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:
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