The Wanderer

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS #32




BUSTED!


By Rick Sieman






We join them now as they lumber along in a northerly direction on Interstate 25 in Northern New Mexico, heading for the Colorado state line. As per standard practice, Carl kept the cruise control on The Whale set at exactly two miles per hour over the speed limit.

Emma was sitting in the spacious passenger captains chair, knitting a purple scarf with a yellow reindeer on it.



“Carl, why do you insist on always breaking the speed limit? When it says 55, you’re doing 57. And when it says 65, you’re doing 67. Aren’t you afraid of getting a ticket, or maybe getting taken off to jail?”

Carl laughed loudly and bit off a plug of tobacco. “Hawwh! Vi therrrssh novay inni khoppg ith ghonna...”

“Carl, will you please quite trying to eat a hamburger and chew tobacco at the same time. I simply cannot understand a word you’re saying!”

Carl emitted a loud “gulp” as he somehow managed to swallow the remnants of the burger without ingesting any of the huge wad of chew. “Scuse me dear. I was sayin’ that there’s no way a cop is gonna give a ticket to someone going two miles an hour over the speed limit. Not even the nastiest state trooper in the business is chicken enough to do that. You just gotta know how to bend the rules enough to slide on by, and another thing...”

Carl was interrupted by the sound of a siren. A quick glance to his left showed a flashing red light in his rear-view mirror. A moment later, a patrol car pulled up alongside The Whale and gave a “pull-over” gesture to Carl.

Emma blanched when Carl let out a string of vile Navy curses that would melt most common household plastics and would more than likely scorch microwave-safe dishware on the edges.

A squeal came from Emma. “Carl! What are we going to do? I don’t want to go to prison. I told you we shouldn’t speed. Oooooohhh noooooo!

Carl let out an evil laugh. “Calm down woman. This highway patrol geek doesn’t know that he’s up against a savvy ex-Navy Chief Petty Officer. The state line for Colorado is only two miles away. Once I pass over that line, that chump has no authority whatsoever. I’m just going to play it cool and pretend I haven’t noticed him. Before we know it, I’ll be across the line and flipping that guy a bird or three. Hot damn and buenos howdy, am I cool or what?”


Carl stared directly ahead and started whistling the theme from Bridge Over The River Kwai as loud as he could. The patrol car pulled real close to The Whale, and the glare from the gumball machine lights on the top flickered off Carl’s sweaty forehead.

Carl snapped his fingers in tune with his whistling and completely ignored the patrol car only inches from his door.

The officer lost patience and pulled up in front of The Whale, with every light on his patrol car blinking madly. Carl thought it looked a great deal like a pinball machine on wheels.

In order to fake out the officer, Carl reached down and pretended to fiddle with the dials on the radio.

The officer responded by hitting his brakes and slowing down. Carl leaned out the window, shook his fist, and yelled, “Tourist!”

Then he whipped over two lanes and passed the patrol car and settled back to his cruising speed. The patrol car gassed it hard and pulled up alongside once again, with angry gestures very visible from the interior of the patrol car.

Carl responded by sipping on a Yoo Hoo Chocolate Soda with his head tilted way back.

The patrol car slipped in front of The Whale again, and a large arm came out of the window and gestured unmistakably for Carl to pull over.

Carl glanced up ad saw the Colorado state line sign less than 200 yards up ahead, and did the first thing that came to his mind.



He hit the nitrous button!


The Whale responded by lighting off the rear tires like a top-fueler! With a 35 pound jug of nitrous oxide residing in the back, and the plumbing running up to the intake manifold, the already powerful stroked 454 engine, which normally put out a crisp 500 horsepower, suddenly produced 800 big ones.

Carl’s shoulders were pinned back against the plush captain’s chair and the speedo swung wildly from left to right. The Whale literally ripped past the patrol car with the front wheels pawing in the air. Carl let out a whoop as he passed the state line into Colorado.

“Hah! Guess I taught that chump a lesson or three. We’re home free, Emma.”

Emma sat huddled in the far right hand corner of The Whale, trembling. “We’re gonna die! Duck before they shoot you, Carl.”

“Don’t talk crazy, woman! We just passed the state line and there’s no cop goofy enough to shoot at you for a traffic ticket.”

A micro-second later, the lower left hand corner of the windshield blew out as a slug ripped through the glass.

Emma started praying loudly and Carl slammed the throttle to the floorboard and quickly left the patrol car behind. Within a few minutes, the pursuing patrol car was out of sight and Carl breathed a sigh of relief. “Man, I’m glad we got free of that looney-tune cop. Now we’re in a civilized state and we can relax.”

Less than a heartbeat later, A different highway patrol car pulled alongside The Whale, with the passenger side window rolled down. The officer behind the wheel had a rather large and obnoxious handgun pointed more or less in the general direction of Carl’s head.

The hammer was cocked back.

Carl might have been a headstrong and opinionated man, but he was not completely off-center when it came to basic common sense.



He pulled over to the side and put The Whale into park.

The Colorado trooper got out and walked over. “You are under arrest, sir.”

Carl bristled. “No way! I just crossed the line from New Mexico into this fine state. What makes you think you can arrest me for a violation in New Mexico?”

The patrolman scratched his chin thoughtfully, his eyes impenetrable behind huge mirrored sun-glasses, and smiled: “My name is Burfel. Officer Burfel. Howard Burfel. My brother is also named Burfel. Harold Burfel. And he’s a highway patrolman in New Mexico. We live in a house that straddles the state line. You, sir, have irritated my brother by violating certain state laws that he holds dear to his heart. Being his brother, I certainly should back him up whenever necessary. In fact, here he is now. Perhaps you would like to explain to him why you did not heed his warnings and stop before the state line?”

Carl looked back, as the New Mexico highway patrol car pulled up neatly alongside the Colorado patrol car.

Jeez! Why did we have to run into the Burfel brothers, he thought?


***


Why, indeed? What will happen to Carl and Emma? Will they rot in jail? I don’t know about you, but my stomach is doing two-and-a-half-gainers at this point. What will happen next month? Who knows?

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS #33



BUSTED – PART II


By Rick Sieman







When we last left them, Carl had just out-run a New Mexico state Highway Patrol car across the border into Colorado by hitting the nitrous oxide bottle on The Whale. Emma, of course, was in a state of panic and thought that the cop would shoot at them. Carl laughed at the idea, and about two seconds later, the lower left hand corner of the windshield was blown out by a bullet.

When Carl crossed the state line, he breathed a sigh of relief at having escaped the loony cop who thought he was Dirty Harry, only to have another highway patrol car pull up alongside and point a huge pistol right at him.

Naturally, Carl pulled over, and found out, much to his consternation, that he had just been stopped by one of the Burfel brothers, a Colorado state trooper named Howard Burfel. Moments later, his brother, Harold Burfel - a New Mexico state trooper - pulled up and slid his car to a sideways halt, with his long radio antenna whipping around wildly.


***


We join them now as Harold Burfel (New Mexico) gets out of his car and lumbers over. Lumber is the only way to describe the motion, because Harold hits the scales at about 390 pounds and looks like he could be in the main event at most any WWF wrestling match.

What is even more astonishing is the fact that Harold is the smaller of the two brothers, with Howard (Colorado) weighing a solid 50 pounds heavier. Both men are wearing huge mirrored sunglasses. Two nearly identical handlebar mustaches decorate very similar faces. And both of those faces are sporting some serious scowls; cheeks are bright red and large blue veins are throbbing in their temples. Not a pretty picture.


Emma gasped. “What are we gonna do, Carl? Those two guys look like they bite the heads off chickens just for fun.

Carl let out a thin smile. “Just let me handle this situation. You can’t let ‘em scare you. I’ll be firm, but polite. Now, stand back, woman.”

Carl squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “All-right, what do you two clowns think you’re doing, what with blowin’ out my windshield and all?”

The Burfel brothers recoiled back, as if a bag full of snakes has just been tossed into their more than ample laps. Howard (Colorado), the biggest one, recovered and poked a stubby finger the size of a cucumber in Carl’s face: “What did you just say, sir?”

Without missing a beat, Carl responded: “Whattsamatter, you got too much wax in your ears... or don’t they teach the English language in the second grade here?”

Howard, the smaller cop, removed his sunglasses, revealing squinty-little eyes perched under fat eyelids, and got right up next to his brother. “Buddy, are you nuts or something? Where does a little guy like you get the nerve to insult two officers of the law who probably weigh more than that dumb Chevy truck you’re driving?”

The color in Carls face went up a notch or two higher; in the background, Emma whimpered pitifully. Carl did not back off. “Listen, Bozo and Bozo, Jr. When I was in the Navy, I kicked the butt of guys that made you two look like Tinker Bell. And what’s more, you damn well better watch your comments about my Suburban. You two sound like a couple of Ford-freaks, and if that’s the case, you probably had your mental pilot blown out years ago, and you double-damn well should seek some professional help on a couch somewhere.”

Both of the Burfel brothers started stammering and their nostrils flared; a small puff of what looks like steam exited Howard’s (the big one) nose. Emma blanched and feared the worst. Will Carl learn enough to shut up?

No!!!

“Hey, Fat Boy... you with the steam comin’ out of your nose. Cat got your tongue, or is your memory span smaller than a gnats butt? I’m gonna repeat my question real nice and slow so even you chumps can understand it... and I won’t use any big words that might confuse you. Now there, Howard, why did you shoot my windshield out?”

Harold appears confused. “Well, actually my name is Harold, not Howard, and I ...“

Carl snarls: “Harold, Howard, what’s the difference? You two pinheads have violated my 1st, 5th, 6th, 12th, 21st and 33rd Amendments, as well habeas corpus, ipso-facto, deposition, interrogatory, declarations and ph-balance. Not to mention the fact that procedures have been improperly forniscued, illegal entry, search and seizure violations and flagrant incommunicado deprecations have been duly noted. Now, let’s have some names and badge numbers and make it snappy!”

Both Burfel brothers appear confused and look sheepish. “Uhh, well, uhh, that is... I mean ... that is...”

Carl exploded! “Stand up straight there, you two! Chest out, stomachs in... all six of ‘em. Did you two ever spend any time in the military, or did you get your slop-jar appearance and attitude in the Cub Scouts? Well? Speak up!”

Howard, the big one, quietly spoke: “Uh, we was both in the Marines, sir.”

Carl stood up on his tippy-toes, ram-rod straight, and barked. “Just as I thought. A couple of half-trained jar-heads. No wonder you two can’t even handle a simple traffic matter without screwing it up big time. Listen, jarheads, I was a Navy Chief Petty Officer for 28 years and six months before I took over this position as National Interstate Highway Cop Inspector.”

With that, Carl flipped open his wallet and poked it into the faces of Harold and Howard. Both men started trembling.

Carl kept on the attack. “Now, do I drag you two incompetent geeks into National Interstate Court, or do you cough up a quick two hundred bucks each for my damaged windshield, and I let you go on your way with a warning, because you’re so stupid? Well, act quick, or I start takin’ names an kickin’ butt?”

Harold and Howard nearly got friction burns as they whipped their wallets out and peeled off the 20s.

Carl folded up the money, then bellowed: “Now, get your lard-butts out of my sight, double-time quick, before I gag. Hup-two-three-f our, hup-two-three-four.”

The Burfel brothers emitted a double trail of smoke from their squad cars as they burned rubber away in opposite directions.

Emma turned to Carl with a puzzled look on her face. “How did you know... I mean whatever gave you the idea that you could intimidate those two goons?”

A big smile covered Carl’s face. “Easy. I looked at the tattoos they both had on their forearms. They both had that bird sittin’ on an orange insignia, and U.S.M.C. underneath. But the real giveaway was that it read U.S.M.C. RESERVE! Those weenies never stood a chance against a real pro. So I just made up that phony agency name and flashed my Cal 4WD membership card at ‘em, and that was enough to do the job.

“Now let’s get on down the road, woman. I can get a new used windshield in Denver for about $140 bucks installed, and we’ll use the rest to buy some beef jerky, a jug of wine, and check into a Motel six with one of those 25 cent vibrating beds.”

Emma positively glowed. “Oh Carl! You’re so brave.., and such a romantic, too.”

“Hey, I’m a wanderin’ kind of guy.”

 

[jekquistk5]

Picture

and I'm going to boldly assert that even I can make those two bits hook up together... way harder then putting Vortecs on a 93 350 motor

No intercooler?

 

[superbuickguy]

No intercooler?

yet - I have very limited time to do this swap (adventure planned for October), so no intercooler but it is in the plans.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 34





IN SEARCH OF HORSEPOWER


By Rick Sieman






We join them now as they drive north, through the lovely state of Colorado, on Highway 287. Why such an out-of-the-way road like 287, instead of Interstate 25? Simple. Because on those massive and smooth Interstates, you are isolated from experiencing what the real world is like. Carl had learned many years ago that you had to get off the Interstates, on to the secondaries, and yes, even on the dirt roads that aren't even marked on the maps.


***


"Hey, woman. Turn on the radio and see if you can get somethin' other than church music and burn-in-hell preachers. On a Sunday, that ain't real easy."

