Too funny... My in-laws are all in Pahrump, and we've all watched it grow progressively trashy-glitzy.

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As a native of the Windy City with so much of your life spent on public transit, you've finally decided you want a car for yourself. In the months since your girlfriend broke up with you, you've been needing a project to get you out of your rut or ruin you completely. You'd spent months scouring the classifieds for something that piqued your interest; sure, the 455 cubic inches of the Stutz' Pontiac-sourced V8 beckoned, but where's the fun in that? Everyone would always be asking you how you liked your Cadillac Eldorado-thing. Nobody would know what it was at all! Oh no, you need the honor that is committing ritualistic suicide, or harakiri.

An avid fan of Grand Theft Auto Vice City, you note that this car looks more like GTA: VC's Infernus than the Countach. A broad grin spreads across your face. That Lambuickghini was made for you.

Imagine the looks on the Lamborghini and Fiero kit car enthusiasts faces when you tell them all about your custom Infernus that'll blow the doors off their Countach at full boost.

You remember your favorite weapon from GTA:VC, oh yes. The katana.

You make your trip down to the knife collector shop at the Mall and pick up your very own stainless steel Katana. It's a bargain at just under $50, and comes with a lovely scabbard. Indeed, you've found your new piece. And unlike a gun, you don't need a permit to carry it. That's badge-lowering thinking, there.

But first, you need to get your Lambuickghini Infernus running.

You rent yourself a flatbed from United Rentals, and take your trip to visit the seller of the Lambuickghini. The rental costs more than you expected, and you only had $10,000 in your budget to begin with.

You arrive at the owner's house, a shithole at the end of a gravel road. There it is, in all of its horrible, oxidized reddish glory. The red will never do. That car needs to be white like the mountain of cocaine that inspired its creation and harkens back to the cocaine-fueled 80s. In his ad, the seller had written that no reasonable offer refused, you offer him $5,000 and the opportunity to keep his head attached to his body. A very reasonable offer, one that he couldn't refuse. Pinkslip in hand, you load your quarry onto the flatbed, and prepare to make tracks, but not before doing donuts (WITH THE FLATBED) on the owner's lawn.

Your blatant disregard for others feels incredibly liberating after the months of depression and nobody giving a damn about you-- at long last, you feel your turn has come to not give a damn about them.

You sell your condo in favor of renting a shop with a shower, sink and toilet. It's dirty, rat-infested and located in a filthy, steamy alley in Chicago and you hole up inside with your soon-to-be infernus-- so much work to be done. You buy a Ford Ranger for another $500 just to make it easier for you to get back and forth between the junkyard and drag new parts into your shop.

You stock up on GNX parts, and after much fuss and tinkering, one day, the motor finally roars to life, the turbochargers spool echoing throughout the garage that has become your home. Your bed, which once was a luxuriant queen-size feather-stuffed masterpice, is now an oil-soaked piece of garbage, barely fit for the vagrants that sleep in cardboard houses in the alley your shop is on. It doesn't bother you. The glory of being the only guy to have an Infernus motivates you to keep going. When you're too tired from wrenching on the tube-frame monstrocity that has taken over your life, you play Grand Theft Auto Vice City until you fall asleep. At night, you've sworn you've heard the vagrants trying to break in a few times, and as a countermeasure, you've taken to sleeping with your Katana.

Your funds from the sale of your condo are dwindling now, but the Infernus is closer than ever to completion. All that's left is paint. Afraid to take the car out onto the snowy (and salty) Chicago roads, you decide to paint the car yourself, here in the shop.

You decide to paint it a glorious pearlescent cocaine-white.

It's finally over. You decide to go outside and get a breath of fresh air. As you open the back door of your alley-side garage, you see a bum get um, shouting, "you didn't see shit!" And with that, he scoops up a fistful of white stuff, and tosses it in your face.

It tastes sweet, and quite a bit of it gets up your nose.

You feel surprisingly unfazed. You feel more awake than ever before as you wipe the stuff away from your mouth and nose.

It's white.

And powdery.

Suddenly excited, you pace into the garage. TODAY IS THE DAY, you decide. You thrust open the garage door. Nevermind that it's still wet out. To hell with that, it's time for you to unleash the vengance of the Infernus upon the world. You pick up your Samurai sword and throw it onto the passenger side Recaro seat you'd installed, accidentally knocking your space heater over.

In your cocaine-fueled rush, you don't notice, or even consider stopping to fix it.

