j0n
04-26-2005, 06:44 PM
well someone on the admin team has a very large stick lodged in their anus or something similar so i now have to repost this story in one post...it's very long but very worth it
just an fyi this is fiction altho the writer took bits and pieces from his own experiences to add to it...
btw yes the victim is an f-bod...but the story is so well written that it doesnt matter
I have this recurring dream…
I’m on the Barstow - to Vegas run in a ’57 Desoto Firesweep 2dr hardtop, midnight green. I’m hungry, which means I’ve probably decided to go to Yolie’s for Brazilian…When the mood hits you, ya gotta go.
Anyway, I’m about 20 minutes out of Barstow having just worked thru a plug of traffic when this rat bastard weasel driving a ‘74-ish white Trans-Am explodes out of the huddled mass of mundane transport behind me. He gets real big in the rearview real fast, even though I’ve got a quarter-mile lead at a smooth 95. I catch a glimpse of the 455 - SD on the side of the shaker as he blows by at about a buck and a quarter.
I’m intrigued.
I disengage the tailshaft - mounted overdrive on the TorqueFlite, and ease into the throttle. The punched - out 392 Hemi I’ve dropped in the engine bay acknowledges the request with a symphony of sound unique to vintage modified hemis. A few ticks later, the ‘Sweep has matched speed with the T/A, albeit with a judicious eighth of a mile leash. The tach settles in just under 5500, so I kick the O/D back in…and watch.
We’d breezed by a couple of loose traffic formations when we run into a tight plug consisting of the usual collection of RV’s, semis, and the odd old fart oblivious to the fact there is a right lane…Normal Anti-Destination League stuff. I hang back to see how the T/A handles this.
With just a light tap of the brakes, the weasel dives in, and immediately starts sawing through the plug. I hail from the “run silent, run deep� school of thought…You know, quiet lane changes, smooth acceleration…don’t ruffle feathers on the way thru. Not this guy. His lane changes are abrupt enough to upset the rear suspension after taking his lane, scaring the bejeebers out of the guy he just pulled in front of.
“Idiot�, I think as he jams the T/A in front of a Winnebago and hammers the brakes. The ‘Bago is pulling a powder blue Escort, which immediately commences an ominous oscillation across the road. The ‘Bago manages to gather the Escort in, but not before some hapless Civic driver takes a trip through the local vegetation to avoid getting punted off the road. Not only is the T/A driver a rat bastard weasel, he’s psycho, too. Time to give this guy a wide berth.
I hang at the back of the plug until I’m certain the T/A is gone, then cautiously work though. Doesn’t take me long…most everybody’s so shaken, they pull aside and let me by. I get to the front of the plug, and the T/A’s nowhere to be seen. After a couple of miles, the memory of the incident fades, and I’m back into cruise mode, save for shaving a few MPH of the top as insurance against encountering psycho-weasel again.
About 20 miles out of Baker, I encounter yet another slow-moving mass of traffic. This one is particularly pesky, as there is a double bottom tanker attempting to pass a car hauler. The car hauler is going 62…The tanker is going about 62.1. The process seems to take forever.
I work my way up until I’m directly behind the tanker. I’m getting impatient, because the tanker has nearly passed the hauler on more than one occasion, only to fall back. I make the decision to pass on the right the next time there’s enough room, so I kick off the overdrive, and punch up “2� on the shifter pod.
There it is. The tanker pulls up, and I squirt into the opening. Then…
I glance in the rearview to check distance on the hauler, and I see something which defies belief. Here comes the weasel, passing everything in sight on the left-hand shoulder! He must have stopped at the rest area a few miles back. For a split second, it doesn’t register…When I finally get it, the rat bastard weasel is even with me on the opposite side of the tanker. He startles the tanker driver, who immediately swerves into my lane, sees me there, and swerves back. This sets up a killer fishtail on the pup, and it’s obvious it’s only a matter of seconds before the Eastbound 15 looks like a scene straight out of The Road Warrior.