Emma set her knitting down and fiddled with the multitude of dials and buttons on the massive radio. After a few moments, she got several red lights glowing and a deadly sounding hum, much like high tension lines aglow, filled the cab of The Whale.

"Good work, Emma. You got power. Now, just fiddle with that big knob on the right and that'll getcha different stations.

Emma bit on her lower lip nervously and twisted the dial gingerly.


"... and if you don't send a love offering of at least $19.95, chances are pretty good you're gonna burn in hell for a long, long time, and then it's gonna get worse..."


…dial - dial - dial…

"... so you can see how important this bond issue is to the citizens. Today we have the politicians who wrote this bill, and they're going to spend the next three hours telling you how important it is to raise this revenue. And honestly, can't we all afford to give a little bit more to help the starving artists in Denver? So with that in mind, we'd like to introduce ..."


…dial - dial - dial…

" ... you think banks pay good interest? Hah! The REAL money these days is made by investing in Bulgarian gold floktils, the coin of the stars. Rumor has it that by investing in gold floktils, you can make at least 300 percent on your investment. So send for a free prospectus today and get on the road to financial ..."


…dial - dial - dial…

" ... the key to growing those big beautiful petunias is just the right amount of fertilizer and water. Too dry, and you get unhappy plants, too much water and you get ..."


…dial - dial - dial…

" ... and for my last item, we're selling a large green couch with hand-carved legs on it shaped like a ducks' foot. We'll let it go for $35 or best offer, and we even throw in a ..."


…dial - dial - dial…

" ... probably the single best album of gypsy chardaz music ever made by the King of the accordion players. So sit back for the next 90 minutes, and enjoy the ..."


…dial - dial - dial…

" ... this Sunday only, the biggest little swap meet in all of Colorado! Remember, it's Chevy only at the Toonerville Swap Meet. Just go south on highway 101 for the Chevy car and truck swap meet that you don't want to miss. Bargains galore! Why, last year, somebody bought a Corvette for three hundred bucks and we heard about a new Suburban transfer case for 27 bucks. So leave the fishin' pole in the garage, and head for Toonerville now! The swap meet will be going until dark, so ..."


Carl jolted straight upright. "Emma, whip out the map and see where Toonerville is! And make it snappy!"

Emma fumbled with the large Triple A road map for Colorado, and ran her finger down the paper. "Okey-dokey, dear. Keep going north on 287 until you get to Lamar. There you hang a left on 50 and go maybe 25 or 30 miles to 101. That'll take you straight south about 20 miles or so into Toonerville. The road just seems to end there on this map."

Carl smiled broadly. "Great. It's not even noon yet. We can be there in an hour or so if we step on it. This'll give me plenty of time to do some serious shopping."

Emma looked confused. "What could you possibly need for The Whale, Carl? I mean, we have everything in here including the kitchen sink."

Carl squinted his eyes. "Speed parts, Emma. I have the need to exceed. Ever since we had to outrun those hayseed cops at the border, I realized that the engine in The Whale is a little bit dated. I was readin' in a magazine the other day about all kinda breakthroughs in big-block Chevy hop-up stuff. Sure, I got me about 500 horsepower to play with - and another 300 or so when I hit the nitrous - but it sure would be nice to have 700 or 800 all the time, then maybe a thousand or 1100 horsepower when I hit the nitrous bottle. That kinda power would sure make short work of a muddy old fire road, and it most certainly would leave pursuing badgers in the dust."

Emma pursed her lips up. "But, Carl! We drive The Whale every day. And lots of days we live in it. This is our home away from home. We can't turn it into a drag racing funny car!"

"You mean a funny truck, Emma. This here Suburban is just dyin' to take a deep breath and let its real personality bust out. Horsepower, Emma! We need some serious horsepower. At a bargain price, of course. To the swap meet!"


***


In exactly 57 minutes, Carl pulled The Whale into Toonerville. There were posters up everywhere giving directions to the Swap Meet, and within minutes, Carl parked The Whale in the packed parking lot.

A veritable mob of people were packing the grounds. Carl paid his two bucks to get in (one dollar per person), and joined the throng. Chevy parts were everywhere! Carl's eyes nearly bugged out when he got to the truck and 4x4 section.

Everywhere he looked, there were tables loaded down with goodies: Holley carbs, trick manifolds, stacks of headers piled on the ground, wild ignition systems, heavy-duty locking hubs, transfer cases, clusters of modern shocks, racing pistons, all kinds of chromed goodies, alternators the size of watermelons, leaf springs big enough to suspend a school bus and enough sheet metal and interior parts to open a truck plant.


But Carl was looking for speed! He walked by the bolt-in captain chair seats, the fur-lined dashboard covers, the display of bumper stickers that ragged all over Fords (F.O.R.D. MEANS FOUND ON ROAD DEAD!) (FORD STANDS FOR FIX OR REPAIR DAILY).

He strode quickly by the hot dog stand and the poster display. His sizable nose twitched as he neared the serious speed parts he was after. And then Carl stopped dead in his tracks! There it was, laid out on four ping-pong tables: the veritable Mecca of go-fast goodies!

The sign hanging from the front of the tables said: "RED-LINE FRED, THE BIG-BLOCK SPEED KING. TWO HORSEPOWER PER CUBIC INCH IS EASY."

Carl stopped in front of the display and went goggle-eyed with all the goodies on view. Everything from eight-carb stacks, to blowers, to bolt-on turbos were laid out in an impressive arrangement.

"Hi-dee do. My name is Carl. Is Red-Line Fred around?"

A short red-haired man popped up from underneath the table, and stuck out a muscular tattooed arm. "Hi. I'm Fred, and if you want some serious ponies, you came to the right place. If you just want to babble about motors, go away."

Carl bristled. "No way, Fred. I am here in the pursuit of mongo horsepower. Money is not really an issue. But the question I want to ask is this: Right now, I'm running about 500 ponies out of a 454, and I've got a nitrous bottle hooked up for that extra added little burst. Any thoughts?"

Red-Line Fred scratched his frizzy red hair. "Yeah. I'm wonderin' how a big guy like you can stand driving around in a weeny-mobile? I mean, all you got to talk about is 500 horsepower and then you've got to give it a nitrous jolt to get to 800? This is sad."

Carl just stood there and let his jaw hang slack.

Red-Line Fred chuckled. "Well, pilgrim. Looks like you're ready to grow up and join the big-boys club. But it's gonna cost ya. Are you ready?"

Carl nodded his head dumbly from side to side.

Emma let out a low moan.

Red-Line Fred smiled.

A pimply-faced 17 year old kid wedged his way in and asked: "Hey, can I put an 850 Holley double-pumper on my Mom's Geo?"


***


Well, now. Things are getting interesting. Will Carl get whackoid with The Whale? Does Red-Line Fred really know what he's doing, or is he simply taking Carl for a financial ride? Stay tuned. It can only get stranger.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS #35






THE UGLY SIDE OF HORSEPOWER BY RICK SIEMAN


By Rick Sieman







When we last left them, Carl had just headed for an All-Chevy Swap Meet in Toonerville, Colorado, professing “the need for speed”. Yes, Carl had been bitten by the horsepower bug, and bitten bad!

The Toonerville Swap Meet turned out to be a fantastic affair, loaded to the hilt with all sorts of new and used goodies, for cars, trucks and 4x4s.


And fate struck! Carl ran across a display with a sign that read:

“RED-LINE FRED, THE BIG-BLOCK SPEED KING. TWO HORSEPOWER PER CUBIC INCH IS EASY!”

Red-Line Fred turned out to be a short, red-haired guy with big arms like Popeye. And he was very blunt in his speaking habits, as he made fun of the fact that Carl had a mere 500 horsepower in The Whale. Carl then mentioned that he had a nitrous injection system that would give him a burst close to 800 horsepower. This caused Red-Line Freds’ upper lip to twitch like Elvis used to do: “Hey, Fatboy. You braggin’ about 800 horsepower with nitrous? I got trucks runnin’ on the streets around here with that much power at idle, with carbs! Maybe your problem is that you’re runnin’a midget motor. What kinda cubic inches ya got under the hood, Lumpy?”

Carl bristled. “The name is Carl, and I got me a full-sized 454.”

Red-Line Fred leaned back and let out a bellow one would not expect from a five foot four inch man. “Haw! You call THAT a big-block? I know a meter maid in Denver with more than that in her ticket-mobile. Listen, Sowbelly, you gotta git some cubic inches if you want to make some serious horsepower. And I don’t mean little jolts from a bottle... I mean real ponies. Say, Beergut, what kinda drivin’ do ya do?”

“Like I said, you obnoxious little midget, the name is Carl. And I do a lot of off-roading, but I hafta drive down the regular roads to get to the area, so I . . .

Red-Line Fred butted in: “ ... so you compromise with your weeny engine, right? Now pay attention, Beergut, and maybe you’ll learn a thing or three. First off, you gotta make bigger holes in the block.”

Carl leaned back and smiled. “Well, I was thinkin’ about gettin’ some of those .125 over pistons. That’ll take a 454 all the way up to 481 inches. I read about that in a magazine once. Now THAT should do the trick, right?”

Fred guffawed. “Sure, Lardbutt. That would be about right for a medium-sized window fan in my shop, or maybe for an old lady with a bad heart to drive around for shopping, but for big horsepower, you gotta go big inches.”

Carl bunched his eyebrows together. “Which means...?”

Fred pointed a stubby finger in the air. “Which means strokin’ it, Butterball!”

Carl beamed. “Yeah! I read where you can get 510 inches if you stroke the 454. I see your drift.”

Fred shook his head sadly. “No you don’t, Pudgy. When you talk big inch motors, you hafta start thinkin’ in terms of 700 cubic inches, plus! And I even got a special aluminum cast block available for some heroes who want to run 850 cubic inches. But if you insist on usin’ the basic 454 block as a starter point, then 700 inches is the way to go... and I can guarantee you a clean 1000 plus horsepower with carbs. No blowers, no turbos... just regular old carbs. Well, Roundface? Interested?”

Emma raised her hand timidly. “Mr. Red-Line? I can understand how you race-engine builders can do wonderful things, but what happens if you build some kind of monster motor that makes our poor little Suburban un-drivable? I mean, sometimes I have to take the wheel, while Carl sleeps off ten or 12 beers, and I need something that’s easy to drive. So?”

Fred smiled. “Good question, little lady. I can assure you that even though I make super-duper motors with tons of power, these motors make good torque right off the bottom and it’s smoother than a baby’s butt all the way up to the red-line. In fact, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll build you and your chubby hubby a genuine Red-Line Fred big-inch motor, and you two go do some off-road driving, and if you don’t like it, I’ll buy the motor back, no questions asked. Can’t beat that for a deal. Well?”

Carl stuck out his hand. “You got a deal, midget. How long will this take?”

Fred scratched his chin. “Well, I got all the parts in stock back at the shop. It’ll take me a half day to yank your motor, a full day to build mine, then another whole day to stick it back in and set up the plumbing and the exhaust. If you folks want to check in to a nice motel, I’ll make sure you have a loaner 4x4 while I’m working on your ‘Burb.”

Carl held up a hand. “Wait a minute, Fred. What’s this gonna cost me?”

Red-Line Fred got a shocked look on his face. “I AM embarrassed! Most of the people that I deal with are not concerned with petty things like how much horsepower costs. However, I will write the cost down on the back of my business card here, and you can give me a yes or a no, Tubby.”

Fred whipped out a card, scrawled on the back of it, then handed it to Carl. Carl looked at the card and blanched. A large blue vein throbbed in his temple. He gulped, and said, “It’s a deal.”

Emma poked him in the ribs and hissed. “Carl! Carl! How much is that stupid motor going to cost us?”

Carls’ jaw went slack for a moment, then he mumbled a reply. “Enough, Emma. Enough.”


***



For the next three days, Carl and Emma had a grand old time. They drove all over Southern Colorado in the loaner Chevy S-10 that Red-Line Fred had supplied, and explored some great areas. They took in the Great Sand Dunes National Monument, Mineral Hot Springs, drove along the banks of the Arkansas River, climbed over the Continental Divide, visited Black Canyon in the Gunnison National Monument area, drove over to the famed Pikes Peak hillclimb site, then finally headed south - quite exhausted and elated - to Toonerville.


Carl stood alongside the familiar shape of The Whale, nervous as a teenage kid picking up his first date. Fred grinned from ear to ear. “Well, Butterball, get in and fire it up.”

Carl clambered up into the plush captain’s chair. “What’s the drill?”

Fred pointed at the dash. “Turn on the eight switches on the dash first. Those operate the fuel pumps.”

A puzzled look appeared on Carl’s face. “Eight switches? How many fuel pumps do I have?”

“Eight. One for each carb. Now quit babbling, Porky, and fire it up. Just pump the pedal once, hold it at 1/4 throttle and hit the key.” Carl clicked all the fuel pump switches, tapped the throttle once, assumed the 1/4 position, and cranked the key to the right.

The engine ripped to life with a throaty roar that would have brought a smile to Don Garlits’ face. Carl rapped the throttle a few times, and the engine responded with a bark that screamed BAD!!! A glance at the oil pressure gauge showed 125 p.s..i.; the engine loped at a ragged 1250 rpm idle. Carl blipped the throttle once more and ran it up to 5000 rpm. The engine howled and sent an awesome wave of vibration through the chassis until the sheet metal reverberated.