As you hop into the car, firing up the turbocharged three point eight liter sixer, you slam your dodecahedron door shut, and jam out into the alleyway; your oil-soaked bed igniting a fireball that immediately consumes all of your worldly possessions. You don't even care that everything you own except this car is now in a sad state of charred ruination, you have your Lambuickghini-based Infernus coupe.

That's all that matters, now.

You just want to be free. Everything feels just like playing GTA.

Even the light-trails appear as the coke works its magic on your brain. Everything runs both in slow motion and fast forward at the same time. You slam through the Muncie 5-speed transmission you'd so expertly chosen for your bastard project. You looked so fucking cool, it was unbelievable.

You come up to the light next to some douche in a pussy-magnet yellow Gallardo.

"Nice kit car!" He tells you,

"Fuck you, this is an Infernus!" you retort.

The light turns green, and your worked V6 absolutely dominates the Gallardo, burying him in your tiresmoke.

He never sees more than your taillights. How cool are you? Your tube-frame, backyard contraption just smoked a product of the Genuine Article.

No greater gesture could have been given to tell the world to go fuck itself.

You pull up to a gas station, march inside, your sword at your hip and proclaim to the clerk, "Look at my Infernus! YOU WISH YOU WERE AS COOL AS ME! STRAWBERRIES!!"

You weren't sure where the strawberries bit came from, but in your mind, it was a line Shakespeare should have envied.

The clerk gives you an odd look, and you draw your sword. "GIVE ME THE DAMN MONEY!"

The clerk appears shocked, and hands over the money. It feels great.

You hop into the Infernus and rocket down one way streets, well into triple digit speeds. This car needs to be at the epicenter of cool in Chi-town. Michigan avenue. Yes. The glorious, overcommercialized, overpriced hub of consumerism in Chicago.

You don't even think twice as you use the nose of your Infernus to punch through the glass walls of Louis Vuitton (the tube-framed car taking almost no damage from the impact), tossing the door open long enough for you to grab yourself some swag as you use the throttle to do a U-turn inside the store, not really caring when you send a few pedestrians flying.

By now, a gaggle of Chicago's finest has caught wind of you and your shennanigans, and you rocket down the road to avoid them.

Sure as in GTA, a few boys in blue toss out stop-sticks on front of you. Hell no, you tell yourself, and instead drive onto the sidewalk to avoid the roadblock.

The cops fire a few shots and take out one of your rear tires, sending the car spinning 720 degrees as the snap-oversteer gets the better of your cocaine-enhanced driving abilities, the car ending up with a telephone pole embedded in the passenger door. The engine still running, you coax the car into moving again, narrowly getting free of the pole as squad-cars roll up. Your so-called Infernus rolls to a stop on the opposite curb as police, guns drawn, surround your badly-wrecked project.

You refuse to go to jail. Instead, you choose to accept your end, here in your Infernus. Your cocaine-powered logic sees the plan as flawless, and drawing your Katana, you plunge it deep into your own belly, suddenly surprised by how painful it is as the sword splits your flesh.

The world begins to darken as the cops break out your remaining window.

Your Infernus then catches fire, keeping the cops at bay as fire overtakes the cabin.

Your Infernus has become your Inferno. This is truly Project Car Hell, and you have willingly become its Dante.

If only you'd bought that Stutz instead...

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Damn it, Nibbles, it's not like you were related to the stupid bird...

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And its clearly going to be more difficult, because it is an actual vehicle of sorts, and to bring it around you are going to have to come up with the real emblems etc. I just love stripped parts cars being sold as projects.

Actually, there are many Blackhawk projects around FS, and I would much prefer this one:

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You're a green one, Mr. Stutz--

You've got moss upon your seats;

You're a crooked gappy mess and

You ride like rusty meat--Mister Stuuuutz.

You're some bad junk, Mr. Stutz;

you're a rotting worthless hunk--

You were sunk in some dank sewer

And then salvaged by a crunk--

The three words that best describe you are:

Stink. Stank. Stunk.

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The Stutz is the clear hell here. Hideous, sure, but it does have some exclusivity. And it's real so you'd have to restore it to original. Restoring to original is always more hellish than "whatever works" engineering.

The only way the Stutz would work for me, is to get it running and drive it in its current gloriously neglected condition.

I can see myself driving a dilapidated Blackhawk, but I can in no way ever see myself driving a fake Countach.

So let's see:

The Stutz is in worse shape = more hell

I would drive the Stutz (though not restored, and in restoration lies the hell)

If one were to attempt a restoration of the Stutz, where does one source the NOS Stutz specific bits and pieces?

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The Stutz may not be a Duesexnerberg,
but it's close enough. Being an "idea man" myself (Feed mayonnaise to tuna fish, Chuck!!), the choice is clear.

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