There is only one Devil in PCH, and that Devil is Murilee Martin.

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Now the Lincolns... the sheer possibilities.

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As an aside, I don't think I've ever heard that version of "Hot Rod Lincoln" before. Good stuff.

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$1500 or best offer for BOTH V12s??! Sure, they're in Texas, and you're in CA, but Golly gee willikers, $1500 for TWO!? You immedinately phone the owner and rent a two-car transporter setup to drive over and dig them out of the ground.

But they're both missing tires. Shit.

You call the seller, and tell him over the phone, "Look man, your Lincolns don't even have tires to roll out on. I'll give you $800 and get em off your lawn. Deal?"

The seller quickly accepts. You wonder if it was such a great idea to agree on price sight unseen. Nevetheless, upon your arrival you dole out 8 benjamins into the grubby mits of the nasty trailerdweller in Greenville Tejas, and he hands you what little documentation exists for the cars.

You manage to wrangle up a set of tires to fit the wheels. Now you need to get those tires onto said wheels. You don't need no fancy tire machine, you're gonna do it the way Grandpa did when Ford still had a plant on Terminal Island. With a fucking crowbar. Tires mounted on a set of obviously aged wheels, you get to it A-la Murilee did when rescuing the 242. You're up to your elbows in dirt, but you don't care. A short while later, you manage to drag BOTH Lincolns onto your flatbed transporter and tie them down. You grin, and keep looping 50's rock and roll all the way back to your house in sunny Southern California.

You've got your prizes. Now begins the real battle.

You've been single for a while, and you've always wanted to live out your Grease/Happy Days fantasies.

Funnily enough, there are enough of you that share the same mindset that now there are scores of girls dressed and tattooed like Bettie Page, and a whole Kustom Kulture that supports you.

But you've got something really different. You've got 4 more cylinders than everyone else. That's like having a motor and a half. You've got two of them.

You can't stand to just use one for parts to restore the other, instead--- you opt to turn one into an out-and-out dragster, and the other into a streetrod.

Oh yes.

One matte black, and the dragster unpainted, glorious patina and all.

You get to it, restoring your street-car first so that you can get around. You're getting tired of driving your 86 Honda Accord to work. You feel like a loser every time you show up in the parking lot. But that all changed. The car that had been verified to turn over went first. You clean out the oil pan, fill the cylinders with diesel, let them sit overnight, and then in the morning you pop in fresh spark plugs and a new battery and attempt to get the Lincoln going.

Apparently this engine was rebuilt fairly recently (think about 18,000 miles ago), as the compression was good (it takes a LONG time to compression test a 75* V12), and luckily enough, you got it running.

You turn the key and the starter hesitantly engages, and the V12 makes an attempt to start, churning a little, giving you one or two combustions, but it won't start. You get your neighbor to help you as you spray starting fluid down the carb. You tell your neighbor to crank it, and he starts just a moment too soon, sending a fireball roaring out of the carb. But to your dismay, the Lincoln is suddenly running. The rumble of 12 immense cylinders firing together feels like it's making the earth tremble beneath them.

And that classic Lincoln style. There's no time to waste. You let it run for a few minutes, all 292 CID of displacement spewing unfiltered exhaust into the air. Fuck you, Smog Laws! You shut the car off and make sure it's ready to run. The brakes work, the transmission is still good, and surprisingly, the rear axle turns great with a new bit of fresh grease. The way these big components were made back then, coupled with the relatively rust-free environ of Texas all these years, the thing held up surprisingly well.

You slick your hair back with grease, and wear a white t-shirt, jeans and a black leather jacket, looking every bit the modern-day Fonzee. But Fonzee never had a V12. You're manlier than the Fonz ever was, you tell yourself.

You paint it matte black with a red pinstripe, and install a set of lakepipes, and a 4-on-the-floor transmission, and show up at the Kustom meet at In-N-Out with your car for the first time. You can feel the envy coming from the other guys as you roll up, and a few of the betties start strollin' your way.

You meet up with a particularly cute girl, tatted and pierced, who calls herself Angie.

You like her, and the two of you cruise to the drive-in together after the meet. Oh yeah. You've taken the car to Southern CA. (we still have drive ins.)