Carl then shut the key off and the engine stopped instantly, as only a fresh, high-compression, high-performance engine will. A slight smell of hot oil and paint penetrated the air. The engine made ticking sounds as it cooled off.

Carl opened the door, climbed out, and said, “Wow! How much horsepower, Fred?”

Fred smiled. “A little bit over 1280 horsepower on the dyno. Of course, you should be able to wind ‘er out a bit more once everything gets seated. Not too bad, eh Tubby?”

Carl shook his head from side to side. “How in the plu-perfect hell did you manage to drag that much horsepower out of this engine?”

Fred beamed. “Pop the hood, Sowbelly, and take a look.”

Carl thumbed the release and the massive hood of The Whale rose to a near vertical angle. He took one look and gasped. There, under the huge hood, rested eight 650 CFM Holley double-pumper carburetors. Giant braided lines led to each carb, and neat K & N filters were clamped to the top of all those breathers. Carl turned to Fred. “I ain’t never seen this many carbs, this big, on a motor ever before in my life! I AM IMPRESSED!!!”

Red-Line Fred developed another Elvis-lip. “Take ‘er for a ride, Fatboy.”


***


Carl and Emma decided to take an off-road ride with The Whale. They had found a great 60 mile loop near Pueblo that took them way back into a remote area. Down the road, it was hard to restrain The Whale. Every time Carl blipped the throttle, the rear wheels would let out a sharp squeal and the stench of burning rubber filled the air.

When they got near the start of the loop, Carl took a look at his gas gauges, and decided to fill up at least one of the three tanks. All of them were on “E”. Carl decided to fill up the big 60 gallon tank with high-test gas, as recommended by Red-Line Fred. After topping up, Carl zeroed out the odometer and headed out on the neat 60 mile loop.

The Whale was astonishing! There was power everywhere! A tiny blip on the throttle let The Whale literally leap up steep hills. A muddy section of two-track trail didn’t even require a downshift. Carl turned to Emma. “Well, woman. Whattaya think? This here motor is pretty much outrageous, bitchen, rad and gnarly, to use the language of the now generation. I think we got us a keeper here.


Forty five minutes later, Carl glanced at the odometer and saw that they had just reached the halfway mark of the 60 mile loop. It was at this point that The Whale stuttered, stumbled, then finally stalled to a grinding halt.

Carl emitted a choice selection of vile Navy curses, then proceeded to do the normal trouble shooting checklist. Eventually, he was forced to realize that The Whale was, indeed, out of gas.

How could he have used 60 gallons of gas in 30 miles?

Then, Carl considered the fact that he had enough carbs under the hood to run a small fleet of earth-moving equipment, and sighed. He had to face the reality that he had just averaged about 1/2 mile per gallon, not exactly an EPA ideal citizen. Carl flipped through the remaining gas gauges and calculated that he had enough to go another five miles at best.

Carl did the best he could under the circumstances: he let out a pathetic moan, and informed Emma of the situation. “Dear, here’s what it boils down to. We’ve got about ten gallons of gas left in the other two tanks. If we drive, that’ll take us maybe five miles, tops. Which will put us up into the worst part of the hills, and out of gas. Or we can just camp here, use the gas for our generator, watch the TV, use the lights, and enjoy ourselves until someone comes along to rescue us. Whaddaya think, Emma?”

Emma scrunched her eyebrows up, and thought. “You know, Carl. The Hulkster is going to defend his title tonight against Sergeant Slaughter. Let’s set up camp, flip up the satellite dish, and enjoy some wrestling. And I’ve got some Polish sausage in the fridge and plenty of popcorn and beer. Why don’t we enjoy an off-road night and think about our problems in the morning?”

Carl smiled, and the die was cast.


***


Good Lord! Here are Carl and Emma, stranded in the wilderness, with just enough gas left to enjoy wrestling on the TV. Will they survive? Can they ever get The Whale out with 1/2 per mpg gas mileage? Stay tuned. It can only get stranger.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS #36





ROUGHING IT!


By Rick Sieman







When we last left them, The Whale had just run out of gas in

the middle of the woods because the new hot-rod motor had used up

60 gallons of gas in 30 miles. Averaging less than 1/2 mile per

gallon was not exactly the hot ticket for off-road wandering,

Carl figured.


Well, Red Line Fred, the madman engine builder did not lie.

The motor he had built up and installed in The Whale was, indeed,

a monster! By using eight (8) huge Holley double-pumper carbs,

Fred was able to extract 1280 horsepower from the 700 cubic inch

stroker motor. Nope, Fred did not lie, but he never informed

them that the result would be gas mileage only slightly worse

than the Queen Mary under full power sailing directly into a head

wind.


The damage was done. Carl had checked the remaining gas tanks

and noted that he had about 10 gallons of gas left. He had a

choice: either drive another five miles or so, or settle down

for the evening and camp off-road. After all, they could run the

generator for days on ten gallons of gas. And they did have all

the amenities of home inside the well-equipped Whale. So why not

enjoy the evening and see what the next day would bring.


Carl and Emma spent a rather enjoyable evening. Carl unfolded

the satellite dish and tuned in a wrestling special with Hulk Hogan

defending his title against Sergeant Slaughter. Emma cooked up

some Polish sausage and made some popcorn.



While she sipped delicately at a glass of Boone's Farm Wrangleberry wine,

Carl noisily slurped down a six-pack of Swine Brew Lite beer. As the

evening wound pleasantly down, Emma noted that Carl had a little

snack of nine pickled eggs, 14 Slim Jim sausages, a bag of chips,

some sauerkraut ripple dip and another six-pack of suds. Emma

discreetly opened the vent window near her side of the bed, and

smiled as she heard the musical sound of the night: cricket

chirping, night bird calling and the sound of a 63 Chevy dump

truck with a bad muffler. No. Correct that. It was just the

sound of Carl snoring, head back against the magazine rack, beer

can held perfectly upright, even though he was sound asleep.

Emma gentled removed the can from his stubby fingers, leaned

him over and covered him with a blanket, then gave him a peck on

the cheek.


Emma opened up more windows. The crickets chirped. Frogs

croaked. Carl belched. And did other things we won’t talk about here.


***


The bright light of morning woke them up, and Emma made a

classic breakfast of bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast. Few

things taste as good as this combination when you're camping out.

The smell alone is enough to drive a vegetarian nuts.

With full stomachs and near-empty gas tanks, Carl tried to figure out how to

extract himself from his not-so-severe quandary. He bit off a healthy plug of

chewing tobacco and got it working real good, then drank some coffee around the

wad of chew, which never ceased to amaze Emma. How that man could have a wad

of tobacco chew in his mouth the size of an orange, and somehow channel coffee

past that to his throat... well, it truly defied logic!


While she was reflecting on this, the unmistakable sound of a

two-stroke engine broke her reverie. A rider slowly rode down

the trail toward them, then parked the bike and removed his

helmet. The head was mostly bald and a scraggly white beard was

on the other end of the face.


"Hi there. My name is Ed. Ed Hertfelder. And I'm sort of

lost. You folks got any idea of where I am? Well, I mean I know

where I am. I'm right here in front of you folks, but do you

know where you are?"

Carl walked over to the rider. "Hello, Ned. My name is Carl

and we're on a trail and, yes, I know where we are. Question is,

how did you get lost?"

"The name is Ed. Well, I was riding in this enduro and sorta

kinda got lost. Fact is, I'm the worst B-class enduro rider on

the East Coast, and I'm out here trying to be the worst Mid-west

Senior B-class enduro rider. I guess I'm trying to broaden my

horizon. Say, is that coffee I smell?"

Emma smiled. "C'mon inside The Whale. Are you hungry, Ed?"

"Does a dog scratch his ears with his hind legs? You betcha!"


Emma made another quick breakfast, and Carl figured he'd eat

again, rather than force his guest to eat alone. The men chatted.

"Hey, Nick..."

"The name's Ed."

"Right. So Ned, how come you're lost? The way I understand

it is that enduro riders ride over really tough terrain and do it

on a time schedule. Guys like Malcolm Smith and Dick Burleson.

I met those guys once, ya know. When they usta ride the old

Huskies. I rode some motocross and desert myself. Never got

into this time-keepin' and map readin' stuff. So tell me again

how you got lost?"

Ed sighed. "Basically, I am a very poor rider. If I concentrate on time

keeping, I sort of miss turns and arrows and markers and stuff like that. If I

concentrate on turns and arrows and such, then I ride real late and get

disqualified. To this date, I have not found a happy medium. Such is life. So

what's your story?"

Carl slurped down his ninth cup of coffee. "Well, Earl.."

"The name is Ed."

"Right. Ya see, Ned, I got this here big-ass hot rod motor

installed in my Suburban just the other day. This is the first

time I took it off-road. Well, it turns out that I'm only gettin' about 1/2

mile per gallon. And ..."

" 'Scuse me. Did you say 1/2 mile per gallon?"

"Yup. You see, I'm pulling 1280 horsepwer out of a 700 cubic

inch engine. I had no idea that I would get this kind of mileage, so here I

sit, with about 10 gallons of gas left in my reserve tank, and 30 miles left to

travel to get out of here. Got any ideas, Ned?"

"Yep. Pop your hood. Lemme see your motor."

Carl raised the giant slab of metal that was the hood of The

Whale. Ed sucked in his breath. "Wow! I never saw eight carbs

that big before in my life! Let alone on one engine."

Carl spit a brown squirt of chew at a tree about 20 feet away

and hit it dead center. "Okee-dokee. So you got any ideas?"

Ed smiled. "Easy. We just take seven of these eight carbs

off this wild intake manifold, and you should get some decent

enough mileage to get you back. Got a screwdriver?"


Fifteen minutes later, Carl had a cardboard box full of carbs,

and a manifold with seven of the eight holes duct-taped off.

Carl turned to Ed. "How'd you get so smart about this kinda

stuff when you get lost in the woods?

Ed scratched his chin. "I might not be a whiz on directions

and such, but common sense is, after all, common sense. You

either got it, or you don't. Think about it. If eight carbs is

too much, then simple math with tell that one carb will deliver

seven times better mileage. Now, what do you say we get out of

here?"


***


Carl drove the now-mild Whale quietly out of the woods, with

Ed following, and got back to a gas station. Ed thanked Carl and

Emma goodbye, fired up his Yamaha and wobbled off down the road.


***


Red Line Fred shook his head from side to side. "I never

promised mileage. I promised horsepower. I don't call that

breakin' a guarantee. I mean, if you wanna go fast, you ain't

gonna be winning the Mobilgas Economy Run, now are you?"
Carls cheeks puffed out like a squirrel gathering nuts. "I

understand all that, Fred, but you see, I actually drive The

Whale a whole lot. I don't want to spend most of the rest of my

life holding onto the money end of a gas hose and listening to

ding-ding-ding sounds. I'm a wandering kind of guy."

"Well, I guess I could detune it for you a bit, but it's gonna

cost you."

Carl let out a deep sigh. "Whatever. It's only money."


Red Line Fred actually felt sorry for Carl, and quietly walked

away so he wouldn't get hit by Emma's purse as she beat Carl over

the head.

 

[superbuickguy]

for those of you who wonder - Carl is my brother from another mother.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS #37




IN SEARCH OF THE 49 CENT BREAKFAST

By Rick Sieman





Carl bit off a big wad of Red Man chew, stuffed it into his right cheek, then took a giant bite out of a Double Whopper burger and simultaneously swilled down half of a Yoo-Hoo Chocolate Soda.

Emma shuddered. "Carl, how you can handle a plug of tobacco, a hunk of hamburger and still manage to drink anything is beyond me!"

"Hmmmph ganrrr fffmmmmm gndonnnng wiiffff zuurrr ssst..."

"Carl! Please cease at least two of those functions so I can understand what you're trying to say."

An audible gulp came from Carl as he transferred the wad of burger from his left cheek down his throat, somehow managed to swirl the Yoo-Hoo soda around the chew without picking up too much juice flavor, and eventually swallowed it. "Sorry, honey pot. But it's a skill I picked up in the Navy. You see, when you only have so much time between the midnight to dawn watch, and getting up to start the day, you tend to learn how to fit things in."

Emma shook her head from side to side, wondering how anyone could mix tobacco juice with Yoo-Hoo soda and actually ingest the combination.

Carl let out a hearty belch, and beamed. "Guess what, honey pot? That last gas station we stopped in? Well, I picked up these extra special coupons that are goin' to not only save us some real bucks, they're goin' to make us a fortune!"

"How is that, dear?"

"Well, I got this whole book of coupons that give us 10 free plays on the Big Bucks Slot Machine. If we line up five cherries, we get $100,000 big ones! Not only that, we get a free gift, two free meals and double odds at black jack and the crap tables on regular bets. Do you know what this means? It means that a great gambler like me will now have a serious edge! I mean, I played poker and shot craps the whole time I was in the Navy, and won more times than I lost. Remember that first CJ-5 we bought for cash? Well, the money for that came from a poker game on the carrier Constellation."

