A bunch of guys are sitting in a booth at a diner. Construction workers, cops, criminals, whatever. I haven't thought that far into it yet. But Michael's with them . . .
"You know why I call my truck 'Sweetheart'? Cause I swear its a female!" One guy said, pounding the table with a meaty fist and making the coffee cups shake. "After the last time I road my bike, I had to sit and beg the truck to start for fifteen minutes. I swear it was getting back at me for taking the Harley the day before. It was jealous, I tell ya! Jealous! Had to sweet-talk her just to get her started!"
Another guy snorted coffee through his nose, he was laughing so hard. "Hell, that sounds just like my wife!"
Michael just smiled. "I know what you mean, guys. My car gets really jealous anytime I drive something else. I practically have to describe my every action from the moment I got behind the wheel, explaining every step of the way that it meant *nothing*, and that 'of course I'd always choose you over another any day!' before my car'll even let me in the door."
"Tempermental, huh?" All of the guys were grinning at that point.
"Oh, hell yeah!" Michael agreed with a smirk. "I've faced easier interrogations by professionals than what my car puts me through! You think they'd expect --- Yeowch!"
At Michael's startled, pain-filled screech, everyone at the table (and several nearby ones, too) turned to look at him with various expressions of puzzlement. Ignoring their questioning looks, muttering invectives under his breath, Michael was busy rubbing his wrist and glaring fiercely at his watch.
"You okay, buddy?"
Suddenly, Michael grinned again -- a little maniacally. "Fine, fine. Just got a little shock through my watch. My car's way of expressing his displeasure with me."
The other guys looked nervously at each other. "Uh..."
Michael's grin widened, becoming more dangerous looking with every twitch of his lips. "He gets a little sensitive, you see. Over inflated ego. Just can't stand the idea that I might want to drive something else beside him, once in a while."
But before one of the increasingly concerned men could suggest the name of a good therapist, there came a very unexpected sound. A voice -- cultured, male, and distinctly pissed off -- eminated from the vacinity of the crazy man's wrist. Everyone stared at Michael's watch in confusion.
"I am not jealous, Michael!" the watch said. "I was merely concerned for your welfare. You were clearly suffering some sort of malady to have chosen that other vehicle as your conveyance."
"Because I chose to drive Kathy home in her own car?"
"Because it was a VOLVO!" Kitt shrieked indignantly. "A Volvo, Michael! A teal green Volvo!"
"What, a Volvo is a very reliable vehicle. Sturdy, trustworthy, unlikely to break down. What's the problem, pal?"
"It was a Volvo!" Kitt seemed to be stuck on that point, unable to get over the sheer offence of having been passed up for a small, boxy, teal green hatchback.
Michael was really having fun now, his grin stretching from ear to ear as he leaned back in his seat and brought his wrist closer to his mouth. "Hey, at least it wasn't a Volkzwagon," he offered impudently.
Kitt sputtered uncontrollably for several moments, completely incapable of coming up with a retort worthy of that insult. Michael began to chuckle as he listened to the static chittering over the comm-line.
"Fine!" Kitt finally returned, practically snarling in his CPU. "If that's the way you want it. One of your buddies drove up in a blue Beetle -- you can get a ride home from him! I'm leaving!"
And Michael sat in stunned shock as everyone in the entire diner turned to watch the sleek black sports car plow out of its parking stall and charge full throttle away from the lot -- the unique sound of its highly revved-up turbo engine hovering in air behind it.