You shouldn’t have this car. Nobody should have this car. That’s obvious from what happens to people when they are exposed to it. On the freeway, fellow motorists tuck into your blind spot, watching from where they can’t be seen, all expression shocked right off their faces, powerless to do anything but stare. It’s the same slack-jawed gape you’d get walking down Fifth Avenue with Pia Zadora, were she all dressed up in about eight yards of Saran Wrap. You wouldn’t be the focus of attention by any means, but the straights would all be wondering what, exactly, kind of bad boy you are, anyway.
This is a bad boy’s car, and everybody knows it. When you surface from the depths of its cockpit and put two feet on the earth’s crust, folks with any sense back off a couple paces. They don’t know what you might pull next, but, as far as they’re concerned, just being seen at the wheel of such a thing is prima facie evidence that you’re a regular traveler beyond the borders of good judgment, good sense, and good taste. Nobody on a mission from God would arrive in such a conveyance. It’s too much: too low, too flat, too many slots and scoops, too much power in the engine, and too much rubber on the road. Wretched excess is what it is, and God would never commit such an affront—which leaves only one other guy, the big bad boy himself. So hide the women and the kids. There’s a Lamborghini Countach 5000S on the loose, looking for heads to turn… (more)