If your Ford had a Matthew McConaughey, it would be a Lincoln

Hands, Free

As you may already know, I worked with a brilliant inventor for many years, and I once slaughtered his sentient self-healing tires in an unthinking orgy of burnout bloodshed. But there’s another story about him, and I feel like it’s prudent to share it at this time, before this preliminary hearing ends. Please ignore the woman to my left, she is not my counsel and does not represent me.

I got a phone call late one crisp August night. I had been out in some exciting rural roads, driving at the speed limit, adjusting coilovers for an upcoming totally legal road rally for charity. It was my friend, Tim, and he had gotten over me murdering the entire set of his prototype tires a few weeks previous. He wanted me to come by, take a look at what he had cooked up. I drove over there at a responsible speed and absolutely did not force a lane-wandering Acura MDX into a guard rail where it flipped six times before exploding into a totally awesome fireball.

Tim was waiting for me, and had a bundle of wires and a handful of circuit boards. He offered to install it into the car, and quickly got to work upon giving him my assent. It’s not like I was going to do electrical, fuck that shit. Anyway, he was done a few hours later, and we set out onto the open road.

I was curious what he had done, but Tim stayed tight lipped, and I could sense perhaps the anticipation of his sweet revenge. I steeled myself for whatever he had prepared; in high school he had set the entire football field on fire with thermite in the underground sprinkler system, and I knew he had only gotten better at not getting caught now.

Suddenly, I was cut off by a Dodge Durango. I raised my voice, spinning up a variety of ancient profanity that had been passed into my genes by my no-doubt-proud ancestors. It was then that it happened.


My big-body hot-rod Lincoln responded to my cabin yells, raising its hackles and blaring the multi-tone air horn without having to touch the button. The Durango dove for the shoulder, imagining an oncoming train, and I was able to keep both hands on the wheel for the overtake. Pure genius. This would save lives, I told Tim, who looked back at me with mild horror.

“This is supposed to reduce road rage,” he wailed as I proceeded to Irish up the rest of my drive, honking Aveos, Lacettis and Sonics into the ditch as I sped through the highway at an entirely reasonable and legal speed. “You’re supposed to feel bad about how angry you are.”


I looked at him then, and shot him a predatory grin that made him jump in his seat and reflexively place one hand on the door release. We were just getting started.

And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I would like to conclude my introductory statements by telling you all about a little thing I like to call admiralty court.

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