Everyone’s got their own bellwether of bad economic times coming. Mine was Mustang prices. Timing is everything. I think you’ll find that the market wasn’t the only thing I cornered.

When I dropped the five-hundred-dollar V6 SN95 Mustang off the back of my ramp truck, it sank into the concrete like an abused puppy. I knew that I had to work fast and hard to regain the trust that once occupied this sheet metal shell, and save its soul. I needed to do something very drastic. Whatever idiot bought the car from me after its rescue would understand.

Months pass, and I heralded the return of spring by opening the door on my underground compound’s workshop and bringing out a Mustang. But it was no ordinary Mustang. I had saved it from parts on hand. It now bore a thumping and howling 13B-REW twin turbocharged rotary engine and twin six inch dump pipes that made my vision quiver between upshifts. I imagined what my eye doctor and brain doctors would say, almost in unison, during my next court-mandated appointment, and dismissed it out of hand.

I pulled the garage door shut and climbed aboard to allow the Mustang out of the paddock, its immense rear tractor tires threatening to further compromise the sawzall’d aft fenders, a victim of emergency rust repair and fine whisky. The homemade carbon fiber fenders and hood rattled, ringing their atonal bell against what was left of the unibody.

When we arrived in the parking lot, I snapped off a series of furious donuts, hearing the deranged wail of the Wankel reach for the stars. Once it was inherently satisfied, I cut the throttle. I turned around to look at the car as I was leaving it, unable to take my eyes off either it or the burning embers slowly trickling out of the header-mounted exhaust cutoffs, onto the perfectly manicured industrial-strength lawn on each side of the one good parking stall in the lot.


In the office, my coworkers definitely perused the parked Mustang through the window, confused but not surprised about the massive external wastegate dump pipes sticking out of the fenders on each side. Some of them wanted to ask, I surely knew, walking past my desk trying not to make eye contact. They would see my cry for help, right?

Image: this guy. Keep being awesome!