It was the end of summer last year in New Orleans. Me and my buddy J-POP are hangin out at the lakefront with a few drinks, passing time; the Galaxie is all dressed up with the top down. After a mild and eventless evening, we venture home to St. Bernard (a suburb next to the city) via I-510 when two sets of indigo headlights make their way right behind me. I hear a couple of fart pipe revs and the two cars pass on my left like their fumes don't stink. I asked J-POP if I should take 'em. He told me "You can't let them get away with that..." So I gassed her to about 70 and made my way next to lead car in the formation. I put the tranny in neutral, gave the 390 two good revs (WOOM-BLOW, WOOM-BLOW), dropped her into second, and mashed the accelerator as far down to the floor as it could go. If there's one thing I like about the Ford, it really does quite a dance from 70 to 120 (0-60 is a sad story). So the top's down, the speedometer is pushing 115, sand is flying off the floor, and I take a look in my rear view to see where I stand: I saw nothing! I slowed down a bit and looked back: nothing! The chumps backed off and took the first exit! Oh well, at least they got schooled in style. I can't wait to break down the Buick and send another kill story. Rice-burners are like flies around here... I like swatting flies.
