The RotaDatsun is nearly finished, ferchrissakes! I mean, he says that it runs and drives; what more do you want, an interior? That just adds weight. Just drive it as-is and you'll be fine.

Of course, it will eventually explode, but then you'll just be stranded, not entering the gates of Hades upside down and on fire. I'd say this has a Hell quotient of about 40%, whereas the Sprite is a solid 80%. Or maybe it's just so deceptively easy-looking so that it can snare you in its hellish grasp for all eternity.

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The 510 is cool but I'm not digging the body kit and it's got the wrong rotary in it to be truly hellish, the 13bs are readily available and, despite their reputation, can be built up to be pretty reliable and with 150k and an unknown history on the one that's in there it would be about due for a rebuild anyway. To be truly hellish the 510 needs a turbo 20b tri-rotor... an engine setup capable of such potency it was banned by the JGTC.

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Golly, this car's got everything; $3000 price tag, a gaping hole where that little 1098 used to spin, and a seller with delusions of grandeur. Is it getting warm in her, or is it just me? This is Project Car HELL after all.

Let's say you're not hurting for cash, and you're not the best negotiator in the world and so you buy this car off him for, oh let's say more than the $200 it's really worth. Take it home and check out that "professionally built" chassis. It's probably actually ABS drainpipe. Oh, and that front suspension it needs? Heck, piece of cake. That's what you might be eating when you realize that the stock A90-sourced lever arm shock/upper locator and slinky-sized springs (fun for the whole family) aren't going to support any V8 other than a quart can of the refreshing vegetable beverage sitting in your fridge.

The owner teased you by saying he had $5K invested, but you now realize that included 312 parking tickets and a year's impound fees, Dammit! Can somebody open a window? Because it's really getting warm in here.

Okay, so you got screwed. So this thing is now now longer able to go back to its days as a cute little sports car, and the idea of putting a torque-monster engine in it brings to mind images of pretzels and blood spattered lamp posts. Much like Transexual, it is neither fish nor fowl, but unlike our tranny friend, it does not offer fun from both the top and the bottom. Could you turn down the thermostat? It's like a sauna.

Man it'd be nice to get this albatross from around your neck, but your in it too deep. You never actually work on the car, you just spend night after night standing in front of it in the garage, wondering how you could have been so stupid. Is that smoke I smell? And . . .brimstone?

One night, while kicking the fender and swearing at the car for all of its sins it happens; there's a puff of ocherous smoke, and a gleam of light rom the ill-fitting boot lid, which raises with a rusty squeak. A hand is pushing it up, deep red, with long claw-like nails wraps around the thin metal of the lid. A shaggy leg, ending in a cloven hoof descends to the floor, followed by a second, as the visitor climbs from the back of the tiny car.

He is tall, taller than you would have imagined, and be-horned and red-skinned like an indian. He's no native American however, as his piercing yellow eyes and darting red tongue demonstrate.

He looks at you and snorts, tendrils of smoke trailing from each nostril, and strides around the car to where you are standing, each step making a clip-clop sound on the concrete floor of the garage.

Cast your eyes downward worm his voice bellows, and in fear, you do. As you turn from his face, you notice to your horror that he definitely is a male, and appears to be ready for action. You swallow hard at the thought, and muster the courage to ask Wha-what do you want?

Want? the demon retorts, in a booming but gravelly tone. I want nothing, but to offer you a bargain. His tail, also forked, switches back and forth behind him, and knocks a can of DOT3 off the bench. It rolls under and out of sight.

A bargain? you ask, What do you mean?and, feeling more relaxed, you raise your head. He glares at you but continues- Your soul for completing this machine. Your eyes narrow in distrust, Wait a minute, finish it how? He stretches his arm across it and as your vision wavers for a moment, the car is transformed- A killer candy-apple red paint job, small block crate motor fit on custom mounts, a twin a-arm front end and a gorgeous interior with hand-turned dash accents and sweet Smiths Gauges. On the windscreen are a series of car show award ribbons -all 1st place.

Another wave and the image is gone.

All that, and all I have to give you in return is my soul? you ask, What's the catch? Now you're feeling like you have the upper hand. You've lived your entire life with your soul, but you've never even used it. But he doesn't need to know that. . .

No catches, the machine and all the glory that unfolds before your eyes, in return for the eternal damnation of your soul, to be eaten by imps in the fires of Hell itself and shat out again for time immortal.

Hmmmm, you ponder Is the work guaranteed? Wha? Huh? the demon seems confused. Of course not, who do you think I am KIA?

