Who Is Clyde?

Clyde appeared one day during a Sunday sermon at the Church of the Carburetor — climbed onto the transmission altar, knocked over a moonshine jug, and walked off with a gold socket wrench. Rev Diesel didn’t flinch. He just pointed and said, “That’s Clyde.” Since then, no one’s questioned it.

No one knows where Clyde sleeps, but everyone knows where he’s been — empty beer cans, missing lighters, bite marks in beef jerky. He’s shown up at Joe’s yard more times than anyone can count, once seen dragging half a chainsaw and a sandwich bag full of stolen spark plugs.

He’s survived bar fights, squirrel riots, tire fires, and at least one minor exorcism. White John swears Clyde once brought him a working lighter in solitary — no one believed him, but they found the claw marks on the wall.

Clyde don’t talk. He don’t stay. He don’t care. But somehow, he’s always there when the weird gets sacred and the sacred gets weird.

Legacy

In the Church of the Carburetor, Clyde is listed under “divine chaos.” In Joe’s yard, he’s listed under “do not feed, do not fight.” Bubba once tried to wrestle him during a Fourth of July cookout. Clyde bit through his denim and vanished into the treeline with a hot dog in his mouth.

He once tried to steal a phone charger out of a drunk man’s pocket — that man woke up face-down on a deer skull rug and just said, “Goddamn Clyde.”

He ain’t a pet. He ain’t a myth. He’s Clyde. Lock your shit.

He’s never missed a sermon. Always shows up right after the opening rev. Some say he picks the best offering with divine instinct – others say he just steals the heaviest thing in reach.
Rev Diesel lets him. “Even chaos has a role in holy combustion,” he once said, watching Clyde drag off a transmission dipstick like it was a sacred scroll.