Shortly after, the two of you decide to go steady. She's a hot-rodder too, but she left her Ford Galaxy at home. She knows all about your car, and really admires your ambition for picking up a V12. You're in love. This car has brought you what is likely the love of your life. As you drop her off at her apartment, you hug the steering wheel, grateful that you've found such a catch.

But Bruno, the guy from the meet with the T-bucket isn't happy you took the betty he was lookin to make his woman.

You show up to the next meet with Angie in the passenger seat. You blip the throttle, the roar of your big-displacement V12 with lakepipes is nearly deafening.

You are the cock of the walk.

But Bruno's tired of everyone fawning over your damn Lincoln. He's been the 'leader of the pack' figurehead among the Kustom Rodders for four years now, and he's not about to let the newcomer take the lady he's been after-- and with it his title-- away from him. You didn't grow up in the 50's. You didn't fully understand the culture in which you were immersing yourself. Sure you talked the talk, and walked the walk, but the problem was... you didn't get it.

Bruno walks up to you as you lounge lazily on the hood of your Lincoln, slouching, almost using the fender as a seat, with Angie seated on your knee.

"Listen, buddy. I know you're new around here, but this is MY crowd, and Angie's my girl, goddammit."

Angie looks bothered by this, "Bruno, I've never been your girl."

"Yeah, but you were s'pposed to be." He responds angrily. Turning his attention back to you, he makes his challenge. "Let's see you put your money where your mouth is and whether or not your V12 is worth the iron it's made of."

Not one to turn down a challenge, you accept.

Confident in your Lincoln's abilities, Angie raises the stakes. "Winner takes me."

Bruno likes the sound of that.

"How long's the race?" you ask.

"Where else? To deadman's curve."

You grit your teeth and make your reply.

"You're on."

The two of you line up at the light in front of the IN-N-Out, and wait for the green.

Your 12 cylinders roar, as his flathead V8 T-bucket barks back.

The light flashes green and you drop the hammer. The immense torque spins the tires, but your Lincoln's heavy body doesn't respond as quickly as the featherweight T-bucket. But not for long. Your tires hookup and you roar after him, and immediately reel the T-bucket in. This is your first time racing with your V12. Maybe you should have tested things more thoroughly first.

You continue to pull away as deadman's curve approaches.

You see Bruno fade into the rearview, but now the yellow > > > signs are coming up right in front of you. You stab the brakes, but the 60 year old drums are anything but responsive. The car begins to slow, but not nearly enough. The Lincoln's front bumper punctures the guardrail with relative ease, and you sail through the air in your Lincoln, and watch as the ground comes into view.

Angie, a few blocks away, hears the scream of the metal and her heart sinks.

You hit the ground, your chest hitting your unpadded metal dash, the steering wheel hitting your chest especially hard. Your heart hurts so bad. But you're still alive. You manage to pull yourself out of the car, and a moment later you see Angie starting down the hill, heading towards you with help.

"My god, are you OK?"

"my.. my chest hurts, but I think I'm fine," you manage to say.

Your Lincoln V12 is dead.

Every breath you take gets harder and harder. "I don't feel so good." you manage, and collapse into Angie's arms.

The blunt force trauma to your chest perforated your Aorta, and you're dead within minutes from internal bleeding.

But you won.

Angie's heart will always be yours.

And you can see her swear to finish your other Lincoln.

You got what you wanted... but at what cost?

Your Lincoln has brought you the love of your life, and by the same token, taken it all away.

Welcome to a different kind of project car hell.

On the positive side, you later recount to Saint Peter, at the gates of heaven, "At least I didn't become a German pimp and start calling myself Dieterich like that douche who bought that 750IL convertible."

Saint Peter nods in agreement.

end

tl; dr

Don't buy that frigging BMW. It's lame.

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Look, you build the Bimmer, you get, what, another V12 Bimmer? You pull up to a 5-star hotel, and you still get the "Pfft, old BMW" sniff from the valet. It's not a new 7-series, so it's going to get a spot somewhere in the basement, near that leaky pipe. Your only hope is to modify it so it looks flashier... and then you have a tacky euro hot-rod, that gets you an even more contemptuous sigh.

