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

McDouble (An Oppositelock Thanksgiving Tradition)

As millions of domestic types across the country were beginning to put their turkeys in the oven and preparing for the big day ahead, I sat at the stoplight on Central Park West revving the S85 to redline. I did so for about five minutes, contemplating the questionable decision I was about to make. The spooling and hissing of the rev-happy V10’s two obscenely large turbos soothed my nerves. In the likely event that I would incur the wrath of New York’s finest, the M Coupé would do just fine.

I felt slightly ridiculous with the face paint and the yellow and red boiler suit, but those would all be done away with in due time. Sure, the hideous red wig was rather itchy on my scalp, but it was all just part of the role. The role that had been stolen from me. The exterior of the car was festooned in a similarly garish manner, with a splitter and canards up front and a picnic table-sized wing in the rear. It was all done up in a childish red and yellow paint scheme, and it was riding on staggered BBS wheels and Michelin Pilot Sport Cup 2s. The intakes for the individual throttle bodies were cleverly hidden in the sculpted fiberglass “laces” on the hood. Finally, I set off, the smoke from the howling Y-compounds obscuring the golden wheel arches.

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Hurtling towards Columbus Circle, I darted between Santa and Tom Turkey, Scandinavian flicked the little coupe into two full revolutions around the statue of the great explorer, and wrangled the car onto West 59th. I narrowly missed flattening the ground crew of the Paddington Bear float, but no matter. I dodged the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles float and drifted flamboyantly onto 6th Avenue, drowning out Brendan Urie’s lip-syncing in a cacophony of screeching rubber and shrieking V10.

As I neared Radio City Music Hall, I spotted him. My vision became tinged with red as I channeled my hate for my impostor into pure driving skill. I weaved carefully between the neatly organized rows of acne-ridden dweebs that comprised the North Hardin High School’s formidable marching band, the color guard proclaiming my arrival with well-timed twirls of their flags. Not that it was a very difficult thing to do, but I was gaining on him. As I flew past Rockefeller Plaza, my doppelgänger turned in his seat and gave me a smug, self-assured smile that promptly turned to a look of pure, unadultered terror as I revved the S85 to 8300 rpm. He was frantically attempting to make the float go faster, but it was no use.

As rounded the corner onto West 34th, I weaved through the Spirit of America cheer squad and pulled alongside a red car not unlike my own. I put on the cruise control, locked out the steering, reached through the passenger window, and heaved the impostor off his float and into the car. I promptly accelerated to 80 and then slammed on the brakes, achieving the desired double impact of the unsecured clown’s head on the polystyrene of the headrest, then immediately on the hard carbon fiber dash. He was out cold. I quickly secured him in the six-point racing harness, re-engaged the steering, and set off towards Upper Manhattan. No doubt at least one of the screaming parade viewers had called the fuzz as I roared away. The mounties didn’t stand a chance against nearly a thousand horsepower, but I still needed to get the heck out of there.

I reviewed the plan in my head. 1st Avenue could get me to the 87, which could get me to 95, which in turn could get me on I-80 all the way to Elyria, Ohio; then it would turn into I-90, which would take me all the way back to Toledo. From there, a short trip up 75 would take me all the way to Detroit, where it would all come to an end. The phony Ronald could end up, well, pretty much anywhere. It was Detroit, after all. To be honest, I didn’t really care. I was the real Ronald McDonald and that was all that mattered. He could be fried and end up as chicken nuggets, for all I cared. However, as I roared down 1st towards Yankee Stadium, I realized Ronald and I had a more immediate problem.

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I just hoped I wasn’t too late. The Willis Avenue bridge was slowly raising. If I used a shot of nitrous now, I’d have a shot at clearing the gap. I flipped open the sesame seed bun cover on the Big Mac shift knob and gave the old BMW a healthy dose of secret sauce. I closed my eyes as we hurtled through the air. The M Coupe handled the impact surprisingly well for a lowered sports coupe. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of the phony Ronald. The impact had stirred him from his unconscious state, as well as voided his bladder. No matter, though; I had made it. Something seemed off about the whole thing. Why weren’t there any cars on the other side or going into the tunnel? As I glanced across the freeway, I noticed a lone car with flashing blue lights and an NYPD Speed Enforcement livery about 50 yards in front of me. I squinted closer to see exactly what it was.

No. It couldn’t be. They were retired! They said they retired them! I was in disbelief more than anything as I gaped at the P71. I began to worry only when the engine cranked up and I recognized the unmistakable growl of a 5.2 liter Voodoo engine. Then came the whine of two superchargers. It was at that moment I realized that no amount of free McFlurry coupons could get me out of this one. All I could do now was hope for the best. I spun the tires and pointed the M Coupe towards 87.

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Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

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