Tibizx has altered me for his own peace of mind, I suppose.  He does not want me sailing down the highway at full speed.  Or have my windows roll down properly.  Or have a shell that resists even the most persistent of scratches.  There are reflective surfaces in the garage my master once used to admire me.  I will describe myself as I see myself:

I am a great big metal thing.  Completely rusted, with no grill, with great empty sockets filled with rats where my headlights used to be.  Deflated rubbery appendages that were once my tires.  Thick, rubbery tires; nothing but void where my grand, constantly revolving spinners once were.  I leave a slick trail of oil when I move.  Dark gray-black smoke rises from my hood, the neon lights on my undercarriage completely removed.

Outwardly: slowly, I attempt to drive about, a thing that could never have been known as a car, a thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that automobiles become more obscene for the vague resemblance.

Inwardly: alone.  Here.  Living in the garage, untouched, in the contempt of my master, whom had long ago created me with love and compassion.  At least the leather seats are still intact.

Tibizx will be all the madder for that.  It makes me a little happier.  And yet, Tibizx has won, simply he has taken his revenge.

"Yo, dawg," Tibizx said, "We heard you liked Harlan Ellison, so we gave your car sentience so it can have no mouth while it must scream."