Emma looked puzzled. "I didn't know they had gambling in Colorado?"

"They don't. That's why we're headed for Las Vegas and the Garden State of Nevada."

"Nevada! I though we were heading for Canada?"

Carl rolled down the drivers side window and expertly spat a wad of chew juice at a roadside speed sign. It splattered slightly off center. "Well, we sorta are headin' for Canada, ya know. Consider this a minor detour, that's all. Hey, quit that there frownin' and take a look at this coupon book. I got two of 'em... one for you and one for me. There's all kinda things in there. Check out on page 12. You can get a breakfast for 49 cents! Wow!"

Emma flipped through the coupon book, now with renewed interest. "Oooh, lookee here, Carl. This coupon gives you three free spins on Big Bertha, a ten foot tall slot machine, and you can win a new Ford Bronco. Just think, Carl, I could have my very own four wheel drive."

Carl snorted. "Who inna hell would want to win a Ford. Emma, this here's a Chevy family. You know what Ford means, dontcha? Found On Road Dead. Fix Or Repair Daily. Funny Old Replica of a Dodge. Funky Over-priced Ripoff Deal. Fuming Over Rotten Dealers. Flaming Old Road Dung. Flea-bitten Odd Roach Dump. Get the drift, Emma?"

"Well, I don't care what you say. I've always liked the Broncos. My friend Betty had one, and it's real short and you can park it easy. And I really like the dash."

Carl got very red around his jowels. "Emma, you quit talkin' like that! It's, it's ... un-Chevy! Not, let's quit arguing. Whip out that road map and get us headed for Nevada, the Golden State."


***


The landscape changed over the next two days of easy back-road traveling, from the imposing mountain ranges of Colorado, to the dry and barren landscape of Utah. Then the desert of Nevada came into view; vast, barren, foreboding-looking flat land, flanked by gray and rust-colored mountain ranges. Sparse vegetation and the odd cactus poked up from the low spots, and rocks lined the patchwork pattern of dusty fire roads that criss-crossed the desert floor.

As the sun set, the distant lights of Sin City, Las Vegas, were detected by Carl and Emma in the distance. As the last blink of the sun squeaked under the edge of the horizon, darkness

fell, and the night lights of Las Vegas literally exploded against the deep blue sky.

Carl eased The Whale over to the shoulder of the road and shut the engine off. Emma snuggled over to the drivers seat and said, "Isn't this romantic, Carl? I mean, the lights and all?"

"Yeah. And it makes me hungry as a wart hog. Let's get those coupons out for that 49 cent breakfast. If memory serves me correct, that's a 24 hour per day deal. So how about going

into the back of The Whale and looking into the drawer where I keep the tackle box. I stole about a hunnert of those coupon books. Get a handful of the 49 cent breakfast stubs, and let's

go pig out!"

Emma shook her head from side to side. "Carl, you're such a romantic."

"Ain't I though?"

After Carl had ingested seven 49 cent breakfast specials (Emma barely finished her single breakfast), they decided to wander around the casinos.

Emma opened her purse, extracted a small napkin and carefully unfolded it. "Carl, here's twenty dollars for you and twenty dollars for me. Now, don't spend it all in one place. Let's hit
it, big guy!"

Emma headed for the slot machines and traded two dollars in for nickels. Carl made a beeline for the poker tables. Two hours later, Emma was still playing with her original two dollars

worth of nickels, and was a solid 45 cents ahead. At this point, she decided to really go for it and put THREE NICKELS IN AT THE SAME TIME! and pulled the handle.

The drums spun wildly around, cherries, lemons, bells and plums danced after each other. Then clink, clink, clink, clink, clink... five cherries lined up, like little red soldiers, all in

a row.

The machine erupted an avalanche of nickels, spilling over the receptacle and dumping on the floor. Sirens went off and a red light flashed on top of the machine. Dozens of people crowded

around, clapped Emma on the back and gave her a thumbs-up sign.

Emma scooped up the small mountain of nickels into a dozen plastic cups and set them on top of the howling slot machine. At this point, she became aware of someone standing behind her. It

was Carl, with a sad look on his face.

"Emma? I got something to tell you. I lost it all. All gone. Nada. Zip is left. Flat City. Down and out. The needle is on empty. The balloon has burst. The cake has fallen.

Crashed and burned. Doom and destruction. Chicken Little was right."

Emma looked Carl straight in the eye. "Don't sugar coat it, dear. Tell me what you really mean?"

Carl shifted from foot to foot and stared down at the floor. "Well, I sorta lost big time."

Emma pinched him on the cheeks with both hands. "Don't worry, Big Guy. I just won a cool hundred dollars in nickels!"

Carl continued staring at the floor. "Well, that's good, Emma. But I'm afraid I have to tell you that I lost the twenty dollars. And the title to The Whale."

Emma exploded. "Carl! How could you? We live in that thing!"

Carl kept his head down and shuffled his feet from side to side. "Not any more we don't."

“What! The Whale is gone? Could this be? Is this the end of the Wanderers? Quite frankly, I'm worried. Good grief, we’ll have to wait until next month to find out what happens!

 

[superbuickguy]

ORC SEPTEMBER 2000 THE WANDERERS #38





HEADLINES


HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS - PART II


SUBHEAD: DOWN AND OUT, UP AND DOWN AND WEIRD


HAPPENINGS IN VEGAS


BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN





FORWARD: Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy


Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the


country exploring off-roading areas. The Suburban, nicknamed


"The Whale", is loaded to the max with every goodies known to


man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused


Carl out of as much trouble as possible.


***



When we last them, Carl and Emma were in Las Vegas, because


Carl had found a whole bunch of tourist coupon books with 49 cent


breakfasts in them, and free pulls on the slot machines. So


their trek toward Canada was put on hold for while. To bring you


up to date, Emma had given Carl $20 to gamble with, and had taken


five dollars for herself on the nickel slot machines. Just when


Emma hit the slots for a cool hundred bucks worth of nickels,


Carl wandered up with a glum look on his face. Emma thought it


was just gas, but when Carl told her that he had not only lost


the twenty bucks, but the title to The Whale as well, she went


ballistic:


***


"Carl! You bonehead! You can't be serious. We live in The


Whale. It's our rolling home! Tell me it isn't so?"


Carl looked down at the thick purple carpet. "Sorry, honey


pot. But it's so."


A large blue vein started throbbing visibly in both of Emma's


temples. "How could you!"


Carl scratched at his head and looked as sheepish as it was


possible for a human to look without getting sheared. "Well, you


see... it went like this. I sat down at the poker tables and


started winning big right away. I musta been ahead by two, maybe


three thousand bucks. Then I hit a bad streak."


"Yes. Go on, you pinhead."


"OK, then I lost about half of that, and then before I knew


it, I was ahead by a solid $8,000 bucks. Maybe more. I figured


this was my lucky day. Then this white-haired old lady sat down


to play. She musta been a hunnert and twenny years old if she


was a day.


"So, before I knew it, she was going head to head with me.


She edged me out for maybe five hands in a row. I'd have a


straight, and this old biddy would have a flush. I'd have a


flush, and she'd have a higher one. I wanted to got over and


smack her upside the head, but she looked a lot like my old Aunt


Ethel.


"Then about an hour into the game, I got a full-house - Queens


over fours - and went to the wall against her. She came up with


trip Kings over deuces. I was so mad I coulda chewed the end of a


half-inch grade-8 bolt.


"Anyway, since I lost most of my money, I figured I'd play one


last hand and then get out of there. Dontcha know it, I get


three 10s right away - this was seven card stud, Emma - and then


two cards later, I catch the fourth ten.


"I started bettin' my brains out, then realized I didn't have any more money on


me. She raised me big. Real big. And I figured I had a sure-lock winner, so I


whipped out the title to The Whale and asked her if this would cover the twenty


thousand dollar raise she had just made.


"At first, she said she didn't want any stupid old truck, but when I showed her


the picture of The Whale I carry in my wallet... you know, the one taken up in


the Appalachian Mountains when we were camping, she agreed to the deal.


"Wouldn't ya just know it? I turned over the four tens, and this old crow flipped


over four Kings, cool as a brain sturgeon."


"You mean brain "surgeon", dummy."


"That's what I said. Anyways, I just sat there in a state of shock until I could


work up the nerve to come over and tell you about it. After all, you are my wife,


and I have to be honest with you."


Emma fixed Carl with a steely-eyed glare. "Not for long you ain't, buster. I'm


going to run off with the first wino I can find who has all of his teeth."


Carl dropped his jaw. "Now, honey-pot... calm down. I got the name and room


number of that old lady, and she says that we can get The Whale back for the


twenty grand we put it up for. So maybe we can just call the credit union back


home, and get some sort of quick loan."


Emma poked a finger in Carl's chest. "Oh, so it's just that simple, is it? Well, let


me remind you, Carl, that we live off your Navy retirement check, and get another


$650 per month rental off of our house. If we take out a loan of that size, there's no


way we can continue to drive all over the place. Our wandering days will come to


an end. We'll have to go back home, and I'll probably have to take a job in some


sleazy strip joint to support you."


Carl looked startled. "Hey, whoa there. Before we get too carried away, let's sit


down and do some thinking. Say, what's that pile of nickels doing on the floor half


way up your ankles?"


"I hit the jack-pot, you boob."


"Then our troubles are over!"


"Not quite. All those nickels add up to a hundred dollars."


Carl beamed. "Heck, it's obvious you're on a streak and I'm not, so let's cash


those nickels in for dollars and try to hit it big. Maybe, just maybe, you can turn


that pile of metal into twenty grand."


Emma furled her brows, then relented. "Well, it's worth a try. Hells-fire, I


couldn't possibly do any worse than you!"


Oh yeah?



After cashing the coins in for hard currency, Emma


ambled over to the crap table and promptly lost the one hundred


dollars in two minutes flat. In desperation, she opened her


purse, extracted a tissue, un-folded it, and exposed ten twenty-


dollar bills. Three minutes later, this was also gone. Tears


streamed down Emma's cheeks, but her jaw was still firm and her


lips tightly clenched.


"C'mon, chowder-head. We've still got three free pulls on


that Big Bertha slot machine. Maybe I can win that free Ford


Bronco and get us out of this scrape."


Carl folded his arms over his chest. "Now, Emma... you know


I've been a Chevy man since day one. I grew up hating Fords.


Heck, I even hated Mercuries and Lincolns."


Emma turned her back on Carl and yelled over her shoulder:


"I'll be over at Big Bertha. You can come on over and lend me


some moral support, or you can stand there with your fingers up


you nose. Make whatever mind you have left up."


Carl scurried after Emma.


It took Emma ten minutes to find the Big Bertha machine,


mostly because it was surrounded by tourists waving coupon book


lets at the attendant, who swapped them for casino tokens that


fit in the machine.


Carl and Emma watched about sixty tourist couples all pull the


long handle on the over-sized Big Bertha machine, and no one won


anything. It appeared that Big Bertha was a little on the


"tight" side.


Eventually, Carl an Emma worked their way up to the front of


the line, exchanged their coupons for slot tokens, and stood in


front of Big Bertha.


Emma gulped. The machine was over 12 feet tall and each one of


the symbols in the windows was the size of a magazine. Cherries,


lemons, bells, plums and jackpot symbols stared back at Emma.


She inserted the first token into the machine, reached a


sweaty right hand up, and pulled hard on the handle. A bewildering parade of


lemons/cherries/plums/bells and jackpots whirled dizzily in front of Emma.


Click, click, click, click and clunk.


A loser.


Emma and Carl exchanged worried glances. Emma slipped in the


second token, and gave another pull.


Click, clunk, clunk, clunk and click.


Not even close.


Carl put an arm over Emma and gave her a hug. "Go for it,


honey pot. I know you can do it."


Emma gave a weak smile, squeezed Carl's hand, closed her eyes


and pulled the handle.


Jackpot, jackpot, jackpot, jackpot.... hesitation... then a


fifth jackpot!!!


Bells went off, whistles shrieked, sirens honked, red lights


flashed, gongs clanged and Big Bertha shuddered like a beached


whale. How appropriate!


A casino official appeared on the scene within moments, and


pronounced: "Congratulations, folks! You are the winners of a


new Ford Bronco with the full Eddie Bauer package. Sir? Are you


thrilled about this?"


"Not really. I've always been a Chevy man. Winning a Ford is


a lot like gettin' a boil on your... oooof!"


The sharp edge of Emma's elbow in Carl's ribs stopped his


comments rather suddenly.


Emma smiled. "Yes, indeed, it's a wonderful thing. We've


always loved Fords. Especially the Broncos. This will be our


fifth one."


Carl made retching sounds as the casino official turned the


title to the Bronco over to Emma.


Later, in the privacy of the coffee shop, Carl beamed. "Good


job, honey-pot. Now we can sell that damned Bronco real quick an


get our Whale back. Or maybe even trade the new Bronco for The


Whale. Either way, we're back in business!!!"


Emma held up her palm. "Not so fast, fat boy. I think


maybe, just maybe, this might be our new Whale. You lost the old


one, and I own the new one. Let's get this thing outfitted


tomorrow... after I win a few more bucks, that is ... and we'll


continue wandering. But from now on, we'll be Ford powered


***


What the heck is happening? Could we see the end of the Chevy


era and the start of the new Ford era? Whoa?! We'll find out


next month.

