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Awww, I hoped he'd managed to rip a hole in space-time and cram one of these in there... (click da pic)
Edited by GIC asks not for whom the bell tolls at 08/14/09 10:06 AM
GIC asks not for whom the bell tolls was starred
GIC asks not for whom the bell tolls was unstarred
Edited by GIC asks not for whom the bell tolls at 08/14/09 10:07 AM
GIC asks not for whom the bell tolls was starred
GIC asks not for whom the bell tolls was unstarred
@Boxer_4: My Dad had one of these when I was a kid. It quit running and sat for over a year and he sold it to some guy for a $100. That guy put a fuse in it and drove it home.
That still pisses me off. I was 14 at the time and really wanted that to be my first car.
Brilliant! It's usually fairly easy to make a fast car faster, but to take a petite engined mini-car like this and make it go fast takes equal portions of genius and insanity. Good Luck to you Mr. Burns!
Bob settled his mind. With the decision came a huge relief, as if many difficult projects from his long-ago job had all come to fruition, and now there was only the aftermath, the afterglow, the post-orgasmic lassitude. He examined his life of late.
The wedding was over. The honeymoon was over, almost before it began. Outside sat the Dodge 600, hunkered in shame. It had failed to deliver on the promise.
No, the car hadn't failed. It hadn't made any promises. Don't be a dipshit, Bob, it's just a car. You imagined it was whispering sweet nothings into your ear, when you know that all this time, it was really just Satan.
Bob took the wedding ring off his finger. He laid it carefully on Tasha's iPod, knowing she would find it the instant she woke up. He slid his shoes onto his feet, and stepped carefully out the door, down the hall, and out to the car.
He fired up the engine. It started readily, it ran well. It just couldn't run very fast.
He pointed it toward the twisty roads, to open up the reluctant engine and test the sticky, wallowy suspension. At the first outside curve, he floored the accelerator and punched through the aging guardrail. The ground fell away. Open air whistled around them as they left the road and inadequate guardrail behind.
As they descended, Bob and the car achieving a speed that the car might never have dreamed of, had it ever dreamed, he patted the dashboard. You poor old bastard, he thought. We've both been needing this for a long, long time.
@Elhigh: Or at least that's what Bob initially thought -- the car must be sailing, this must be the release from purgatory. The release he desperately sought, desperately needed like that final car payment coupon to Chrysler Financial, was not to be. The crunch of the suspension and possibly the oil pan bottoming out on rocks and craggy cactus brought him back to the reality that the 600 and him with it were still very much alive, all forward motion stopped, much like his brief marital encounter with Tasha. The 2.2 still ticked over with a predetonation-like valve clatter that seemed to say "You cheap bastard! You spent plenty on her but got me only regular gas."
The Chronometer perched on the dash glowed in the night, the soft light of the digital numbers slowly incrementing. It had not yet been changed to reflect daylight savings time, and was actually an hour off. A rational man would have thought, "Do I get out of the car, even though I'm only wearing a pair of Sperry Topsiders, and soil my new white short shorts going back up the enbankment? Or do I throw the column shifter in L and try to dislodge it from the seemingly dense stand of cacti?" That is was the rational would do, use the power of space-saving front wheel drive to undo all that had been done.
Instead, his inner anger at himself taking control, Bob reached over and fumbled with the glove box door, forgetting that he had locked it while at park playing tennis with Tasha before the wedding. This simple act, this simple forgetful act, saved him from taking the ultimate step: using the small Beretta buried underneath a pile of old road maps, cinnamon Velamints and the mostly unread 1985 Chrysler Corporation 5/50 Protection Plan documents. If he could've, he would've, and probably this hurt Bob the most -- that it would come down to this.
Sobbing, he opened the door, got out of the car and stared up at the night sky. A million stars twinkled overhead, much like the idiot lights on the dashboard of the 600 upon initial startup. An strange unease settled over him. Wasn't this why he bought the car to begin with? To see the world as it really was? How could you do this any other way, but with the top down? Suddenly, the low top speed and severe cowl judder of the 600 didn't seem so annoying -- life really is better at 45mph. Could he recover from the whirlwind of the last few months? Yes.
A quick assessment showed the 600 missing three hubcaps. A rather significant amount of road rash would need to be fixed by a competent body shop, and Bob would have to track down the plastic headlight housing that was cracked from a cactus branch. Little did he know that that quest for this housing would take him across America, to MOPAR swap meets and flea markets, and that along the way there would be new loves, new friends who liked Bob -- and liked the 600.
@Pkrat: Bob clambered back behind the wheel and pulled the door shut. The calm voice reminding him that the "Door is ajar" fell silent.
Vivacious it would never be, but dogged and relentless the 600 could manage. The engine clattered in its mounts as the front wheels scrabbled, then caught and dragged the battered chassis free. Beheaded saguaro squished out from beneath the beam axle at the rear.