I head for the shoulder, which is covered with marbles. I feather the throttle, steering with the back wheels while I try to get ahead of the ever-increasing arc of the now-doomed tanker truck. Amazingly, the momentum of the T/A carries it ahead of the tanker, where the weasel damn near loses it getting back onto the highway, gathers it up, and takes off…
By now, I’m PISSED. While occupied with unrepeatable thoughts, I get the ‘Sweep going fast enough to pull ahead of the tanker. The tanker makes one last swing and falls on its side as if to mock a dying elephant. As the tragedy unfolds behind me, I find myself focused on one thing…catching the rat bastard weasel.
I center the Desoto on the highway, and whack the throttle plates open on four Weber downdrafts sitting atop custom short-runner manifolds…I smile inwardly as the roar of induction rises to the challenge. Won’t be long ‘till I catch up…
The Hemi is in high song now. The Desoto is settling into the pavement, with Virgil Exner’s famous fins aided by a contoured belly pan which adds downforce at speed. All of a sudden, the motor makes a burbling noise. I look at the tach…****! 7400 RPM! Even with solid lifters and titanium rockers, the valves are gonna float…
In the heat of survival, I’d forgotten to shift out of second. I punch up third, and the motor recovers. I wind her out, and engage the overdrive. Theoretically, I should be able to hit about 180 if the Hemi’s healthy…right now though, I’m not interested in theory.
I’m gaining on the T/A. Fast. As the gap closes, the weasel sees me. A small puff of unburnt hydrocarbons signals he’s going for it…I don’t care, because I’m still closing the gap. The SuperDuty in the weasel’s T/A is heavily modified, as he actually pulls away for a bit as his motor comes on the cam. It’s a narrow band, though…Moments later I’m able to take back the gap as his motor runs out of steam.
We are hauling now. The Desoto has a 150 MPH speedo from a Chrysler 300 E, and the needle’s bouncing off the internal stop. The blood is pounding in my ears from the adrenaline buzz. The world has condensed to a single object…The garish, over spoilered, “Gee-I’m-a-racecar� ass end of the rat bastard weasel.
Speed borne from anger is a dangerous thing. For starters, the sensation of high velocity is lost…It is as if one is stationary, and the world is slipstreaming around you. On top of this, all fear is gone, along with the dose of common sense which keeps us grounded in reality…
As I enter the draft of the T/A, I’m able to lift off the throttle a bit. As another wave of anger washes over me, I decide to announce my presence with a “love tap� on the weasel’s hindquarters.
“HERE’S TWO TONS OF HIGHLAND PARK HELL!�, I scream above the wail of the engine. He must have seen my contorted expression, as the rat appears visibly shaken. He hunkers down over the wheel, staring straight ahead. I have him on the run now. I’m not about to give up the chase.
We run. Nose to tail. A traffic plug appears on the horizon, and is upon us impossibly fast. We slow a bit, and cut through the plug like a hot knife. I don’t bother to check the mirrors…Figure if the rat made a hole, I can follow.
We top a rise, and Baker appears on the valley floor below us. Normally, there’s a CHP working the Baker stretch, but instinct tells me that the mess created 20-odd miles back has called in every cop in a hundred mile radius. I continue to hang on the rat’s ass. By now, I’ve got a strategy…
The T/A’s probably running a modified 455…a strong motor, capable of lots of horsepower and torque. You can run one pretty hard but they don’t like extended high-RPM use, which was exactly what this one was getting. Even with lots of trick parts, they don’t last long when they’re taken into the nether regions of the RPM band. On the other hand, the Hemi was one of the more perfect horsepower pumps ever built, and I had the advantage of 40 years of materials technology advancement to improve durability…soo…I decide to wait him out, and may the best motor win.
We charge up the Baker Grade. It quickly turns into an uphill slalom as we dodge traffic moving 100 MPH slower. Right now, I’m thankful for the Pirelli Pzeros and the lowered suspension from a donor Dodge D-500, as I’m having no trouble sticking to the rat’s tail. My predatory instincts are running full-bore. I’m actually starting to enjoy myself…
About 2/3rds of the way up the grade, I lose a cylinder. I lift. I check behind me for the oil cloud which indicates a holed piston…nothing. Therefore, I probably lost a rocker from the over-rev. I get back in the throttle, but it’s not as crisp as before. I have to work hard to keep up to the bastard now. Where I once had brute force on my side, I now have to plan every move to conserve the precious forward momentum earned.
