Last edited Tue Apr 2, 2013, 12:22 AM - Edit history (2)
a blowtorch. No one, but no one, was going to keep him from that 1957 Ford Thunderbird...she was his, he had been dreaming about her since he was a boy.
The first generation was the best...two seaters with their V8 engines ...the beauty sitting in the scrapyard had a Paxton supercharger delivering 300 horsepower... were more elegant than the ugly Corvette. Indeed the T-bird was the first of the personal luxury cars! Bobswampcat used the blowtorch to cut the chain that locked the gates ... the gates that were blocking his way to his love.
He closed the gate behind him and walked purposely to the glorious vision that had so haunted his dreams.... He stopped, his breath catching in his throat as he admired the rich color...more a deep pink than a red. The white hard top with its unique portholes gleaming in the moonlight. Her skirts were unblemished, her chrome unpitted, her whitewalls looking brand new. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the gods who had kept her so pure, so pristine and wondered how she found her way to him and the scrapyard.
Bobswampcat ran his hands lovingly over every inch of her in the passionate caress more normally reserved for lovers. He probed her scoop, petted her chrome, lovingly examined beneath her skirts. He rested his fevered brow beside the porthole behind the driver’s seat, closed his eyes and dreamed of what he would do once he got her home. Then it happened...the silence of the night was broken by the full throated roar of ignition. Startled, he jumped back and looked into the now purring car...no one was seated within. His eyes moved to the speedometer, the needle barely registering on the gauge that topped out at 150 mph. He looked around wondering who else was in the scrapyard trying to steal his baby...his love...his obsession.
Keeping his right hand firmly on his love, Bobswampcat walked around the T-bird, first moving from front to back and then abruptly turning on his heel to move back to front in an effort to find the thief who would steal his baby. He circled her, he looked inside once again and even looked under her...but no one was in sight. He decided he’d climb in to test the brakes, the clutch and the three on the tree of her manual tranny. The scrapyard was huge, he’d take her for a ride within its confines, before he took her through the gates....
Left foot firmly on the clutch, right on the accelerator Bobswampcat put his love into first gear and released the clutch while depressing the accelerator in rhythmic coordination. His love is having none of it...she sputters and stalls.... "No baby", he moans..."don't do this to me" He moves his hand to the ignition...but there is no key. He looks everywhere...in the glove box, above the visors, under the seats...there is no key. He tries, unsuccessfully, to use the scissors to pop the ignition. "Come on baby, purr for me again" he pleads...to no avail.
Frustrated to beyond the edge of madness, as only an obsession can, Bobswampcamp takes the two gasoline cans he had brought with him to fill her tank and soaks the interior of the T-bird and himself with the contents. Using the blowtorch he sends himself and his love to flaming glory.
The next day the the owner of the scrapyard shakes his head and says to the investigating officer, "I don't know why he wanted this old heap...she hasn't been taken care of for over 40 years, we found her in an old barn out on old Rte.9...rusting away, paint gone, wheels missing...But old Bobswampcat Assweed was crazy about her." "How do you know it was Assweed?" "Oh that was easy, I identified him by the T-bird ring on his hand."
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