Cars that get you all hot and bothered

[Goodspeed]

America, f yeah

Ok, because you said this, and because Jeff told me to.

True Life Stories: A Domestic Occurence
By David Goodspeed

I was driving home from work; it was about 9:30 and the town was dead. Hours of boredom past, nothing could awake me from the calm and usual that is my drive home. Windows down, radio playing, the cool night air being inhaled by both man and machine. Destiny awaits.

I turn the corner, red light ahead. I see something pull out to the light, out of the Texaco on my left. What it was I couldn't see, it was black as the night, obsidian, ominous. It was old, I could tell. The glint of a "SS" badge pierces my curiosity dead.

And there it was. Slowing well ahead of the black SS, something catches my left eye, something low slung and purposeful. Like a jungle cat ready to pounce, the silver Viper GTS pauses at the Texaco exit. We sit, I stare. I finally summon the courage to wave the beast out, the irony in having to permit such an animal anything prevalent.

The Viper glides into place next to the SS; I am behind the latter. Antique plates as black as the car, an older man at the helm with his wife next to him. I glance over the script - Chevelle - as the couple converses with the Viper by their side. Quite a double date, I presume; two couples, two beasts of American iron. The Viper sits, huge rear tires like swaths of black painted by a liberal-handed artist. The body is curvaceous, tight, as if being pulled and stretched taut over the mechanical innards. Presence is certainly felt. Nineteen-inch wheels fill the massive arches, glinting in the night.

Blub-blub-blub. The wise Chevelle remarks patiently.

BrrrrrrrrrrrrRAPrrrrrrRAP. The Viper responds, tense. It is deafeningly loud, as if the sight of it alone wouldn't be enough to capture all of your remaining senses.

The light goes green, the Chevelle pulls ahead. It seemed as if the man behind the wheel wasn't interested in exercising his right foot, something he had done in his youth I'm sure, and in the same vehicle I wouldn't doubt. The Viper signals to pull into my lane and turn; I let him go of course. Such a vehicle demands the utmost respect - a respect that seemingly causes you to act without thinking, to acquiesce without contemplation. You just do.

I had to. How could I not? 'Twas the first time I had been near such a machine, such a vehicle built for one thing and nothing less, for speed without comprimise. I pull ahead, him in the left line and myself in the right, just quick enough to let off at his side. I giggle to myself as the hiss of the turbo is followed by a satisfying whoosh of air as the blow-off valve discharges, at a point not-too-coincidentally near the open passenger window of the Viper. Out the window my hand goes, the veritable thumb-up a salute to a fellow car enthusiast.

He pulls up next to me. A middle aged man and his wife, their features noticeable under the wash of every passing streetlight, shadowed ghosts in between.

"Nice car!" I yell, meekly.

And then it happens

BBBBBRAAAAAAAAAPPPP-BAPBAPBAPBAP!!!

Like a thousand angry milk trucks all turned up to 11, the Viper lunges forward in a deafening cacophony. Instant torque finds its way to the ground through the massive rear tires. I am dust in the wind. I fight to stay in my lane, as if a gale wind happened upon our otherwise lonely street. Never have I witnessed such acceleration. Such ferocity. Now tame, the Viper restrains itself behind the civilized Chevelle as they turn left; I turn right.

I was bitten, I felt constricted by the snake that wrapped itself around body and soul, and I loved every second of it. The Viper redeemed the night.