The bastard starts to pull from me. I struggle, but it gets harder to earn back the precious feet of asphalt lost. I begin to think about conserving what’s left of the Hemi, when I notice a thin wisp of smoke from the back of the T/A….
At first, I think I’m trying to see things that are not there…But no, it’s true! Looks like the rat is overheating, and may have broken a ring or two. If so, I’ll be able to catch up…Sure enough, I’m right back on him a few moments later.
I announce my return with another whack on his rear end. By now, I can see him shaking as he furtively attempts to get the car to go faster. He begins to beat on the steering wheel, as if this will goad the car into pulling away. I smack him once more for good measure.
I can see the Clark Mountain pass just ahead. At over 4500 feet with sick engines, both cars way down on power, we’re still running a solid 130 MPH…Seems like crawling after the blast on the desert floor.
KA-WHAM!
An explosion rattles off the walls of the pass.
“********************…I blew the motor�, I think as I lift and punch up “N� on the pod. I blip the throttle, and stare incredulously as the tach needle responds. I look up. The T/A is losing speed.
Quickly, I punch up “D�, tip back in, and whip into the far left lane. The Hemi responds. I make a quick mental note to donate large sums of money in the name of the man who designed the heart of this wonderful beast. I pull alongside the Trans Am.
The rat bastard weasel rolls down his window.
The expression of pain, suffering, and utter defeat defies description. For a moment, I feel sorry for the guy…He probably poured his soul into the dying hulk coasting towards the summit and its now visible CHP patrol. Then I remembered: This guy is the Rat Bastard Weasel.
Our eyes meet. For a moment, dead silence. I search for something to say.
“Nice piece of lawn art ya got there, boy!�, I say as I smile and wave. The guy’s jaw drops. Mission accomplished. I ease back into the throttle as the CHP pulls up behind the mortally wounded T/A, lights flashing.
I get off at the Searchlight exit, just before Stateline…Don’t want to take a chance on a border roadblock. It seems the logic behind driving 300 miles for dinner has…thrown a rod, so to speak.
just an fyi this is fiction altho the writer took bits and pieces from his own experiences to add to it...
btw yes the victim is an f-bod...but the story is so well written that it doesnt matter
I have this recurring dream…
I’m on the Barstow - to Vegas run in a ’57 Desoto Firesweep 2dr hardtop, midnight green. I’m hungry, which means I’ve probably decided to go to Yolie’s for Brazilian…When the mood hits you, ya gotta go.
Anyway, I’m about 20 minutes out of Barstow having just worked thru a plug of traffic when this rat bastard weasel driving a ‘74-ish white Trans-Am explodes out of the huddled mass of mundane transport behind me. He gets real big in the rearview real fast, even though I’ve got a quarter-mile lead at a smooth 95. I catch a glimpse of the 455 - SD on the side of the shaker as he blows by at about a buck and a quarter.
I’m intrigued.
I disengage the tailshaft - mounted overdrive on the TorqueFlite, and ease into the throttle. The punched - out 392 Hemi I’ve dropped in the engine bay acknowledges the request with a symphony of sound unique to vintage modified hemis. A few ticks later, the ‘Sweep has matched speed with the T/A, albeit with a judicious eighth of a mile leash. The tach settles in just under 5500, so I kick the O/D back in…and watch.
We’d breezed by a couple of loose traffic formations when we run into a tight plug consisting of the usual collection of RV’s, semis, and the odd old fart oblivious to the fact there is a right lane…Normal Anti-Destination League stuff. I hang back to see how the T/A handles this.
With just a light tap of the brakes, the weasel dives in, and immediately starts sawing through the plug. I hail from the “run silent, run deep� school of thought…You know, quiet lane changes, smooth acceleration…don’t ruffle feathers on the way thru. Not this guy. His lane changes are abrupt enough to upset the rear suspension after taking his lane, scaring the bejeebers out of the guy he just pulled in front of.
