The Monster I was in started out life as a 1949 Mercury Eight Coupe. Two doors, hardtop, stretched nose, frenched lights, blower out the hood and insulated turbocharger powered by exhaust. She ran rich, occasionally spouting out flaming bits of unburned fuel out of the pipes; she wasn’t dropped as the suspension clearance was needed for the streets that she took to. The Ford factory would never have believed what had been done to the old flathead V-8 that was the car’s heart and soul. Push button ignition and four-on-the-floor standard transmission was her mind. Whitewalls were her feet. A quarter-mile car, a highway star, none of this modern “drifting” crap, no overblown spoilers or body kits. She was steel, and steel was her strength.
I had no idea how I got into her, where I was, or what was going on outside from pain, suffering, and horror. I had to get away. I was being chased. For human company, I