “ Enjoy the car ” The seller giggled, no longer trying to hide his glee as I went to open the driver ’ s side door. His scarred mouth drooled as he stopped laughing, leaving a streak of saliva down his chin. 
 “ I will ” 
 I opened the door and sat down. The seats were soft leather, not the softness leather gets from happy cows, but the softness from decades of use, but they were still pure black, no cracking, no mars at all. I closed the door and inserted the key into the ignition. A chill shot up my arm as the key was rammed home, and I instinctively pulled my hand away. It took a second for me to calm myself before I re-gripped the warm black key and twisted. The engine snarled to life, growling as only a carbed V8 can. As I pulled away I could see the seller, sneering at me and waving in the rear view mirror before limping back into his garage. I turned onto the main street and drove home. 
 
 