You start shaking your head, No, no, no can do pal. I'm not paying for anything, unless I get a written warranty of at least a year on all parts and labor.

The monster's eyes go wide and he seems to grow even larger as he throws his arms above his head MORTAL I AM OFFERING YOU RICHES YOU ARE INCAPABLE OF ACQUIRING YOURSELF, WOMEN WILL FLOCK TO YOU, OTHER MEN WILL WANT TO BE YOU, ALL BECAUSE OF THIS MACHINE, AND YOU WANT A WARRANTEE? YOU ARE THE LOWEST OF THE LOW. YOU ARE THE EXCRETA OF WORMS IN MY EYE AND YET YOU QUESTION THE QUALITY OF MY WORK? I OUGHT TO SMOTE YOU RIGHT HERE AND NOW AND EAT YOUR SOUL MYSELF, HOW ABOUT 6 MONTHS PARTS, 1 YEAR LABOR?

You now know you've got him right where you want him, Reach out to shake on the deal. Instead he reaches out a long, sinewy index finger to your chest and makes a mark there with the talon on the end. Your shirt smolders and a patch flutters to the ground, trailing embers in an orange cascade.

Looking down you see a ashen shape on your chest, immediately over your heart. It's a pentagram. Mouth agape, you look up to ask if it will wash off, and that he owes you for the shirt, but the demon is gone.

The sprite is gone too, or at least the basket case you brought home is. It now sits under the florescent lights in gleaming paint. Through the hood scoop, you can see the filter atop the 4 bbl carb, and you can trace the three-inch pipes down from the sides of the engine bay and out the sides, just ahead of the fat rear wheels.

Sweet you whisper to yourself, and climb behind the wheel. This is going to be awesome. The key is in the ignition, and a turn brings the V8 to immediate life. After raising the garage door, you drop it into reverse and let the clutch slowly out. The Sprite backs down the drive and across the apron into the street. It's dark out, and streets are wet from the recent rains, but nothing can stop you from testing the limits of this kick-ass machine. Throwing the short lever forward you drop the hammer and immediately release the clutch. There's a momentary judder as Isaac Newton makes his laws known, and then the car leaps forward.

The tires grab for traction, and make an unearthly howl as you saw at the wheel trying to keep the little car on a straight path. The left rear digs in and you see light poles go by like they're in a zoetrope wheel. Second comes hard as this is a brutal car, and you are slammed against the seat back. Third is almost as harsh and now you're flying- everything in the car is buzzing from the speed. You see the corner ahead, and using parked cars as braking markers you wait until the last and then hit the center pedal . . . and nothing happens. You pump it frantically as the massive oak dead ahead looms ever more largely in the headlights. You're going way to fast to make this curve, and a grab of the hand brake does nothing to stem the tide of your impending doom. Giving the wheel all the strength you have, you try and turn the little missile into a skid, and manage to get it sliding sideways - the tires letting loose a terrible noise in protest, and hit the curb with both front and rear simultaneously. The car flips into the air and sails over the parkway directly into the tree. The last thing you see is the roots passing immediately below you as the cockpit slams into the 150 tree trunk, slitting the little car into two, and shaking a cascade of leaves from the boughs above.

Miraculously, you seem to have survived, perhaps to have been thrown clear. Laying on the ground, you don't even feel any pain from injury. Getting up, you first notice that the light is different, and think that the car must be burning and you are seeing the resultant shadows dancing on the wall. But where did that wall come from? And why is it so damn hot? And where is all that screaming coming from?

Turning around you see neither the tree nor the little car, but a wall of flames in their place. Your eyes turn to dinner plates as the wall parts and through the opening steps your cloven hooved business partner.

He smiles at you and asks What took you so long?

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Only the most unholy and highly sought after creations discussed in so many import car magazines.

There is a reason such a conversion can cost over $9,000...

But you're a 17-year-old highschool shop student with a tight budget, and knowing nothing of the real automotive world yet, you buy it as your first car.

Of course, you know you're going to have to put work into it. But imagine the looks of horror on all those V8 mustang guy's faces when you blow them away in your BRE-themed Datsun 510 with Mazda Turbo II engine!

You're still young enough that you're not wholly absorbed with getting laid-- hell, you've already gotten some, so buying a car solely for pussymagnetic properties is beyond you. You're too cool and too indie for that.

You show up with the required funds in hand and in cash, ready to buy the sleeper that will blow the doors off all those fucking punk rich kids at Los Alamitos High School (I fucking hate that place).

