Summer, 1996. Fort Collins Colorado. I got a soft spot for tailgaters, see? Too bad for the batos in that tricked out CRX, they didn’t know that. I was coasting, just a hair over the limit, where the cops ain’t got nothing but a bad attitude and a warning. Sure, they may sweat you but who cares, you could even mouth off a bit to ’em and get away with just a slap on the wrist.
Now, there were three lanes gathering dust when these turds in this canary yellow souped-up tin can started breathing down my neck. Naturally, I eased up to a crawl and now I’m pacing 32 in a 40 and this ain’t by accident. Believing themselves special, instead of blowing past me they pull alongside, flashing gang signs and fingers like they were goin’ outta style. What these lowlifes didn’t know was I’d sunk a measly two bills into this jalopy… plus they missed the oak I used as bumpers to keep it street legal.
So, figuring I’m looking at a undeserved beat-down at the first red light that stops us anyways, instead of tryin’ to read their greasy hand signals while I was behind the wheel I just muscled that steering wheel hard towards ’em, sent my rusted chariot crashin’ into their zippy little speed demon. Hear that sweet sound of oak kissin’ cheap metal? Ripped the fender clean off that yellow trickster, shredded rubber like confetti, and then I just glided away real slow and easy, draggin’ that fender like a trophy, wavin’ goodbye in the rear-view.