“Idiot�, I think as he jams the T/A in front of a Winnebago and hammers the brakes. The ‘Bago is pulling a powder blue Escort, which immediately commences an ominous oscillation across the road. The ‘Bago manages to gather the Escort in, but not before some hapless Civic driver takes a trip through the local vegetation to avoid getting punted off the road. Not only is the T/A driver a rat bastard weasel, he’s psycho, too. Time to give this guy a wide berth.
I hang at the back of the plug until I’m certain the T/A is gone, then cautiously work though. Doesn’t take me long…most everybody’s so shaken, they pull aside and let me by. I get to the front of the plug, and the T/A’s nowhere to be seen. After a couple of miles, the memory of the incident fades, and I’m back into cruise mode, save for shaving a few MPH of the top as insurance against encountering psycho-weasel again.
About 20 miles out of Baker, I encounter yet another slow-moving mass of traffic. This one is particularly pesky, as there is a double bottom tanker attempting to pass a car hauler. The car hauler is going 62…The tanker is going about 62.1. The process seems to take forever.
I work my way up until I’m directly behind the tanker. I’m getting impatient, because the tanker has nearly passed the hauler on more than one occasion, only to fall back. I make the decision to pass on the right the next time there’s enough room, so I kick off the overdrive, and punch up “2� on the shifter pod.
There it is. The tanker pulls up, and I squirt into the opening. Then…
I glance in the rearview to check distance on the hauler, and I see something which defies belief. Here comes the weasel, passing everything in sight on the left-hand shoulder! He must have stopped at the rest area a few miles back. For a split second, it doesn’t register…When I finally get it, the rat bastard weasel is even with me on the opposite side of the tanker. He startles the tanker driver, who immediately swerves into my lane, sees me there, and swerves back. This sets up a killer fishtail on the pup, and it’s obvious it’s only a matter of seconds before the Eastbound 15 looks like a scene straight out of The Road Warrior.
I head for the shoulder, which is covered with marbles. I feather the throttle, steering with the back wheels while I try to get ahead of the ever-increasing arc of the now-doomed tanker truck. Amazingly, the momentum of the T/A carries it ahead of the tanker, where the weasel damn near loses it getting back onto the highway, gathers it up, and takes off…
By now, I’m PISSED. While occupied with unrepeatable thoughts, I get the ‘Sweep going fast enough to pull ahead of the tanker. The tanker makes one last swing and falls on its side as if to mock a dying elephant. As the tragedy unfolds behind me, I find myself focused on one thing…catching the rat bastard weasel.
I center the Desoto on the highway, and whack the throttle plates open on four Weber downdrafts sitting atop custom short-runner manifolds…I smile inwardly as the roar of induction rises to the challenge. Won’t be long ‘till I catch up…
The Hemi is in high song now. The Desoto is settling into the pavement, with Virgil Exner’s famous fins aided by a contoured belly pan which adds downforce at speed. All of a sudden, the motor makes a burbling noise. I look at the tach…****! 7400 RPM! Even with solid lifters and titanium rockers, the valves are gonna float…
In the heat of survival, I’d forgotten to shift out of second. I punch up third, and the motor recovers. I wind her out, and engage the overdrive. Theoretically, I should be able to hit about 180 if the Hemi’s healthy…right now though, I’m not interested in theory.
I’m gaining on the T/A. Fast. As the gap closes, the weasel sees me. A small puff of unburnt hydrocarbons signals he’s going for it…I don’t care, because I’m still closing the gap. The SuperDuty in the weasel’s T/A is heavily modified, as he actually pulls away for a bit as his motor comes on the cam. It’s a narrow band, though…Moments later I’m able to take back the gap as his motor runs out of steam.
We are hauling now. The Desoto has a 150 MPH speedo from a Chrysler 300 E, and the needle’s bouncing off the internal stop. The blood is pounding in my ears from the adrenaline buzz. The world has condensed to a single object…The garish, over spoilered, “Gee-I’m-a-racecar� ass end of the rat bastard weasel.
Speed borne from anger is a dangerous thing. For starters, the sensation of high velocity is lost…It is as if one is stationary, and the world is slipstreaming around you. On top of this, all fear is gone, along with the dose of common sense which keeps us grounded in reality…
As I enter the draft of the T/A, I’m able to lift off the throttle a bit. As another wave of anger washes over me, I decide to announce my presence with a “love tap� on the weasel’s hindquarters.
