Writing Prompt You are reincarnated as the trash young master of a noble family... Of used car dealers.

TLCsDestiny

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Ah, so...Does this trash become no longer trash when he fixes or sells the used cars?
Perhaps his components on being 'trash' is like used cars and so he needs to fix himself to become a first hand car dealer instead?
lol, interesting!
 

Sabruness

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i admit, i laughed when i read that thread title :blobrofl:
 

Llamadragon

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(Mild trigger warning for death by overdose)
The mirror on Ryker Fordlords bedroom wall was made from the outerior metal of the door of an ancient Ferrarri that had been excavated last year, an exquisite pre-apocalypse antique taken apart and mutilated like this just to make expensive furniture for the rich and the powerful. And as the youngest son of the Fordlord royal family, the current rulers of the Kingdom of Whitethrash (thrash, not trash, important distinction), third prince Ryker Fordlord had certainly been both rich and powerful. His appearance in the mirror reflected that - he looked like a terrible mess, sure, and he smelled of alcohol. But the gaudy blue jacket he wore was made of velvet, with tastefully stylized patterns of gears and engine parts hand-embroidered on it wirth silver thread. The ”Ford” car logo was embroidered on the shoulder. His red hair was messy, but silky and glossy, and his skin lacked the terrible sunburn of those with lesser standing than him. His necklace was made from the teeth and claws of dragons (none of which he had slain himself of course). On his neck, hands and the arm exposed under the rolled-up sleeve, his pale skin was almost entirely tattooed, mostly with skulls and racer cars. I had to admit, even though they were gaudy and I felt very conflicted about having this on the skin that was now mine, the artists handiwork was pretty great.

I looked from ”my” reflection in the car-door mirror, to my arm, and to the empty syringe laying alone on the fluffy carpet floor. I knew instinctively that Ryker Fordlord had died in a way befitting of the way he had lived - alone. Scared. Unintentionally. And in a childish fit of self-justified anger at everything he thought was wrong with his life. I took a deep breath and decided not to remember that moment, picking up the syringe and tossing it into the trash as if it was a hot coal that burned when I touched it. It was an awful memory.

Instead I brought to mind my past life. It was hazy, and so was most of the memories of this Fordlord princeling. But I remembered the gist of it. I was European, to start off with, and to be honest I knew nothing about the whole American ”white trash” thing. I’d only heard it mentioned on TV sometimes, and that I thought it was pretty crude. In my past life, calling an entire demographic ”trash” would’ve been crude enough to sign my own social execution, but I was never interested enough to find out what that term meant or even implied, beyond a vague understanding that ”white trash” and ”nobility” probably weren’t compatible at all. It was as if someone had taken my prejudices and limited understandings and made it into an illogical fantasy world, one I didn’t understand. It was pretty clear to me, at least, that even if there hadn’t been dragons, or the whole pre-apocalypse thing, this wasn’t something that could’ve ever happened in the world I came from.

I felt the mild surge of a panic. Didn’t this mean that I - not Ryker, but me, the woman who had been reading web novels on the internet just moments before - was dead? That I had... what was the word, transmigrated? That was an assumption that made no logical sense, but since that was what I had read about just then, it was naturally the first thing that came to mind.
... killed by a truck. I had been killed by a truck. Somehow. Which was bizarre, because I lived on the fifth floor, but I clearly remember looking out the window and see the front of the vehicle rush towards me. There had been a loud noise. And... shards of glass. It was yet another memory I did not want to remember, but mercifully, that death was less... prolonged.

But why, though? Seriously. I looked at the tattooed, calloused hands that I weren’t used to seeing. I knew that Ryker, like most people of his kingdom, believed in the Great Truck God… and that the novel I had been reading when that truck crashed into my fifth-floor window and killed me, had been about some random hero reincarnated by Truck-sama. That was the only common theme I could think of. But still, why would some random girl who didn’t even have a drivers lisence, transmigrate into a poor-stereotype-from-another-continent made real, as the asshole prince of some weird kingdom that earned its fortune from killing dragons and digging up and selling ancient cars? Wasn’t there supposed to be a reincarnation diety here to explain this crap, or something, at the very least? I waited for a moment just to make sure there was none, but... nope. Could it be, I was really Ryker Fordlord, and because I was high on whatever had been in that syringe, I was hallucinating about having lived another life in another world? Could be, but I couldn’t not investigate just due to that possibility.

.... I wondered how people would react to Ryker actually reading a book, and sighed. I had to figure this out somehow. My first stop in this new body would be the Temple of Truck-sama so I could pick up some relevant literature.

——————

One day, perhaps I will learn how to keep these things short. Lol. Sorry. As a side note, I really DON’T know anything about the white trash thing, so hopefully I haven’t written something that’s PC-police-worthy. Sorry in advance if it was, I just really enjoyed the aesthetics of dragons, tattoos and monster trucks.
 
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