My father could count the times he was spanked with one hand, and he told me stories behind two such spankings. Two of five acts committed by him, in youthful stupidity, was all he could bear his son to know. That said, this story is about something he did that left him with a bruised ass. (This is the sort of thing that will cause a father to have regrets that offer sleepless nights and sudden outbreaks of cold sweat-- which is why my father made me promise to write this when he was dead.) When he was nine, he loved to read sci-fi tech comics. One time he read a fictitious article about automobile racing in one such comic that claimed a car engine runs faster with sugared petrol. This roused his curiosity, compelling him to test this claim; so he crushed sugar cubes and poured it into the gas tank of his fathers car. I'd sell my right testicle to see my grandfathers face when he revved the engine of his car and infused the engine with sugared petrol, ultimately ruining his ancient jalopy. Even after a considerable amount of repairs, that car wouldn't run right ever again. Hiring the mechanic cost my gramps an arm and a leg. He worked in a factory, wearing wooden shoes to walk on red hot iron so he could mark where the machine had to cut the metal into even sheets. It was back- breaking work, and he endured it from five am in the morning to seven pm at night, everyday except Sunday for a meager salary. My father professed his innocence when his father asked him if he had anything to do with the car breaking down. My pops had my grandfathers trust, and he saw no reason to question my fathers word. Even so, the irony of fate is ever present; my fathers luck wouldn't last. The mechanic soon discovered that the engine was full of tiny granules, which to him looked like salt or sugar. Coincidentally, he also enjoyed reading sci-fi tech comics. The comedy of life is stupefying isn't it? Didn't take long for him to suspect youthful stupidity, so he decided to inspect the gas tank. Unsurprisingly, the tank was filled with the same shit he found in the engine. When my gramps went to the auto-shop for a damage report, the mechanic asked him if he had children. My gramps, confused by the question, nodded and said that he had a nine year old son and a six year old daughter. The mechanic smiled and pulled out the comic with the sugared- petrol article from his pocket, and asked my grandpa if it looked familiar. Gramps' forehead undoubtedly formed lines when he recognized the comic as his sons favorite. He was silent for a moment, as he turned the gears in his head. His face then assumed a patient disposition when he asked the only question he needed an answer to. "What did my son do?" The mechanic opened the comic, flipped to the sugared-petrol article, and showed it to my grandpa. "This will undoubtedly make you laugh... or it'll cause you to cry in shame." My grandfather, having learned of his sons crime, thanked the mechanic, who was kind enough to do the repairs for half price if my gramps promised to introduce him to "the little shithead who prefers his gas sweetened". After sharing a few beers at a cafe, gramps came home and confronted my pops. The blazing flame of my gramps stern eyes drilled into my fathers soul and filled him with guilt and shame, prompting him to confess. My father, teary-eyed, explained in detail how he "sweetened" the petrol. He regretted it ever since. He never fucked with the car again. The mere thought of experimenting on my gramps ancient jalopy would invoke the painful memory of his bruised ass. He wasn't able to forget that horrible stinging sensation, the sensation that follows a severe spanking delivered by hands of fury-- the hands of a father who walked on molten steel, with oaken clogs protecting his splintered feet during that humid Belgian summer of 1953.