My name is.. was.. Red-1. That might sound like a strange name for the beautiful goth schoolgirl that you see before you if you didn’t know me as I used to be. You see, I didn’t always have these enormous mounds and soft, supple flesh. My legs weren’t always this long, and while I did get honked at in the street, it was never for the way that my rear shook while walking around in my tight, all-black clothing.

You see, I was once the first fire truck ever built in Randle, Ohio, built out of one-hundred percent authentic American steel when American steel meant something. Every rivet and stripe on my beautiful red exterior was handcrafted by men with quality, American-made tools. The entire city lined up to watch me drive to my home in the new fire building, built specifically to hold my immense, water-bearing bulk.

I fought fires for more than four decades. Newer trucks came and went, but none outlasted me. Buildings fell upon me. Rocks and soot punched holes in my tires. The scorching heat of my nemesis ruined my bright red paint again and again, but my frame never faltered. I was always first at the scene, leading the cheering sirens of my fellow first-responder vehicles. 

But you already know that my fairy tale was not meant for a happy ending when you saw my now-horrific form.

Fate was not without a sense of irony when I, the first great firetruck of Randle, Ohio, was destined to meet my fate at the hands of Old Iron, the last of the great steam trains of Randle, Pennsylvania. I had fought a fire for the entire day, and throughout the night, when at long last my pumps were dry and the day was saved - or so I thought. Cries of agony were heard once more as a burning man was pulled from the wreckage, but there were none left to take him to the hospital. It was only I, Red-1, who was quick enough to save him. 

And so, despite my exhaustion, I drove. I drove as fast as I’ve ever driven before, with nary a thought as to my own safety. I flew through the streets, over cobbled stone and porous roads, smooth asphalt and railroad tracks.  It was this last that did me in. I saw the train coming, of course - nothing could escape my superior senses. But I knew that if I stopped to wait, the man would die of his wounds, and that was something that I, Red-1, could simply not allow. And so I raced on, daring the train to come forth and challenge me. I blasted through the warning signs, leapt across the tracks, when the blasted train blasted my rear quarter, shearing straight through my pristine steel spine. I staggered, still rolling forward by the strength of my ‘68 Ford engine, puttering along as my motor threatened to fail, but I refused to give up until I made it the final quarter mile to the very steps of the hospital.

There, as the man was saved and unloaded from my shattered cab, I turned my last pint, and my engine slid onto the street as my life-oil poured out onto the ground around me and everybody politely clapped as tears of gratitude streamed down their faces. 

Red-1, the infallible titan, had fallen at last.

I had assumed that whenever my time came, I would eventually be granted my passage to the Great Scrapheap in the sky, destined to live out my afterlife talking to the behemoths of yesteryear, regaling them all with the tales of my splendor and conquests. The greatest honor for all beings of steel, the Great Scrapheap was everything that I could aspire towards in life.

Fate, it seemed, was also not without a sense of being a tremendous douche.

I awoke the next morning surrounded not by the trains and ships of yore as I had expected. I wasn’t even nestled up next to an old bus or a wooden carriage. In fact, there was nary a buggy or sleigh in sight. 

Things felt strange, as you might expect, given that you have seen this absurd new body of mine. Things were soft now, soft and round and wet and… wow. The sensations were almost too much. After years of carting these humans around, to suddenly be inside skin of my own, to feel the air on my face, the soft sensation of silk brushing across my chest… Oh, I must admit that I leaked a little gas from the depths of my canister.

And that, my friends, is how I became the princess of the Pizza Palace of Bel-Air, the number-one rated delivery driver for both Uber Eats and Door Dash at the same time. You could try to touch my reputation scores, but don’t bother. They’re already above yours.