The veins in his biceps bulged but he was only halfway through the set. Pump, pump, pump. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Switch the weight to the other hand. Repeat.
In the locker room, he strolled casually through the rows of lockers after a scalding shower, not even bothering to secure a towel around his waist. He saw how the other guys averted their eyes. He smiled. This was power.
Outside, he threw his Jeep Wrangler Rubicon into reverse and mashed the throttle without looking back. A screech of tires and a protesting keen of a car horn told him that he’s just cut somebody off, but he was already palming the wheel for the gym parking lot exit, left arm resting on the open window. Driving with two hands was for losers. So was looking back.
At the red light, he tapped his left foot impatiently while waiting for the green. When did this light become so long? Fuck it. He glanced both ways and proceeded anyway. What came next happened very quickly.
A Honda Civic (or some pansy shit import like that) T-boned the side of the Jeep, the impact crunching in the frame and tipping the car onto its side with a heartstopping crash. The five-pound jug of whey protein he kept in the passenger footwell soared through the cabin and smashed open against the ceiling, exploding its powdery insides everywhere.
Still strapped into the driver’s seat, he was covered in protein powder and mad. He tore through the seatbelt and tried the door. It wouldn’t budge. The crash had crushed it in. Fine. He kicked at it and sent it flying clean off its hinges and landing some 20 feet away. He climbed out and stalked, flat-footed, over to the Honda, whose front was all crushed in.
Ripping the driver’s side door off, he looked down upon the cowering, middle-aged man inside, glasses knocked askew from the deployed airbag.
“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?” he screamed, showing the man with spit.
“I... I had the light...” came the stammering answer.
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO MY FUCKING JEEP?”
“But... you ran the red...”
“THAT WAS A CUSTOM WRANGLER RUBICON. THAT BITCH WAS RIDING ON 40S. LIGHT BARS AND SHIT. WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?”
“SOLID AXLES, MORON. IT HAD SOLID AXLES. HAVE SOME GODDAMN RESPECT.”
He stuffed the door back in place with a crunch of metal and went back to the tipped Jeep. Unintelligible swears, muttered at a volume only he could hear, streamed from his lips as he locked his fingers under the fallen Jeep’s frame. Bending his knees and keeping his back straight, he took a deep breath and stood slowly with the weight.
The Jeep rolled upright gradually. He shifted his hands along the Jeep’s sides and steadied it as it came to rest again on all four of its massive tires. Reaching carefully into one of the shattered windows, he retrieved his gym bag. He knew the truck was totaled. And even if it was still technically driveable, it just wasn’t the same anymore.
He pushed it to the curb and left if there, ignoring the Honda driver’s meek calls to see his insurance information.
Back at home, after fixing himself a dinner of chicken breasts ground up into a Musle Milk smoothie with an added splash of Jim Beam (for gainz), he powered on his laptop and fired up the Internet, ACDC’s “TNT” blasting from the stereo.
He mouthed the words as he read them (he was never good at reading silently), “... you don’t got the balls...”
He picked up the phone.
Do you have the cojones to drive this legend? I doubt it. This noble beast was raised on cigarette butts, Jim Beam and ACDC. Strong 7.3L Powerstroke Diesel will ease the panties off the most hardened lassies. Yes, it takes guts to haul ass down the Taconic in this, so why don’t you get yourself a fixed gear bike or something.
Motor: Strong 7.3 L V-8 Diesel- Hooah.
Supercab- big back seat for easy living- a home away from home, or simply- a home.
4WD- xfer case is strong and functional- it’ll climb a tree.
Auto trans with OD- works good, could use a little fluid maybe.
Brakes- stops fast.
Back tires are new. Steel rims and tall skinny tires- the way it should be. None of that flash sissy alu-wheels and baloony tires.
Trailer receiver and hitch included.
Dual batteries- one’s new.
A radio that actually works.
Heat that actually works.
Windshield wiper, lights, blower, etc that actually work.
Frame is solid and straight.
AC belt cut off a long time ago- AC’s for sissies.
Front tires are shot. The guy who did the lift (before me) failed to install the proper length tie rod, so the front tires are toed in and worn out. It’ll need new front tires to pass inspection, and you might as well do the tie rod while you’re at it.
There’s nothing ugly about this truck- she’s a raw beauty. However, I’m throwing in an extra driver’s side door with a manual crank window (so you don’t have to deal with that Nancy-boy electric window). I haven’t gotten around to taking that pansy chrome bullbar off- it’s probably worth a couple hundred to the right idiot. There’s the requisite spot rot, rust and patina befitting an all-season no-questions-asked runner like this.
Make no mistake- this a mans’ man’s truck. If you’re a woman, it’ll put hair on your chest. If you want that, then by all means come get it. It doesn’t have blootooth, or rear radar, or a safe space. It is not refined, nor subtle. This truck is 200 inches and 200 HP of pure brutish charm.
If you still want it, contact me for a private viewing. It’s a cash OBO type of thing, but any moronic questions and I’ll add 500 bucks. The right kind of appreciation and cash in hand for this vintage war horse, and I’ll throw in the aluminum canoe. Gitsum.
(h/t to Ian!)