Bob pulled the Dodge to a small clearing. The engine still worked, the brakes worked, the tranny worked. The top was already down, and at this point, he believed he might never raise it again.
Beretta be damned - gun or Chevy - a moment's epiphanous flight and what might become a lifetime of resultant lower back pain had shown him the truth: he was getting old, and screwing young women wasn't going to change that. He could, though, seize life the way many older men had.
Bob remembered Paul Newman.
He leaned out of the car to seize a convenient rock, and broke open the glovebox door. He removed the Beretta - the gun, not a Chevy - popped the clip and threw it as far as he could.
He examined the maps.
Shifting the Dodge back into Drive, he made his bumpy way across this rocky field, gained a road, and pointed his car toward Reno, toward headlight trim, toward turbochargers.
@Elhigh: But whither Reno? The memory of his first time in Reno crept from the back of his mind like rust on a lower door edge of a Turismo in a Minneapolis winter, fed by salty grime. Yes, it would be -- ney, must be Reno to recover from all that was Tasha.
The side road back to the valley was littered with the remains of civilization -- an orange Omni Miser-edition on blocks next to a derelict oil derrick struck him as ironic: a fuel sipper next to the fuel it was supposed to sip, it's 1.7 VW motor laid bare to the world like Bob's soul after losing what he thought was a good thing. Sure, it was pretty fun up front, but in the long term, just made you look bad.
No, the trip to Reno must be made, if for nothing else than to satisfy his curiosity that the girl with the Caravelle was still there. Did hers have the egg-crate grill or was it the smooth rounded one that came in '86? So much remained unclear as a sudden snap could be heard and the slippery brown vinyl of the driver's seat back suddenly gave away. Bob mused that the power seat motor probably took quite a beating from the shock of the guard rail and must have finally gave out as he sunk in, hunkered down for Reno. It had been making grinding noises for months...it was hell getting comfortable after hemeroids. This would complicate things.
The valve clatter of the 2.2 running on 85 octane gas seemed to diminish under the long hood of the 600, the Pentastar hood ornament almost proudly pointing the way to Reno. Follow me, follow me -- come on buddy, you can bounce back like my spring loaded anchor, it told Bob. The maps were old, the Velamints were still saccharinly sweet, but he knew the 600 would get there, provided the slowly leaking head gasket so common on higher mileage 2.2's wouldn't let go suddenly.
As Bob motored through the desert, he began to reflect -- what would be next? Could there be love after the 600? Sure, this was no Mark Cross edition with Crystal Key program, but then again, he wasn't sure he wanted the high maintenance that was Tasha and her type that turbos attracted. There was always growing a mustache and a new pair of Top Siders...but would that satisfy his yearning? He thought of chucking it all, getting a clean start -- even the possibility of life with a Daytona, feeling almost guilty over the lust he felt for the optional T-tops.
No, the 600 would do. Only a like minded soul in a LeBarron would cause him to stray. Sure, he would notice her initially from afar, the wood trim gleaming in the sunlight. But he would pursue her, pursue her beyond Reno if he had to, as fast as the 2.2 could carry him.
@InfinitisEnd: I had three Shelby Chargers and I couldn't make one operational... Too bad because they were kind of fun to drive when they actually drove.
08/14/09
08/14/09
08/14/09
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Awww, I hoped he'd managed to rip a hole in space-time and cram one of these in there... (click da pic)
08/14/09
08/14/09
08/14/09
A light car with a powerful engine is always winner.
08/14/09
That still pisses me off. I was 14 at the time and really wanted that to be my first car.
08/14/09
08/14/09
07/09/09
07/09/09
That was epic.
07/09/09
07/09/09
Do not want.
07/09/09
07/09/09
The wedding was over. The honeymoon was over, almost before it began. Outside sat the Dodge 600, hunkered in shame. It had failed to deliver on the promise.
No, the car hadn't failed. It hadn't made any promises. Don't be a dipshit, Bob, it's just a car. You imagined it was whispering sweet nothings into your ear, when you know that all this time, it was really just Satan.
Bob took the wedding ring off his finger. He laid it carefully on Tasha's iPod, knowing she would find it the instant she woke up. He slid his shoes onto his feet, and stepped carefully out the door, down the hall, and out to the car.
He fired up the engine. It started readily, it ran well. It just couldn't run very fast.
He pointed it toward the twisty roads, to open up the reluctant engine and test the sticky, wallowy suspension. At the first outside curve, he floored the accelerator and punched through the aging guardrail. The ground fell away. Open air whistled around them as they left the road and inadequate guardrail behind.
As they descended, Bob and the car achieving a speed that the car might never have dreamed of, had it ever dreamed, he patted the dashboard. You poor old bastard, he thought. We've both been needing this for a long, long time.