“HERE’S TWO TONS OF HIGHLAND PARK HELL!�, I scream above the wail of the engine. He must have seen my contorted expression, as the rat appears visibly shaken. He hunkers down over the wheel, staring straight ahead. I have him on the run now. I’m not about to give up the chase.
We run. Nose to tail. A traffic plug appears on the horizon, and is upon us impossibly fast. We slow a bit, and cut through the plug like a hot knife. I don’t bother to check the mirrors…Figure if the rat made a hole, I can follow.
We top a rise, and Baker appears on the valley floor below us. Normally, there’s a CHP working the Baker stretch, but instinct tells me that the mess created 20-odd miles back has called in every cop in a hundred mile radius. I continue to hang on the rat’s ass. By now, I’ve got a strategy…
The T/A’s probably running a modified 455…a strong motor, capable of lots of horsepower and torque. You can run one pretty hard but they don’t like extended high-RPM use, which was exactly what this one was getting. Even with lots of trick parts, they don’t last long when they’re taken into the nether regions of the RPM band. On the other hand, the Hemi was one of the more perfect horsepower pumps ever built, and I had the advantage of 40 years of materials technology advancement to improve durability…soo…I decide to wait him out, and may the best motor win.
We charge up the Baker Grade. It quickly turns into an uphill slalom as we dodge traffic moving 100 MPH slower. Right now, I’m thankful for the Pirelli Pzeros and the lowered suspension from a donor Dodge D-500, as I’m having no trouble sticking to the rat’s tail. My predatory instincts are running full-bore. I’m actually starting to enjoy myself…
About 2/3rds of the way up the grade, I lose a cylinder. I lift. I check behind me for the oil cloud which indicates a holed piston…nothing. Therefore, I probably lost a rocker from the over-rev. I get back in the throttle, but it’s not as crisp as before. I have to work hard to keep up to the bastard now. Where I once had brute force on my side, I now have to plan every move to conserve the precious forward momentum earned.
The bastard starts to pull from me. I struggle, but it gets harder to earn back the precious feet of asphalt lost. I begin to think about conserving what’s left of the Hemi, when I notice a thin wisp of smoke from the back of the T/A….
At first, I think I’m trying to see things that are not there…But no, it’s true! Looks like the rat is overheating, and may have broken a ring or two. If so, I’ll be able to catch up…Sure enough, I’m right back on him a few moments later.
I announce my return with another whack on his rear end. By now, I can see him shaking as he furtively attempts to get the car to go faster. He begins to beat on the steering wheel, as if this will goad the car into pulling away. I smack him once more for good measure.
I can see the Clark Mountain pass just ahead. At over 4500 feet with sick engines, both cars way down on power, we’re still running a solid 130 MPH…Seems like crawling after the blast on the desert floor.
KA-WHAM!
An explosion rattles off the walls of the pass.
“********************…I blew the motor�, I think as I lift and punch up “N� on the pod. I blip the throttle, and stare incredulously as the tach needle responds. I look up. The T/A is losing speed.
Quickly, I punch up “D�, tip back in, and whip into the far left lane. The Hemi responds. I make a quick mental note to donate large sums of money in the name of the man who designed the heart of this wonderful beast. I pull alongside the Trans Am.
The rat bastard weasel rolls down his window.
The expression of pain, suffering, and utter defeat defies description. For a moment, I feel sorry for the guy…He probably poured his soul into the dying hulk coasting towards the summit and its now visible CHP patrol. Then I remembered: This guy is the Rat Bastard Weasel.
Our eyes meet. For a moment, dead silence. I search for something to say.
“Nice piece of lawn art ya got there, boy!�, I say as I smile and wave. The guy’s jaw drops. Mission accomplished. I ease back into the throttle as the CHP pulls up behind the mortally wounded T/A, lights flashing.
I get off at the Searchlight exit, just before Stateline…Don’t want to take a chance on a border roadblock. It seems the logic behind driving 300 miles for dinner has…thrown a rod, so to speak.