 

[superbuickguy]

1

2

3


my not squarebody build is coming along nicely

 

[superbuickguy]

ORC OCTOBER 2000 WANDERERS #39


HEADLINES



HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS - PART III


SUBHEAD: WEIRD HAPPENINGS IN VEGAS AND THE POSSIBLE END OF


THE CHEVY SUBURBAN ERA? GACK!


BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN


FORWARD: Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the country exploring off-roading areas. The Suburban, nicknamed "The Whale", is loaded to the max with every goodie known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of as much trouble as possible.

***

LET'S BRING YOU UP TO SPEED. When we last left them, Carl and Emma had been in Las Vegas, mostly because Carl had a bunch of coupon booklets for 49 cent breakfasts that were sold 24 hours a day.

Well, Carl had a whole bunch of those low price breakfasts, then proceeded to do some gambling, after giving Emma twenty bucks to go nuts with. Carl then went out and did some serious style gambling, and proceeded to lose the title to The Whale in a brutal poker game with a white-haired old lady. He had gone to the wall with her, holding four tens, and she had stuffed him into the light fixtures with four Kings.

In desperation, Emma had gone to the slot machines and put her coupon book tokens in the Big Bertha machine, On the very last pull on the handle, Emma lined up five jackpots, and lo and behold, was the winner of a new top-of-the-line Ford Bronco.

***

We join them in the coffee shop of the casino, as they're sucking down a few cool ones and jabbering about their wonderful turn of luck. Carl tilted back a suds, wiped the foam off on his sleeve and smiled at Emma: "Good job, honey-pot. Now we can sell that damned Bronco real quick and get our Whale back. Or maybe even trade the new Bronco for The Whale. Either way, we're back in business!!!"


Emma held up her palm. "Not so fast, fat boy. I think maybe, just maybe, this might be our New Whale. You lost the old one, and I own the new one. Let's get this thing outfitted tomorrow ... after I win a few more bucks, that is ... and we'll continue wandering. But for now, we'll be Ford Powered!"

Carl spit a frothing blast of beer all over the table. "What? Say what? How can you even think in that direction, Emma? I've been a Chevy man for all of my life, and so was my old man before his old man. In fact, the only Ford guy in the town I grew up in, turned out to be an axe murderer, so it ought to be pretty clear what happens to you if you drive a Ford. Chances are you’re gonna end up behind bars, or behind a Chevy bumper, at the very least."

Emma slurped a delicate portion of her Shirley Temple. "Au contrary, Carl. Just in case you hadn't noticed, the title to the Bronco is in my name, not yours. And just so you think I hadn't noticed, the title to The Whale was in your name, and you lost it at the poker tables. The way I'm starting to look at things, maybe we ought to christen our new rig The Dolphin, and I'll drive while you sit over in the passenger seat and read fishing magazines."

A large vein throbbed in Carls' neck and he bent a spoon in a U-shape between his thumb and forefinger. An odd sound escaped from his open mouth, much like a lizard trying to eject a bad-tasting insect: "Gack... gack... gack..."

Emma slurped down the last of her Shirley Temple. "Close your mouth, Carl. A fly is liable to land inside, and you can never tell where those things have been. Now, let's go find that lady who won The Whale and get our personal things out it."


***

The white-haired old lady, a Mrs. Murphy, who had won The Whale lived in a large and very expensive house, and proved to be quite gracious, as she invited Carl and Emma in for tea.

"Well, I was wondering when you would show up to get your things. Have you come to buy it back? If so, I'll need $20,000, in cash." Emma smiled sweetly. "No. I think we'll just let you keep it. You see, the engine is pretty much shot and the transmission simply will not stay in gear. In fact, the reason we have those trail bikes on the bumper racks is that we're always heading out to find gas stations or parts store when we break down. And another thing, I wouldn't leave The Whale in that nice driveway.

In about a day or two, all the oil will leak out of the engine and the rear end and you'll have a black stain that'll never come out. Any way, enough about The Whale. Tell me more about you, Mrs. Murphy.?"

"Call me Ida, dear. Well, ever since my husband, a former dealer, passed away 20 years ago, I've been a professional gambler. You have no idea how easy it is to clean up at the tables when you look like someone's grandmother! Especially when you get these amateurs who think they know how to play. Whoops. Excuse me. How rude of me. But enough about me... tell me more about The Tuna."

Emma furled her brow. "Oh, you mean The Whale. Well, it's a stretch four-wheel drive Suburban that we sort of set up for off-road recreation and general all-around traveling. We spent a small fortune setting it up, but it's cost us a big fortune to keep in running. In fact, it's been like a bad-luck charm hang¬ing around our necks like a man-hole cover ever since we got it."

Mrs. Murphy looked up from her tea cup. "Bad luck? Like what?" Emma looked at the ceiling and sighed heavily. "Oh, you wouldn't believe it. First off, we got a thing in the mail from Ed MacMahon about the Clearing House Sweepstakes, and naturally, threw it in the trash. Guess what? It turns out that we REALLY WERE the winners, but didn't respond, so they picked someone else and gave them the $14 million and the trip to Hawaii, instead of us.

"Then, within the next four months, just about all of our relatives died, except the ones who would have left us money, and the ones we didn't like." Carls eyes got real big as he listened to the tale Emma was weaving.

"Things got sadder. Every time we'd go off-roading, The Whale would break down a hundred miles from the nearest rock. That's why we put the stove and the fridge inside, so we wouldn't starve to death while we were waiting for the tow truck in the middle of the woods." She continued. "After that, it was downhill. Like hand in a hell-basket."

Carl interrupted. "You mean hell in a hand-basket, dear." Emma patted him on the hand. "Yes. That, too. Anyway, things got progressively worse. Carl here used to be a body-builder, and ... well... you can see what happened to him. Six months ago, he used to have a wash-board stomach and big arms.

Now he's got a big stomach and wash-board chins."

Carl got red in the faced and appeared ready to explode. Mrs. Murphy looked shocked and drummed her fingers nervously on the coffee table top.

Emma went on. "Anyway, that darned Suburban brought us so muchbad luck, that we were an inch from running it off a cliff and reporting it stolen to the insurance company. In fact, I'm very glad that Carl lost the title in that poker game with you, so we weren't tempted into doing something dishonest.

"You know, once we get our personal belongings out of TheWhale, the only things in there of any value at all, are Carls guns, fishing rods and his collection of 4x4 magazines."

There was a slight trembling in Mrs. Murphy's hand as she set her tea cup down ... and missed the edge of the table. The expensive Wedgewood cup fell to the parquet floor and shattered into itsy-bitsy pieces. Her eyes got real big.

Emma shook her head sadly from side to side. "See? It's starting already. The bad luck. You poor dear. Well, enough chit-chat. We'll just get our things from The Whale and let you rest up for what's in store for you."

Mrs. Murphy walked out into the driveway with Carl and Emma, peered under the huge Suburban, and let out a gasp. There was an enormous puddle of goop covering the driveway all the way down to the street. And the stench was awesome!

Emma started moving small items out of the Suburban into the Bronco, while Mrs. Murphy stared dumbly at the brooding bulk of The Whale and the slimy driveway. A loud bang startled Mrs. Murphy out of her near-stupor. Emma came out of The Whale, coughing and gagging, with smoke pouring out after her. "Cough. Wheez. Gag. Darned microwave blew up again. All I did was brush up against the door. But don't worry, I put the fire out.

Oh well, at least the fire isn't as bad as when the air condi¬ tioning unit melts down. Then it smells like someone set a wet goat on fire."

Mrs. Murphy backed up a few feet and nervously eyed the thick smoke filling up the interior of The Whale. "Uh, say you folks wouldn't want to buy this... uhh... thing back, would you? I mean for a real good price?" Carl started to speak and Emma gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs. "No thanks, dear. We don't have much money left since we've owned The Whale. But we might trade you a few things for it."

Mrs. Murphy looked relieved beyond words. "Yes, yes... I mean, what do you have?" Emma furled her brow and pushed her glasses higher up on her nose. "Well, Carl has a nice collection of guns and fishing gear. I suppose we could give you that. It must be worth thousands." Carl wanted to protest loudly, but Emma had a section of fat on his side grasped firmly in her hand, and she was twisting it. The more he tried to talk, the more Emma twisted. Since her hand was behind her back, Mrs. Murphy did not notice.

But she certainly was ready get rid of The Whale. "I'll take it! The guns and the fishing rods, that is. Just lean them against the garage door and I'll get that title back for you."

While Mrs. Murphy hustled off to the house, Carl and Emma unloaded the six shot-guns, four 22s and the elephant gun, and leaned them against the garage. Next, 17 fishing rods, varying in length, joined the guns. A small tear coursed down Carl’s cheek. "What the... how did you... I mean..."

Emma noticed Mrs. Murphy coming back, title in hand, and snapped, "Hush up! I'll explain everything later!"

***

One hour later, Carl and Emma were sitting in a small country bar, north of Vegas. Carl had slammed down three quick long-necked Buds before he could even bring himself to speak. "Ya know, Emma... I'm more than a little bit ticked off that you traded my guns and fishin' stuff, but I guess if we got The Whale back, it's worth it. But what I don't understand is how you got The Whale to leak oil and spit smoke out?"

Emma crinkled her mouth up into an evil little smile. "Easy. I pulled the dump handle on the toilet on the way in to her house. It's a good thing, too. That thing hadn't been emptied for the better part of a month."

Carl still looked confused. "But how did you make the micro-wave oven catch on fire?"

"Easy as pie. I put a stack of your World Wrestling Federa¬ tion magazines on the stove and turned the flame on." "What! You burned my WWF magazines? I hope you didn't burn the April issue with the story on Jake the Snake Roberts." "Carl, they're all gone. Even the April issue. They were the only things handy, and we did manage to get The Whale back, so just back off, buster!"

Carl was quiet for a while, the silence broken only by the sound of him eating two bags of BBQ chips, a half dozen pickled eggs, four Slim Jim sausages and a bowl of peanuts. Carl sighed, then brightened. "Well, at least this means that we not only got The Whale back, we can sell the new Bronco and we're big money ahead. Somebody out there probably wants a Ford, right?"

Emma clenched her tiny fists. "Yes. This somebody. I like this Bronco and I think I'd like to drive it around for a while. So why don't you just drive your precious old Whale around behind my shiny new Bronco for a while. Or better yet, sell it and have a passenger seat in my Ford."

***

What's this? Mutiny? Could it be that Emma just got a real dose of Womens Lib? Will they be wandering separate, but equal, from now on? Things are getting confusing, but with any luck at all, we stand a chance or sorting things out next month. Maybe.

 

[superbuickguy]

ORC NOVEMBER 2000 THE WANDERERS




HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS


SUBHEAD: THE WHALE MEETS THE PINK FLAMINGO


BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN








Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the country to explore off-roading areas. The Suburban, nick-named The Whale, is loaded to the max with every goody known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of as much trouble as possible.


***


When we last left them in Las Vegas, Carl had lost the title to The Whale in a high stakes poker game to a little white-haired old lady. Then Emma saved the day by winning a new Ford Bronco on the Big Bertha slot machine. Somehow, they managed to wangle The Whale out of the little old lady , mostly due to cleverness on the part of Emma.


At this point, Carl was ecstatic and figured they’d just sell the Bronco and party-hearty with the extra money. But Emma had other ideas. We join them now, as their little “discussion” takes place:


Carl was very red in the face, but kept his voice low and even. “Emma, now you listen up. Howzit gonna look if we’re wanderin’ all over the place, and I’m drivin’ The Whale and you’re behind me in a — dare I say it? — a Ford Bronco?”


Emma clicked her purse shut rather firmly. “Simple. It’ll look like a Ford and a Chevy, rolling down the road. I think it happens all the time in this country, and very few riots are caused by the sight. Now, quit fuming and let’s get over to that Ford dealer so I can pick out my new Bronco.”


***



Twenty minutes later, Carl pulled The Whale into the dealership parking lot. A broad-smiled salesman came out of the office and ambled over. “Hideedoo there. I see you folks are here to take advantage of our Beater Truck Deal.”


Carl looked puzzled. “Beater Deal? What’s that?”


“Why, that’s where we give you a thousand bucks for any Beater Truck that you bring in. Push it in, drag it in, drive it in. We don’t care how it gets here, but we’ll give you a cool thousand dollars for it when you buy a new Ford truck. Boy, that sure is one strange looking GMC.”


Carl clenched his fists and his nostrils flared. “GMC? Why, you pinhead, this here’s a Chevy!”


The salesman smiled even broader. “ Hey, big guy. ‘Scuse me. I stand corrected. That is one strange looking Chevy. But no matter. We’ll still give you the Beater Truck Big Bucks Deal.”


Carl took a deep breath and a large vein started to throb in his neck. Wisely, Emma cut in. “Oh, no. We’re not here to sell our Suburban; we’re the winners of the new Ford Bronco from the Whacky Cactus Casino. We’re here to pick it up.”