07/09/09
The Chronometer perched on the dash glowed in the night, the soft light of the digital numbers slowly incrementing. It had not yet been changed to reflect daylight savings time, and was actually an hour off. A rational man would have thought, "Do I get out of the car, even though I'm only wearing a pair of Sperry Topsiders, and soil my new white short shorts going back up the enbankment? Or do I throw the column shifter in L and try to dislodge it from the seemingly dense stand of cacti?" That is was the rational would do, use the power of space-saving front wheel drive to undo all that had been done.
Instead, his inner anger at himself taking control, Bob reached over and fumbled with the glove box door, forgetting that he had locked it while at park playing tennis with Tasha before the wedding. This simple act, this simple forgetful act, saved him from taking the ultimate step: using the small Beretta buried underneath a pile of old road maps, cinnamon Velamints and the mostly unread 1985 Chrysler Corporation 5/50 Protection Plan documents. If he could've, he would've, and probably this hurt Bob the most -- that it would come down to this.
Sobbing, he opened the door, got out of the car and stared up at the night sky. A million stars twinkled overhead, much like the idiot lights on the dashboard of the 600 upon initial startup. An strange unease settled over him. Wasn't this why he bought the car to begin with? To see the world as it really was? How could you do this any other way, but with the top down? Suddenly, the low top speed and severe cowl judder of the 600 didn't seem so annoying -- life really is better at 45mph. Could he recover from the whirlwind of the last few months? Yes.
A quick assessment showed the 600 missing three hubcaps. A rather significant amount of road rash would need to be fixed by a competent body shop, and Bob would have to track down the plastic headlight housing that was cracked from a cactus branch. Little did he know that that quest for this housing would take him across America, to MOPAR swap meets and flea markets, and that along the way there would be new loves, new friends who liked Bob -- and liked the 600.
07/09/09
Vivacious it would never be, but dogged and relentless the 600 could manage. The engine clattered in its mounts as the front wheels scrabbled, then caught and dragged the battered chassis free. Beheaded saguaro squished out from beneath the beam axle at the rear.
Bob pulled the Dodge to a small clearing. The engine still worked, the brakes worked, the tranny worked. The top was already down, and at this point, he believed he might never raise it again.
Beretta be damned - gun or Chevy - a moment's epiphanous flight and what might become a lifetime of resultant lower back pain had shown him the truth: he was getting old, and screwing young women wasn't going to change that. He could, though, seize life the way many older men had.
Bob remembered Paul Newman.
He leaned out of the car to seize a convenient rock, and broke open the glovebox door. He removed the Beretta - the gun, not a Chevy - popped the clip and threw it as far as he could.
He examined the maps.
Shifting the Dodge back into Drive, he made his bumpy way across this rocky field, gained a road, and pointed his car toward Reno, toward headlight trim, toward turbochargers.
07/09/09
The side road back to the valley was littered with the remains of civilization -- an orange Omni Miser-edition on blocks next to a derelict oil derrick struck him as ironic: a fuel sipper next to the fuel it was supposed to sip, it's 1.7 VW motor laid bare to the world like Bob's soul after losing what he thought was a good thing. Sure, it was pretty fun up front, but in the long term, just made you look bad.
No, the trip to Reno must be made, if for nothing else than to satisfy his curiosity that the girl with the Caravelle was still there. Did hers have the egg-crate grill or was it the smooth rounded one that came in '86? So much remained unclear as a sudden snap could be heard and the slippery brown vinyl of the driver's seat back suddenly gave away. Bob mused that the power seat motor probably took quite a beating from the shock of the guard rail and must have finally gave out as he sunk in, hunkered down for Reno. It had been making grinding noises for months...it was hell getting comfortable after hemeroids. This would complicate things.
The valve clatter of the 2.2 running on 85 octane gas seemed to diminish under the long hood of the 600, the Pentastar hood ornament almost proudly pointing the way to Reno. Follow me, follow me -- come on buddy, you can bounce back like my spring loaded anchor, it told Bob. The maps were old, the Velamints were still saccharinly sweet, but he knew the 600 would get there, provided the slowly leaking head gasket so common on higher mileage 2.2's wouldn't let go suddenly.
As Bob motored through the desert, he began to reflect -- what would be next? Could there be love after the 600? Sure, this was no Mark Cross edition with Crystal Key program, but then again, he wasn't sure he wanted the high maintenance that was Tasha and her type that turbos attracted. There was always growing a mustache and a new pair of Top Siders...but would that satisfy his yearning? He thought of chucking it all, getting a clean start -- even the possibility of life with a Daytona, feeling almost guilty over the lust he felt for the optional T-tops.
No, the 600 would do. Only a like minded soul in a LeBarron would cause him to stray. Sure, he would notice her initially from afar, the wood trim gleaming in the sunlight. But he would pursue her, pursue her beyond Reno if he had to, as fast as the 2.2 could carry him.
07/09/09
07/09/09
07/09/09