The Zero HourS

Strange vibrations on this early Friday morning in our city of angels. The assignment says I am to drive 400 miles kinda due north to an island called Alameda and pick up one Mrs. Murilee Martin. From there we will make our way to Willows, California (aim a dart at a map of the USA, turn 90 degrees to your left and toss — you just hit Willows) where we will rendezvous with a pack of wild, gear-grease stained hoons at a motel bar to discuss plans for the next day's 24 Hours of LeMons race. The overlords are demanding TOTAL COVERAGE, and that's what we will, no — must — deliver. Why? If I may quote the poet:

Beauty and fame are meaningless beside
The ability to kill with a look in your eye
I defy you to see through me
Nothing is all that you will see
The Vincent Blue Shadow is packed and gassed. The tires are currently at 75 PSI, but it still isn't cornering properly. Rails, rails — we need rails! I'd like to bring them up to 100 PSI, but I've got to go man, I've got to go! All tremble in the presence of the Great Magnet.