The salesman kept his smile locked in place. “Hey, great. Let me take you folks over to new truck sales, and you can have your choice. But when you get your new Bronco, you sure won’t want that old pile any more. Lemme take a look at it, and see if we can give you close to low Blue Book on it. What year is it, anyway? A ‘74 or ‘75?”


Carl’s eyes widened. “What! It’s a 1992 model! And it’s in perfect shape!”


The salesman smiled even wider. Emma thought his face was going to crack in half. “Perfect? Well, let’s take a look. We just love to have good solid trade-ins. There’s always a market for used trucks and sports-utility rigs, even if they’re not Fords.”


The salesman walked around The Whale, kicked the tires and peered inside. “Hmmm. Not too bad. Lottsa junk hanging all over it, but that can be taken off. Mileage is in the ball park, and all that camping stuff inside might appeal to someone who can’t afford a VW Westphalia. So if we take those big dumb tires off, put some stock rubber on, we might be able to move it. Tell you what... I can let you have $4400, tops. That cash on the spot, big fella. And I’d be taking a beating on the deal, but we do this kind of stuff just to keep our customers happy. So, whaddaya say?”


Carl just stood there like a statue, virtually stunned into immobility. His jaw hung open and a fly landed on his lip. Emma sighed. “Carl, close your mouth. You’re drawing flies. Now let’s follow this nice man to where the new Broncos are. If you want to sell your funky old Suburban, you can do it later on, after I get my Bronco.”


Carl followed Emma and the ever-smiling salesman to the new truck showroom with all the enthusiasm of a man going to the electric chair with wet shorts on.


***


The showroom was massive, and a triple line of new trucks and sports utilities were there to dazzle and titillate customers. Emma walked around the Broncos like a child in a toy store, eyes gleaming, hands trailing over fenders and hoods.


“Ooooh! I think I’ll take this blue one. No, that metallic green one looks even better! No, wait a minute, that black one with the dark blue trim is gorgeous! Wait, I changed my mind!!! I just have to sit inside that tan-colored beauty over there.”


The salesman dropped his smile about two notches. “Uhh, that tan one is an Eddie Bauer model, which is our top of the line unit, and unfortunately, those are not part of the casino prize deal. All of the XL models, and there are ten of them here, well, you can have any one of those.”


Emma opened the door of the tan Eddie Bauer model and clambered up inside. “My oh my. This interior is positively magnificent! It’s positively obscene! I love it!!! How much difference would it cost to get an Eddie Bauer model instead of the regular one?”


The smile on the salesman widened up four notches. Well, now. Let’s whip out the old calculator and see what we can come up with, shall we?”


With that, the salesman punched buttons madly for a minute, with his brow furrowed, then brightened and showed the display on the hand-held calculator to Emma. “Howzat, little lady? Think we can make a deal here?”


Emma peered closely at the numbers on the calculator, then shook her head sadly from side to side. “No, our bank account will take a pounding just from paying the taxes on the Bronco, and I don’t think we can afford to pay that much difference. I guess I’ll just have to settle for a regular model instead of the nicer model.”


Carl snorted. “Hells-fire, woman. It don’t make no never mind. I can’t see a nickels worth of difference between that Teddy Bear model and the regular one. Just get a color you like and let’s get out of here.”


Emma sighed audibly. “It’s Eddie Bauer, Carl. Not Teddy Bear.”


The salesman nearly frowned for a moment, then brightened like a light bulb just went on over his head. “Uhhh, miss... I just might have the answer to your problems. I think we have one Eddie Bauer model Bronco that we might be able to let you have, at no additional cost. Let me check with the manager first. By the way, the color is not a real important thing, is it? I’ll be back in just a minute.”


He scuttled off, and Carl relaxed a bit. “Well, Emma. It looks like you just might get your way here. They probably got some hard-to-move color Bronco, but my advice to you is to just grab it, and get it painted later on.”


The salesman was back in less than five minutes. During that time, Carl amused himself by spitting little brown wads of tobacco on the windshields of several of the new trucks.


“Miss, if you’ll just follow me out back, we’ll show you your new 1992 Bronco Eddie Bauer model.”


***


The trio rounded the rear corner of the building, and Emma let out a gasp. Carl started laughing, and the salesman pretended he was brushing some lint off his jacket sleeve.


Carl roared. “Hey, Emma. Lookit that! The damned thing is pink. Hooeee! I never in my whole life ever seen a pink truck before. No wonder these geeks couldn’t get rid of it. And look! The inside is all pink, too. Pink carpeting. Pink floormats. Pink seat covers. Wow, what a goofy-looking rig. Hey, how’d you guys ever get a pink truck?”


The salesman looked embarrassed. “Well, the wife of the owner ordered it while he was out of town. She called the factory and had a special order unit. I have to admit it is a bit different.”


Carl hooted. “Different? I’ll say it’s different! Why don’t you just hang a ballet skirt on the roof, and maybe put some doilies on the dash? Hoo hah! And maybe you can hang some frilly curtains around the windows. Hee hee.”


Emma spun around faster than Carl thought possible and fixed Carl with a genuinely mean stare. “Laugh all you want, Carl, but I’m getting this truck. And I’m not going to change the color. In fact, I love the color.”


With that, Emma got up inside the bright pink Bronco and wiggled the steering wheel from side to side, making ‘vroom-vroom’ sounds.


She leaned out of the window with a bigger smile than the salesman. “Carl? Guess what? I’ve even got a name for my new Bronco, and I think I’ll have it lettered on both sides before we leave Las Vegas. I’m naming my new Bronco “The Pink Flamingo.” Isn’t that wonderful, Carl? We can drive down the roads and the off-roads of life together, with you in The Whale and me in the Pink Flamingo. Carl? Carl? Will you quit banging your head on that new Explorer?”


***


Whoa! What’s this? Dueling sports utilities? It sure looks like it. How will Carl and Emma handle wandering with two rigs, when they could barely cope with one? Strange times ahead!

 

[superbuickguy]

Sorry for the lack of 'burb updates but things got a bit hectic - more work is coming soon

Let's bring you up to speed on what's been happening. While visiting Las Vegas, Carl lost the title to The Whale in a high-stakes poker game. Emma, in a desperation move, won a brand new Bronco in the Big Bertha slot machine. Then, with a clever ploy, Emma got The Whale back. When they went to pick up their new Bronco, Emma chose a pink one, driving Carl bananas in the process. Not only that, Emma insisted that she wanted to drive her very own Bronco - nick-named The Pink Flamingo - as they wandered around.

***

We join them now as they're fueling up both vehicles and getting ready to head north out of Vegas, and wander in the general direction of Canada.

Carl screwed both gas caps in the side of The Whale and looked over at Emma, who was still pumping gas. "Hey, woman. How many gallons is that stupid Ford gonna take?"

Emma whipped out the shiny new owners manual. "Let's see here... I've got the big optional 32 gallon tank, and the salesman said that I've got the 302 fuel injected engine. He says if I cruise properly and avoid jackrabbit starts, I'll get over 20 miles per gallon. That should give me a range of... oh ... 650 to 700 miles. How much gas does The Whale hold, Carl?"

"Uhh, about 100 gallons."

Emma smiled sweetly. "And how many miles per gallon does The Whale get, dear?"

Carl scratched his chin. "Well, when I'm on the gas hard, about 5 1/2 miles per gallon. However, if I just cruise along, mebbe seven or eight."

Emma shook her head from side to side. "You mean that my ittsy-bittsy Ford gets at least three times the mileage that your big bad Chevy does?"

Carl got very red in the face, but restrained his comments. "Enough jabbering, woman. Let's take a minute to go over these here radios I got installed in both rigs."

"Oh, you mean the CBs?"

"Emma, these here things ain't CB radios. These are the same kind of radios the off-road racers use. They're called FM-business band radios, and they got a whole lot more range. You see, with a CB, you got mebbe 5 or six miles range, line-of-sight. With these here babies, you can sometimes get up to a hunnert miles. These are Unidens, and I bought 'em off of some guy named Radio Bob last summer. Never had no need to use 'em up until now.

"Now here's the deal. We got all these channels we can get by turnin' a knob, but let's stick to channel one. When you want to talk - or in your case, jabber - then you hold this here button down just like you would on a cheapy CB unit. OK, now I tole you how you're supposed to talk on the radio, so you drive over to the other end of the parking lot and let's run through the drill once before we hit the road."

Emma gingerly drove her new Bronco over to the far end, and clicked on her shiny black Uniden. Carl clicked his on and thumbed the mike. "This here is The Whale base. Do you copy, dumb butt Ford?"

There was a little squawk of static. "Well, I'm not going to answer unless you call me by my correct name, Carl. This here is The Pink Flamingo and I'm going to hang up if you don't get some manners."

Carl groaned. "OK, OK. But pu-leeze, use real radio talk. You don't say 'hang up', you say 'out'. And you don't say 'understand', you say 'I copy'."

"Okey-dokey, dear. I think I have that straight. Roger, wilco, over and out and copy."

Carl shook his head slowly from side to side and bit his lip. "Alright, enough of that. Now let's hit the road. I'll git behind you and keep an eye on that stupid Bronco. That way, if a wheel or two falls off, I'll get on the Uniden and contact you. Otherwise, you'd probably just drive all the way to Canada and not even know it. This here's The Whale base, out."

A giggle came over the radio. "This here is The Pink Flamingo and I'm done talking for now. Roger, wilco, 10-4, copy, over and under. What's your handle, Smokey? Catch you on the flap-jack and the flip-flop. Can we go down the road now, dear? Signing off for now."

***

The duo headed north out of Vegas on Highway 93, with the pink Bronco in front, followed by the giant Suburban. Carl figured this route would be ideal for Emma to get used to her new rig. After all, traffic was almost non-existent, the road flat and smooth and surrounded by sparse desert.

Carl had to admit that Emma was driving the Bronco smoothly. But then, how could you not be driving smoothly when the truck was sailing along at a majestic 38 miles per hour?

Carl got on the Uniden. "Emma? Do you think that maybe you could speed it up just a little bit? Or are you drafting a butterfly that I can't see?"

"Well, if you insist. Let me see... the speed limit is 55. I'll go 45. Will that be OK, dear?"

Carl got very, very red in the face and spit a wad of tobacco juice out before he answered. He possibly should have considered rolling the window down before he spit. A large brownish stain splattered over the glass and down the upholstery. Carl swore some truly awful Navy curses.

Emma clicked on the radio again. "Carl? Do you think you should talk like that over the radio? I mean, you could be violating some sort of AFL-CIO rule or regulation."

Carl groaned. "You mean FCC regulations, Emma. Now just shut up for a minute while I clean up a mess. And while you're at it, get that gawd-awful stupid Ford up to speed. Do like I do; go exactly three miles per hour over the speed limit. No cop will pull you over for that."

Emma came back. "Oh, I couldn't do that! Maybe you can break the speeding laws and sleep at night, but not me. I'm going to drive at exactly three miles under the speed limit, to play it safe."

Carl nearly swallowed his chew, but managed to stifle a retort. True to her word, Emma accelerated the pink Bronco up to exactly 52 miles per hour. Emma assumed the classic position of the terrified woman driver: shoulders scrunched over, nose next to the wheel, arms tucked close to the torso and a white-knuckle death grip on the steering wheel.

***

The Wanderers planned to take a wandering (what else?) route northward, and cut off to the west on highway 375, heading through the Penoyer Valley. They peeled off northeast and spent a half-day in the Humboldt National Forest. That night, Emma left her Bronco and slept in The Whale at the top of the Quinn Canyon Range.

They caught 379 north the next morning and headed toward the Old Mining Camp at Eureka. Like most tourists, they bought some souvenirs. Carl bought a plaque that had a trout being caught at the Fish Creek Range that was bigger than the boat. Emma bought a pillow that said 'I'VE BEEN TO PANCAKE SUMMIT'.

Keeping to the side roads, they took 278 north, then darted left to Cortez Ghost Town. From there, the headed north and caught Highway 80 heading to Winnemucca. Carl and Emma figured they'd catch a motel there and stretch their limbs a bit.

While stopping for food, Carl talked Emma into picking up the pace a bit. "You know Emma, you are pretty much driving me nuts. I simply cannot drive at about the same speed as a lawn mower. Please get it up to at least 70, or I will make you park that stupid Ford and get inside a real truck with me. By the way, Emma, do you know what FORD stands for?"

Emma looked puzzled. "Why, I thought it was just named after Elvis Ford."

Carl snorted. "You mean Edsel Ford. But, no, the letters FORD stands for Found On Road Dead. Or somebody else said it means Fix Or Repair Daily. Haw, haw! Get it?"

Emma folded her arms over her chest. "Well, you can make all the fun you want to. This is my truck and that one is yours. Now let's hit the road, fat boy, and watch out I don't ram you!"

They hit the road, Carl in front driving The Whale, with Emma discreetly placed behind him. Carl figured he'd play some games with Emma. He got up to 70 mph, and noted that Emma was maintaining pace. Carl smiled and squeezed gently on the throttle.

The speedo read 71, 72, 73, 74 and eventually 80 miles per hour. Carl peered into the rear view mirror and noticed that Emma was nearly bug-eyed as she drove over the speed limit. Carl chuckled, and pushed down a bit more on the throttle. He kept a very careful eye on Emma in the rear view mirror, making sure that she didn't wander out of her lane, or do something stupid.

