Finance

Upon entering the dealership, I was greeted by a seemingly endless expanse of sterile white walls, cold fluorescent lights, and a disconcerting lack of any discernible signage. It felt like I had stepped into a dystopian alternate reality where the laws of logic ceased to exist. I half-expected a giant insect to scuttle by and offer me financing options.

The paperwork I encountered resembled a manuscript from an alternate dimension, filled with arcane symbols and cryptic fees. But I feared not, for I approached this bureaucratic behemoth with a smile, determined to find a silver lining. The friendly staff guided me through the paperwork with a zest for bureaucratic excellence. They insisted that each fee and clause was vital to the fundamental balance of car transactions, and who am I to question such cosmic wisdom?

Finding the right department was like navigating a maze designed by a sadistic architect. After being redirected by three different staff members, each with less helpful information than the last, I stumbled upon the test drive counter hidden in a dimly lit corner. The disinterested clerk handed me a form that seemed to request every single piece of personal information I could conceive of short of my blood type, which they drew from my arm personally.

Though the employees at this location seem to be involved in an extensive conspiracy to ensure I would personally never again be free of the chains of servitude and muttered in ancient tongues during my financing process, I was impressed by the selection. While their cars may require regular ritual sacrifice of rare oils and eldritch incantations in place of standard maintenance, the model I purchased seems to never run out of gas, instead representing its fuel with a strange meter with my picture at the bottom, labeled in years. Odd, considering it had apparently been manufactured with the picture long before my birth, but ultimately convenient.