The Body in the Trunk

When my trusty, humble Volvo developed a case of Check Engine this weekend, the service rep at the dealership assured me that for $2300 all could be set right if he could keep the car for a few days. To dignify the transaction, he handed over the keys to a loaner car that I might "need all week," which I imagine means that the incoming Volvo parts from Sweden are arriving at Dulles today, having travelled first class from Goteborg.

The car loaned to me, and which two service techs spent 20 minutes introducing to me, is a new Lincoln MKS, which you must Google. (You can't even price this baby online--you submit your requirements and a dealer will contact you--if you dare.) The MKS is a big, bad car so trendy that after I remote-unlock the beast I just drop the oval key in my handbag because the MKS doesn't need no stinkin' key--a push button starts the car. What's not to like? The MKS has a touch-control panel with many, many screens that deliver options I must study lest I hit the seat eject tab by mistake and sail through the moon roof into a bright future. The trunk is like a cave, carpeted in case I want to camp out in it for a few days, but I am more concerned that drug lords have stashed their stuff in the far reaches, and this would surely be discovered when I am pulled over for driving a sedate 65 mph down Rt 70 instead of 90, which the MKS begs for. As for the body in the trunk, I'm sure it's there--I'm just afraid to look.