In the process of keeping very careful track of Emma, Carl never noticed the huge old coyote ambling across the highway. The coyote looked up and saw the Suburban bearing down at about 82 mph, and darted to the left.

Carl saw the predator and yanked the steering wheel to the right. The coyote, possibly confused, also went to the right. Carl steered left, and the coyote darted left. Left, right, left, right... it was inevitable. Whammo!

The old coyote made contact with the grill of the Suburban at exactly 83.49 miles per hour. Not a good move.

The grill caved in first, then went through the radiator. The radiator buckled, and nailed the fan blade, causing all sorts of grief.

The Whale ground to a halt, with steam blowing out from under the fenders and hood. Carl somehow managed to bring The Whale to a halt on the shoulder of the road.

A tick-tick-tick sound emanated from the cooling engine as Carl got out of The Whale and walked around front to check out the damage. A long, stiff brown tail poke out of the center of the radiator. Coyote entrails were splattered all over the 454 block. Trouble ahead, trouble behind... to quote an old country song.

Carl sighed and slumped his head against the steering wheel. He lifted his head and looked down the straight road. Not a vehicle in sight.

Reluctantly, he picked up the mike on the radio and thumbed the switch. "Pink Flamingo? This is The Whale. We got us a sort of problem here. Come back."

The radio squawked. "Over and out. This here's Emma with a copy on your wilco 10-4. Roger your copy and come back to your 20. Spit it out, buster!"

Carl sighed. "Emma? Knock off the radio crap and listen up. I sort of ran into a critter here and The Whale is down and out. Get that goofy Ford up here. We got steam blowing out of the radiator and parts rubbin' up against other parts. And make it quick!"

A few minutes later, the pink Bronco rolled into view, and Emma pulled up in front of The Whale and hopped out, eyes wide. "What happened?"

"This stupid critter tried to occupy the same spot as my Suburban and he came in second. But The Whale is hurtin' big-time. Take a look. The grill is pushed through the radiator, and the radiator wrapped the fan around the front of the block. There's no way we can drive this. Look, Emma. We're only ten miles from Winnemucca, so you'll have to tow me in. I'll let out the winch cable and hook it up to your trailer hitch."

***

Thirty minutes later, the pink Bronco pulled into Friendly Fred's Auto Repair and Septic Tank Service with The Whale at the end of the winch cable. Friendly Fred wipe his hands on a shop rag, turned to his assistant Homer, and smiled. "Looks like we got us a tourist, Homer. Make sure the dog is chained up in the back and put that bottle of Jack Daniels away. I smell some money!"

***

Whoa! A wounded truck and a roadside repair place? This could be a bad combination. Let's keep a close eye on this one, folks.

 

[superbuickguy]

Let's update you. Carl and Emma were wandering north of Las Vegas in their respective vehicles. Emma was behind the wheel of the new pink Ford Bronco that she'd won in Vegas, and Carl was at the controls of The Whale, quite possibly the biggest and most equipped Suburban on or off the roads.

About ten miles from Winnemucca, Carl hit a very old and very large coyote head on. The coyote was crossing the road; Carl was driving down it; neither one was paying attention. The Whale had the entire front grill, clip, radiator and fan pushed into the block. Coyote innards were everywhere.

Carl let out his front winch cable, hooked it up to the trailer hitch on Emma's Bronco, and let her tow him into beautiful Winnemucca, Nevada. As the pair pulled into Friendly Fred's Auto Repair and Septic Tank Service, Fred wiped his hands on a shop rag, turned to his assistant, Homer, and smiled. "Looks like we got us a tourist, Homer. Make sure the dog is chained up in the back and put that bottle of Jack Daniels away. I smell some money!"

***

"Hideedoo there. My name is Fred. You folks have a spot of trouble there?"

Carl slipped The Whale into park and got out. "Yeah. Dumb coyote got in the way. I'm gonna need some repairs."

Friendly Fred peered under the wrinkled hood and made ooohing and aaahing sounds. "Boy, she's a mess! Lookee here... the fan is wrapped around the front of the engine like it sorta melted there. Good thing that Bronco stopped and towed you in. Is that one of those girls from that bordello down the road?"

Carl snorted angrily. "That's my wife in that dumb pink Bronco!"

Homer ambled up, busily wiping his nose on a greasy red shop towel. "Your wife works down at the Cherry Patch Mustang Ranch? Boy oh boy, I ain't never met a woman of the night before!"

Carl poked a stubby finger in Homer's face. "I'm gonna say this real slow, Gomer..."

"The name is Homer."

"That's what I said. You got grease in your ears, too? Now listen close. That lady in the ugly looking Bronco is my wife, and she does not work in a cathouse."

Homer looked real puzzled. "'Scuse me, sir. But I'm confused. Don't mean to pry, but how come y'all are drivin' two different trucks? Most couples travel together in the same vehicle."

Carl sighed. "Never mind. It's a long story, but I'll make it short; Emma won the Bronco on the slots in Vegas."

Homer nodded and smiled. He could understand things now. All was correct with the universe.

Friendly Fred put both hands on his hips and shook his head sadly from side to side. "Looks pretty ugly under there, mister. You want me to fix it up, or what?"

"Of course! What else am I gonna do, push it down the road all the way to Canada, and then look for a town full of beavers who know how to use tools? What's it gonna cost me? And how much time will it take?"

Friendly Fred scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Lemme go inside and git me a note pad and a calculator."

Fred went inside his grubby shop, quickly picked up the phone and dialed. "Lester? This here is Fred down at the shop. How much did you want for that bass boat you been tryin' to sell me for the last two years or so? Give me the bottom line price? How much? Fifty-two hundred bucks? Does that include the trailer with the wind-up winch? OK. I'll get back to you later on."

Friendly Fred grabbed a clip board and went back outside. He pried the hood up and let out a low whistle, then punched some numbers in the calculator. Then he slid underneath, whistled again, and punched some more numbers in his hand-held calculator. After a solid 20 minutes of whistling, button punching and considerable head shaking, Fred appeared to be done. "Lemme total this up here. Let's see... add for labor... then tax... and we got... uuummmm.... right about $5200."

Carl looked startled. "That much? Wow!"

Friendly Fred held up his index finger. "Mister, have you priced replacement parts as of late? I thought not. You go pick up a new grill, couple of fenders, clip, radiator and such, and you're looking at a piece of change. You're getting quite a bargain. Why, I doubt if I'll clear a couple hunnert bucks by the time the smoke clears."

A sad look came over Carl's face. "Does that include the paint job?"

Friendly Fred laughed real loud. "Haw, haw! Hey, what's that sign up there say? It says Auto Repair, don't it? It don't say Auto Painting. Nope. You'll have to paint 'er somewhere else. My job is to get you rolling down that road again."

Carl peered at the sign. "It also says septic tank service."

Friendly Fred smiled. "It pays the bills every now and then. Well then, you want this thing fixed or what?"

Carl let out a sigh. "Well, guess I ain't got much choice. How long is it gonna take?"

Fred scratched his chin again. "Better part of a week, I suspect. Depending on how quick we can get the parts. There's a couple of nice motels real close to here. I'll need a small deposit... maybe a couple hunnert bucks, cash preferably."

Carl peeled off two C-notes and Fred wrote him out a receipt. "I'll just get some of my things out The Whale and hop in that goofy-looking Bronco. Then I'll give you a call later tomorrow and see how you're progressing.

While Carl was getting his stuff out of The Whale, Friendly Fred took Homer inside of the shop and gave him the two hundred dollar bills. "I want you to run down to Lesters place and give him this money. Tell him it's a deposit on the boat. Then git your butt back here real quick, because I want you to go on out and steal us a Suburban tonight. Then we'll burn some midnight oil and strip the parts off it. You can keep the motor and the trans... that'll be your share ... then we'll push the rest of it off a cliff. Now hurry it up, while I go out and jabber some more with that hick bozo. Man-oh-man, I'm gonna make enough off this one job to git me that bass boat. Hoooeee!"

***

What has Carl stepped into now? It appears that Friendly Fred is a crook of the first order. Things could get complicated. In fact, bet on it!

 

[superbuickguy]

Let's bring you up to speed. After hitting a coyote smack-dab in the middle of his grill, Carl was forced to get towed in to Winnemucca, Nevada for repairs on The Whale. As luck would have it, the first place he and Emma saw was Friendly Freds Auto Repair and Septic Tank Service.

Fred calculated what it would cost to repair The Whale, and strangely it was just exactly what it would cost him to buy that new bass boat he'd been looking at. Stranger still was that he took his assistant, Homer, off to one side and... well, you

can eves-drop: "I want you to run down to Lesters place and give him this money. Tell him it's a deposit on the boat. Then git your butt back here real quick, because I want you to go out and steal us a Suburban tonight. Then we'll burn some midnight oil and strip the parts off it. You can keep the motor and the trans... that'll be your share... then we'll push the rest of it off a cliff. Now hurry it up while I go out and jabber some more with that hick bozo. Man-oh-man, I'm gonna make enough off this one job to git me that bass boat. Hoooeee!"

***

Carl and Emma hopped in the pink Bronco, with Emma at the wheel. It only took them a few minutes to find a motel. Carl pointed with a stubby finger. "Pull in there. That looks like a good one."

Emma looked confused. "How can you tell, dear? They all look the same to me."

"Easy, woman. That sign over there says $17.95 per night for a double and then underneath it in small letters it says cable TV. That's all I need to know."

Emma peered up at the sign. "What a funny name for a motel. It's called Motel 5 and 7/8ths. I wonder why?"

Carl walked inside and rang the bell. An enormously fat woman waddled up to the counter. Carl almost did a double-take. She had a burning cigarette stuck in her right ear.

"You want a room, or what?"

Carl pointed and stammered. "Uhhh, that is... uhh... well... could I ask you why you got that cigarette in your ear, miss?"

She reached up, pulled the cigarette out and took a deep drag. "Thanks. I wondered where I had put that damn thing. And I thought the sound was goin' bad on the TV. Good thing you mentioned that. Might have caught my head on fire and ruined a perfectly good permanent. So, you love birds want the three hour rate? Or just the half hour quickie?"

Carl bristled. "Wait a minute, Cindarella. This here's my wife."

The fat woman leered. "Sure. And that pink Bronco out front belongs to the local scout troop, right? Anyway, it don't make no never mind to me. And you can just call me Peanuts. So what'll it be?"

Carl, amazingly, restrained his temper. "We'll be here for three or four days, maybe even a week, Peanuts."

Peanuts raised one puffy eye-lid. "Ooooh, what a stud!"

Carl sighed. "Look, Peanuts. Just give us a room key and keep the comments to yourself. Just one question. How come this place is named the Motel 5 and 7/8ths?"

Peanuts took another drag on her smoke. Carl noticed that the cigarette was a Virgina Slim. "Well, we didn't want to be accused of copying that big chain, ya know, Motel Six? So me and my sixth husband came up with this idea."

Five minutes later, Carl and Emma were in the room, unpacking. Carl flipped on the TV and thumbed through the channels. Two stations came in clear and there were four fuzzy ones. After fiddling with the controls, he grabbed the phone and buzzed the desk. "Hey, this here's room 108. I been runnin' through the channels on the TV and can't find any cable stations. Your sign says cable TV, right?"

Peanuts fired up another smoke. "Yep. You'll find a cable right on the back of the TV. It keeps the guests from stealing the damn things. Hey, what you want for $17.95 per night? The Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing you to sleep? Gimme a break. And try not to bother me again for a while. Bowling for Dollars is on and Zsa Zsa Gabor is trying to pick up a spare."

Click.

***

Carl and Emma eventually settled down to sleep, and while they sawed logs, Friendly Fred and Homer were mightily busy stripping a Suburban for body parts. They sipped on a 50/50 mixture of Yoo Hoo Chocolate Soda and Jack Daniels, and whistled while they worked. The bright red Suburban rapidly shed parts and the pile of goodies grew.

By two AM, they yanked the engine and trans and lowered it in the back of the clapped-out old VW van that Homer drove. After one last nightcap, the two clapped each other on their backs and then broke into wide, evil grins under their red-rimmed eyes. A nights work well done, they agreed.

***

During the next few days, Friendly Fred actually worked quite hard removing the old damaged parts and replacing them with the new parts. While he was doing this, Carl and Emma spent most of their time exploring the area. Because this area was true high desert, they had a chance to get up to some altitude.

About 20 miles from Winnemucca, they drove fairly high up on Sonoma Peak, and then hit the Getchell Mines later in the day. The next day, they headed west to the Sulphur area, then darted south to Lovelock. They had a nice picnic lunch at the Rye Patch Reservoir and got back to the Motel 5 and 7/8ths before midnight.

On the third day, they drove north through Paradise Valley, and found some neat back roads that led them into the Southern edge of the Humboldt National Forest. A drive up Granite Peak capped the day.

***

By the end of the week, Friendly Fred had the front end of The Whale rebuilt. Carl had been calling the shop regularly and had stopped in a few times to check on the progress. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Fred gave Carl a phone call and told him to stop by with the balance due, as the Suburban was ready.