You manage to save up a few hundred dollars for goodies from Mazdatrix, but find that your quest for MORE POWAHHH has been taking its toll on your studies. You need to have the car ready to rock for graduation, and graduation day donuts in Vet stadium's parking lot, a-la-Monster Garage's outing with the 350Z-powered Datsun Honey Bee.

Too poor to afford a proper paintjob, you buy Brightside marine paint instead and apply it as you'd read about on a "how to paint your car yourself" website. Your paintjob is lumpy and far from lustrous. You wonder how the guy who hosted the site got his to turn out so good when your attempt turned out so crappy.

You press on anyways, and apply your very own BRE Datsun racing livery. In a moment of vanity, you stencil your name onto the roof above the driver's door.

You test the car in the driveway, revving it as the tailpipe spews tons of unburnt fuel into the atmosphere, and unfortunately, your mother had left the screen door open. Your house stinks of fuel. Your parents hate it, whereas you on the other hand, actually enjoy the smell.

Your project, which has been occupying your parents driveway is no longer welcome, and that 'eyesore' of yours that never seems to be running quite right has managed to ruin the driveway with oil stains. And your attempt at painting has further ruined the driveway. Your father scowls at you hatefully, knowing that he's going to have to sit there for hours with Acetone getting that shit out of his driveway or repave the whole damn thing.

Your interior is also far from 'existant', and about the only thing you have to sit on is a set of rotten sorry excuses for seats. But that's OK, with next week's allowance you'll buy a set of plastic racing seats at Kragen for dirt. This car's about being fast as hell, not being impressive.

With a bit of generic guidance from an experienced tech at Mazdatrix, you finally have your Turbo II Rotary 510 running. You get the 510 churning out 250 rear-wheel horsepower, and swap over the independent rear suspension from a 240Z. Thankfully, Datsun is a big fan of parts sharing, so upgrades come easy. You install 280ZX 4-wheel disc brakes. You even manage to swap over a set of Toyota Truck front brake calipers.

You cruise to every Nissan event in town and gloat with pleasure when you crash Sevenstock with a freaking Datsun, your filthy engine bay open displaying your filthy Turbo II for all to see. Your 510 is the envy of all the other guys at the Tuesday night Tommy Burger meets.

"Nice car, dude!" All the guys tell you. You are thrilled that others like this thing that you've created. You swell with pride. And yet...for some reason, no girls will even talk to you. Surely at least ONE female thinks your work is cool.

Not one fucking girl.

One day, after you come home, your parents sit you down.

"Son, we're really tired of that eyesore in the driveway. We thought we'd let you fix it up and have your fun, but it's time to move on now."

Your jaw drops in horror.

"Son, the salvage yard is towing the car right now," your father tells you. You stand up. "WHAT THE FUCK?" you proclaim, as you bolt to your feet.

The title was in your parents name. They can do that. Goddamnit.

"But there's no reason for you to be sad." They go on.

"I've got something for you, son." Your dad says, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. "Catch."

He tosses you the keys. A set of Ford keys with a clicker keyfob.

This doesn't look good.

You run outside and to your horror, your car is gone, and you can see it at the far end of the street on the flatbed.

FUCK.

You press the "PANIC" button on the keyfob. What the hell had they gotten to replace your 510?

On the other side of the street sits a white, 1998 Mustang convertible.

It's a fucking V6.

A fucking AUTOMATIC convertible V6.

They may as well have bought you a skirt. You have a hard time controlling your rage and frustration. Your cheeks are hot as tears stain them. You wipe your eyes.

Your dad strides out to you and puts his hand on your shoulder. "That convertible will get you all kinds of girls, son. I know, it's hard for you to take it all in." he tells you. You shoot him a hateful glare. Surprise. We've all been there in some way or another.

Your mother prods you. "Son, your father bought you a new car, one with an interior and working AC. What do you tell your father?"

You bite your lip. You grit your teeth and manage a "Thank you."

Welcome to underage project car hell, where your parents get fed up with your eyesore project car and give you a tame yet completely unjalopworthy replacement. Where all your hard work is for naught.

Where you get your first taste of project car hell.

And you know damn well your fool ass is going to go and do it all over again.

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Or is it the seventh triangle rotating in an oval of hell?

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That is hilarious, I'll have to remember that for the next Craigslist ad I write.

And I vote Sprite based solely on the picture. That garage looks like a damn garbage truck tipped over inside it.

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I'm sorry, I think I need a few minutes alone.

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