But a Lincoln! An old, '40s, Hot Rod Lincoln! I don't care WHERE you pull up, you're getting some respect. And I don't care how you modify it, you're getting admiration. Slam it, chrome-and-clearcoat it or give it flames on flat-black, people are going to love it. For myself, I'd go the chrome-and-clearcoat route, tastefully lowered on a stylish set of upsized wheels, and a full leather interior, done to closely resemble what it looked like stock. But that's me.

But where you get the REAL respect is in the engine. That V12 probably cranked out, what, 100 horsepower? Not enough. So it's time to get a second job, because you're custom-fabbing performance parts.

Twin Demon carbs would make a good start, but where are you EVER going to find an appropriate intake manifold? You're not, that's where. So you're custom fabbing, boy-o, and that don't come cheap. Maybe those pistons are strong enough, but probably not. So you're spending hours in a Lordco warehouse, searching for something that will serve. Surely SOMEONE out there makes a nice forged piston with the right dimensions? Probably. It's just a matter of looking, long and hard. You're going to need a stronger crankshaft, and that's going to need to be custom-fabbed. A bore-and-stroke, a port-n-polish, a custom-made lumpy cam... shit, son, you're approaching fifty large, and you ain't even done the engine yet. Sure, sure, you could swap it out for, say, a 460, or even get creative with a Triton V10, but where's the fun in that?

Fine, cheat, find an appropriate tranny. Go three-on-the-tree for uniqueness. A Borg-Warner T-85 is strong enough, and throw an under-over gear splitter on the back for highway cruising.

It's all doable and that's the dangerous lure of these Lincolns. There's no electronic nannying to deal with. It's just an engine, I mean how fucking hard can it be?

Hard. Really fucking hard. But it won't seem that way. You can take it apart in your driveway, if you're careful. You'll find yourself breaking the project down into small, bite-size chunks. "Today, I'll work on re-building that head." Never mind the fact that you have to do each individual proess six times per side. When you break it down, it doesn't seem so bad.

But it is. it really, really is.

Still, just think how awesome it'll be when you blow those flamethrowers out the dual rear exhaust as you pull up to that Westin Grand, and watch the valets tremble in fear. Oh yes. Then it will be worth it.

Eventually.

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With a 4-barrel carb and a dual exhaust

With 4.11 gears you can really get lost

They're Project Hell Lincolns, but I ain't scared

The brakes are good, tires fair

Pulled out of San Pedro late one night

Drivin' one the second on a trailer behind

We was drivin' up Grapevine Hill

Passing cars like they was standing still

All of a sudden in a wink of an eye

A BMW Cabrio Seven passed us by

I said, "Boys, that's a mark for me"

By then the tail light was all you could see

Now the fellas was ribbin' me for bein' behind

So I thought I'd make the Lincoln unwind

Took my foot off the gas and man alive

I shoved it on down into overdrive

Wound it up to a hundred-and-ten

My speedometer said that I hit top end

My foot was glued like lead to the floor

That's all there is and there ain't no more

Now the boys all thought I'd lost my sense

And telephone poles looked like a picket fence

They said, "Slow down! I see spots!

The lines on the road just look like dots"

Took a corner, sideswiped a truck

Crossed my fingers just for luck

My fenders was clickin' the guardrail posts

The guy beside me was white as a ghost

Smoke was comin' from out of the back low and gray

When I started to gain on that Bee - Em - Vay

Knew I could catch him, I thought I could pass

Don't you know by then we'd be low on gas

We had flames comin' from out of the side

Feel the tension, man, what a ride!

I said, "Look out, boys, I've got a license to fly"

And that Beemer pulled over and let us by

Now all of a sudden she started to knockin'

And down in the dips she started to rockin'

I looked in my mirror; a red light was blinkin'

The cops was after my Project Hell Lincoln

They arrested me and they put me in jail

And called my pappy to throw my bail

And he said, "Son, you're gonna' drive me to drinkin'

If you don't stop buyin' those Project - Hell - Lincolns

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Good job with the Charlie Ryan track, Murilee. The back-references to Jimmy Dolan's Hot Rod Race are correct in this one, that's what always irkd me about the Commander Cody version. I'm not sure Cody ever heard of Jimmy Dolan.

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I can do gratuitous italicization too!

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