Boy, The Whale sure looked strange with the bright red front fenders and hood on the front of the silver gray body of The Whale. Carl scratched his chin. "How come you got red fenders and such? I thought the factory sent all the body parts out primer colored? "

Fred wiped his runny nose on a greasy shop towel. "Pal, you're lucky I was able to get these here parts at all. When I asked 'em for gray or primer, they just laughed at me and said 'take it or leave it', so I took it. Just to get you on the road quicker, like you wanted. Hells fire, I barely made enough off this job to pay for the electric bill. Anyways, you're gonna get the whole thing painted, so what's it matter? Right?"

Carl shrugged. "Yeah. Guess you're right. Well, here's the balance. Hope you take cash. I had to get this wired in to me. You got a receipt for me?"

Fred snuffled and wiped his nose once again. "Well now, why don't we just forget about the receipt and I'll forget about the taxes. No sense paying Uncle Sam if we don't have to, right?"

Emma spoke up. "Shouldn't we pay extra Carl, and get a receipt?"

Carl gave her a stern look. "What are you talking about woman? Why should I pay the government anything? I'm already out a bundle. Nope. Me and ole Friendly Fred here will just shake hands and call it a done deal. Now let's load up and git on down the road. I think I've seen enough of Winnemucca to last me for a good while."

Within the hour, Carl and Emma were heading north on Highway 95 with The Whale in the lead, followed by Emma in her pink Bronco. They chatted on the radios and talked about which route they should take to Canada, then settled down to getting some miles under their belts before the day got too far gone.

The peace and tranquility of the pleasant drive was shattered by the sound of wailing sirens. A peek in the rear view mirror of The Whale showed a big string of police cars with red lights flashing right behind them.

Carl quickly pulled over to the shoulder to let them by. After all, it was never right to slow the authorities down when they were after lawbreakers. He rolled the window down and waved the police cars by, and was more than startled when he saw a police car pull up along side and the officer on the passenger side pointed a double-barreled shotgun right at him. "Pull over, fat boy, or I'll fill you full of bird shot!"

One minute later, Carl was face down on the ground with his hands cuffed behind him. Carl was furious. "What in plu-perfect hell is goin' on? I wasn't even speeding!"

Carl heard many footsteps and saw a whole bunch of shiny boots surrounding him. Then the cop with the shotgun spoke: "We got him, sheriff. We got the thief who stole your Suburban. Got him cold."

Carl craned his neck around. "What are you boneheads talking about? This here is my Suburban!!!" The big sheriff squatted down and gave Carl a cold, hard look. "Is that so? Well then, maybe you'd like to try explaining to me how you got my red fenders and hood on YOUR Suburban?"

Carl started babbling about hitting the coyote and getting his rig fixed in Winnemucca and so on, and the cops exchanged glances. The big sheriff thought for a moment. "Hmmm. Well, you got a receipt then?"

Emma let out a mournful wail. "Carl! We don't have a receipt! Remember how you told that man how it was OK to cheat the government out of taxes? Ohhhh noooo!"

The sheriff grunted. Take 'em in boys. And take the floozie with the pink Bronco, too. She might be an accessory after the fact."

***

Holy smokes! No receipt? Stolen parts? What's going to happen to The Wanderers?

 

[superbuickguy]

Let's update you: Forced to stay in Winnemucca, Nevada while The Whale was getting major front end damage repair work, Carl and Emma spent the time exploring the desert and mountain trails in Emma's Bronco.

Meanwhile, Friendly Fred (of Friendly Fred's Auto Repair and Septic Tank Service) and his assistant, Homer, were busy stealing a Suburban and cannibalizing the parts. When they got done, the finished job looked a bit odd, with red fenders and hood on the silver-gray body of The Whale. Carl got talked into paying no taxes on the job if he didn't ask for a receipt, then they loaded up The Whale and headed - finally - out of town, due North.

Their drive was interrupted by the sound of a siren and red lights flashing. A moment later, Carl was startled when a cop car pulled up next to him and the officer pointed a double-barreled shotgun right at him. Moments later, Carl was face down on the ground, hand-cuffed... and madder than a road-killed skunk.

Carl heard footsteps and saw a whole bunch of shiny boots surrounding him. The then cop who had pointed the shotgun spoke: "We got him, sheriff. We got the thief who stole your Suburban. Got him cold!"

In spite of protests and a string of curses that would curdle milk, nobody seemed to believe Carl. The big sheriff squatted down and gave Carl a hard look. "Would you like to try explaining to me how you got my red fenders and hood on your gray Suburban?"

Carl squirmed around, trying to keep his lips out of the dirt and howled his story at the top of his lungs. But when the sheriff asked Carl if he had a receipt, he just groaned.

***

Within the hour, both Emma and Carl were behind bars. Carl was furious and you could almost see smoke come out of his ears. It didn't help any that Emma was bawling like a baby peeling onions, and every once in a while, would bang a tin cup on the steel bars, and yell, "Lemme out of this joint, ya rats!"

Carl sighed. "Emma, sit down. You're making my head hurt. It's bad enough we're in a county jail in the backwoods of Nevada, but I shouldn't have to listen to you sound like an old "B" movie. Next thing, I expect you'll whip a harmonica out and start playing 'Nobody Knows The Trouble I've Seen", and singing in a baritone voice. Just sit down in the corner and whimper to yourself for a while. I gotta do some quick thinkin'. And I'm not gonna rest until I figure how to get us out of here!"

***

Sometime later, a trusty opened the cell and let an officer in. "That's the one you want, Deputy. The fat guy sleeping in the corner. And that's his girlfriend. She's the one who was driving the pink Bronco. Some of the guys think she might be one of those ladies of the night from that brothel down in the next county."

The Deputy gave Carl a nudge with his shiny boot. "Let's go butter-ball. The sheriff wants to talk with you and your floozie, and if I was you, I'd play it straight. Sheriff Hooter is tough. Tough but fair."

Moments later, Carl and Emma were seated in front of Sheriff Hooter. He propped his big cowboy boots up on his desk and gave a cold smile. "See this? I got my boots on this shiny new desk. Nobody else is allowed to do this but me. That means that I am the law here. Got that?"

Both Carl and Emma nodded. This guy was serious!

"Now that we got that all straight, let's get down to brass tacks. First off, I don't think you stole my Suburban. Nobody would be dumb enough to steal a bright red Suburban and stick the parts on another rig without painting 'em over. We know that somebody around here has been stealing cars and trucks for some time, but we don't have any proof. We figure it's one of three or four people, but we've never been able to get 'em in the act.

"So here's the deal. You help us pin this guy, and you are off the hook. If you choose not to cooperate, well, we got us some prisons out here in the desert where it gets up to 135 degrees in the shade, only there is no shade. What'll it be?"

Carl scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, Dirty Harry. It looks like you got yourself an undercover agent. How do we work this?" Sheriff Hooter smiled; this time a genuine smile. "Now that's what I like to hear! First off, you fill me in on how you got into this fix. Then I'll take it from there."

Carl explained everything, from the adventures in Las Vegas, to splattering a coyote all over his grill, to stopping in at Friendly Freds Auto Repair and Septic Tank Service, to roaming around the countryside while Fred repaired The Whale, to seeing the completed Whale with red body parts, to trying to save a few bucks by doing a cash-only/no receipt deal.

Sheriff Hooter let out with a positively evil grin. "Aha! I figured it was him, or that dumb-butt airhead who works for him. Lester something-or-other. A regular slack-jawed, mouth-breather with the IQ of bird-seed. He strikes me as the kind of a person who'll do anything for a buck. This might just be our key to nailing Friendly Fred. Before we work out a plan, is there anything you can think of that might help? Anything strange or new happening out at Friendly Freds?"

Carl thought real hard for a moment, then spit a small wad of tobacco juice directly into the center of the office trash can, which was a good 18 feet away.

Sheriff Hooter was visibly impressed. "Wow! Good shooting! I'm only accurate up to about ten feet. How'd you get that good?"

Carl beamed. "Hellsfire, Hooter. I was a Chief Petty Officer in the Navy for almost 30 years. Ain't no way you can smoke while on most duty, so you learn how to chew. And if you learn how to chew, you damn well learn how to spit. Especially if you're on a carrier and you have to spit into the wind."

Sheriff Hooter jumped up and stuck out a big hand. "Navy? Chief Petty Officer? Damn, Carl. I'm afraid I under-estimated you. I was a Gunners Mate myself. Did 20 years before I retired. Those were some great days. If I had known you were a man of the sea, I certainly would have treated you with a great deal more respect. Please accept my apologies. Listen, when we get this all over and done with, I'd like to make this up to you. Do you ever do any off-roading?"

Carl chuckled. "Off-roading is my middle name. I had a subscription to Off-Road Magazine that dates back to about the time that Atilla the Hun hit puberty. And my Suburban is set-up for some serious off-roading. I got three Rancho RS 7000s per wheel, the best BFG tires money can buy, enough travel to drive over a Volkswagen without scraping the paint job and a motor that puts out more power at idle than most of them foreign trucks do at red line. And you ask me if I'm an off-roader? "

Hooter shook his head from side to side. "Carl, my humblest apologies. I guess I read you wrong. The only thing I can't figure out is how you got tied up with one of those madams from the brothels driving a pink Bronco?"

Emma jumped out of her chair and knocked Sheriff Hooter's boots off the desk with back-handed swipe. "Listen, Buster! You better watch your mouth. You are dealing with a girl from Ohio who went to Sunday school and had only two boy friends and one husband, and he was one of those boyfriends. My name is Emma and you will treat me with respect, or I will pull those expensive boots off and shove them where the sun does not shine. Is that clear?"

Sheriff Hooter let out a low whistle. "Ma'm, I had no idea you were a lady of such quality. The pink Bronco threw me."

Emma bristled. "And what exactly, sir, is wrong with a pink Bronco. It sure beats the hell out of a gray Suburban with red fenders and hood."

Sheriff Hooter looked at Carl. Carl looked at Sheriff Hooter. She had a point there.

Carl put an arm around Emma. "This here is a quality broad."

Emma furrowed her brow, not quite knowing how to take the warped compliment. "Thank you. I think."

Sheriff Hooter leaned forward. "Emma - might I call you by your first name? - I think you just might be the key to this whole case. You seem to be a sharp lady, and if I could ask for your assistance, perhaps we can bring this criminal to justice."

Emma fluttered her eyelids, flattered with such attention. "Why, of course! How can I help?"

***

Emma drove The Whale into Friendly Freds place and walked into the office. Fred looked up from his copy of Popular Mufflers and squinted. "Ain't you the woman who was drivin' the pink Bronco a few days ago with that guy with the huge Suburban?"

Emma played coy. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I might have a deal for you. You recognize this machine?"

Fred nodded. "Yup. Put the metal on myself. So what?"

Emma emitted an evil grin. "Well, the owner of this here rig is now being digested by coyotes, I guess, and I'd like to make a few bucks off of it."

Fred laid down the magazine. "You got a title for it?"

Emma looked at the ceiling. "Ahhh, no. Not exactly. But I'd like to get some decent bucks out of this here deal. What's this rig worth?"

Fred flipped through a Blue Book and sighed. "Well, Normal retail is about $7500."

Emma displayed wide eyes. "These things cost almost $30,000, fully loaded. And this one is loaded more than normal. And it's only a few years old. $7500 seems like a low price!"

Fred shook his head from side to side. "Whoa, now, little lady. I didn't say I could pay $7500. It might be worth a bit more than that on a lot, that's arguable. But we're talking about a relatively 'warm' machine that will more than likely have to be stripped down and sold for parts. You think it's easy gettin' rid of a rig? Hell, we had to drag the last Suburban we got about four miles out in the desert and drop it into a canyon. That's a lot of work! I can give you $2500 cash for this here unit. Take it or leave it."

Emma smiled. "You got a deal, big boy. By the way, could you say that again, a little bit louder, right into my purse."

At this point, Fred became suspicious, and whipped out a gun. "Maybe you ought to open that purse up right here in the parts washer. What's this? A tape recorder? Little lady, you are in a heap of trouble!"

A loud crash ripped through the building, as Carl and Sheriff Hooter kicked the front door down. Which was not really needed, as it was not locked. But it sure was an impressive entrance. Sheriff Hooter whipped out a gun the size of a fire extinguisher and pointed it at Friendly Fred. "Drop it, scumbag!"

Fred, who was also holding a Yoo Hoo Chocolate Soda, dropped it on his shoe. A brown stain spread over the floor. "I surrender!"

***

Sheriff Hooter had a happy look on his face. "Well, thanks to you folks... and especially Emma...we broke the stolen car and truck ring . Say, do you folks want to hang around here with my and my Missus for a few days and do some good, old-fashioned off-road gold prospecting?"

Emma let out a squeal. "Oooooh! Let's go for the gold, Carl!"

***

Next month: Searching for the Mother Lode.

 

[campfire]

So...What happens next, @superbuickguy?

 

[superbuickguy]

this has been happening


I'll get back on the 'burb and the story eventually - but since it's not CK5 related, I never think to post anything here. sorry

 

[max 02]

We all like vette updates too...