Satan Personally Reserves Space In Hell For Man Who Sold A 2016 Holden Cruze To Single Mum

ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact

There are crimes of passion. There are crimes of greed. And then there is the quiet, evil act of listing a 2016 Holden Cruze online as “mechanically sound” and “perfect for the family.”

This was not a car with quirks. It was a car that was fucked.

The engine knocked at idle in that faint metallic rhythm mechanics recognise instantly and owners try to forget. Just turn the radio up. Under acceleration it developed a harsher note, like a pack-a-day smoker lying winded on a nature strip after being pushed from a moving car, accompanied by a soft blue haze suggesting oil was entering places oil should not be. Beneath the oil cap, a creamy emulsion hinted at coolant mixing with lubrication. The seller had convinced himself it was condensation from short trips. Topping up coolant, often just tap water from the hose, had become a weekly ritual. He told himself the hard town water might yet seal whatever crack had formed. The reservoir required more attention than a Capricorn girlfriend, or boyfriend. All Capricorns are fucked in the head, just quietly. At traffic lights the temperature gauge rose steadily like the risk of congestive heart failure does with age. He described it as running warm, hot-blooded, temperamental in the heat like the Spanish are. It's a 'Cruze' after all.

The automatic transmission behaved as though it required a moment of reflection before committing to Drive. Engagement was followed not by smooth acceleration but by a decisive clunk, like a bird gliding into a closed window. Third gear was occasionally theoretical. When it did appear it slipped in and out of existence, which he privately reframed as adaptive learning. On certain days the vehicle surrendered entirely and entered limp mode, limiting itself to a cautious crawl while the dashboard illuminated in solidarity. He called it a safety feature. Better cautious than reckless. Limping is better than crawling, per say.

And the dashboard did illuminate. The check engine light. Stability control. Airbag warning. Yes, it has it's original Takata airbags. A constellation of amber reassurance that everything was, in fact, not fine. He had grown comfortable with the glow, explaining it away as sensors, as modern cars being overly sensitive, like most women, and computers erring on the side of drama. The cooling fan waited until the situation had reached imminent core meltdown before engaging, which he described as efficient. The suspension announced every speed hump. Just bushes. The steering wandered gently left. Road camber. Tyres wore unevenly despite assurances that alignment had been addressed. The car wasn't visibly pigeon-toed. Early rust had begun surfacing near the boot seam. Cosmetic.

When the single mother of four arrived with her children orbiting her legs, he spoke with the calm authority of someone who had practised these explanations internally for months. He mentioned regular servicing without specifying intervals. He described the warning lights as common. He framed the overheating as manageable. He reassured her that he was only selling because he had upgraded, because the family had outgrown it, because it had been good to them.

None of this, in isolation, is unusual for an ageing car. In aggregate, it becomes moral territory.

To sell such a vehicle to anyone is a transaction. To sell it to a woman who requires it for school runs and shift work is a philosophical position. It is the belief that disclaimers are optional, that warning lights are aesthetic, that overheating is down to the Spanish origins of the word 'Cruze', that hesitation is safety, that survival for another six months counts as reliability.

Hell, it seems, recognises intent as much as outcome.

Sources confirm that Satan personally approved the reservation the moment the listing described the Cruze as "a classic Holden workhorse".

More to come.