In Highland Park it was easier to make the short drive to Tully’s from the corporate offices than it was to drive all the way home, even though dinner was waiting.

Tully’s was a bar Chrysler executives had been going to for decades. A tradition, of sorts. Old school. Dark oak paneling surrounding cracked leather booths and bar stools. It smelled of Marlboroughs that had been smoked all the way down to the filter, spilled bourbon, and third place. Biff Tanner and Wink Wolsey made the trek to Tully’s more often than they made it home to their families in the late 60s.

“Can you believe what that bastard Iacocca has done?” Biff asked rhetorically. “Turned a Thunderbird into a Continental Mark III.”

Wink chuckled into his highball. “Same guy who turned a Falcon into a Mustang. How’s he keep pulling rabbits out of the hat?”

“The Mark III is a hit. The new Eldorado is opening up a whole new market for those staid sumbitches over at Cadillac,” Biff bemoaned. “We got nuthin’.”

“That’s what having a development budget does for you,” Wink said, signaling the bartender he was ready for another one.

Bringing another highball over, the bartender hung around, wiping off the bar and listening to the conversation. Before long he slung the towel over his shoulder and leaned over the bar. “Boys,” he said, “you gotta work with what you’ve got. You’re never gunna have the resources the Blue Oval and the General do. Doesn’t mean you can’t be creative.”

Biff and Wink looked up and didn’t know whether to be offended at the intrusion or intrigued by the suggestion.

“Take what you’ve got and make it something more sexy,” he said. “Some buttery leather on the inside and special paint on the outside can change something boring into something special.”

Biff and Wink glanced at each other. “Go on,” Biff nodded.

The bartender knew he’d hooked ‘em. “Take the best looking coupe you’ve already got. Paint it something outrageous. Put upholstery in it that’s softer than a mother’s love and something under the hood that will pin your ass into those leather seats when the pedal hits the metal. Beef up the suspension to match the output under the hood.”

A smile worked its way to Wink’s face while Biff looked for a napkin to jot some notes on.

The bartender went on, “Find somebody to partner with who’ll give the whole thing some serious cred. Make a big deal of their name, as well as yours.”

“I know a guy over at Hurst I could call,” Wink mused. Biff noted that on the napkin.

The bartender took a step back from the bar and glanced down proudly. “Add a Power Bulge to the hood. Chicks dig a Power Bulge.”

“Make it kind of a ‘Barracuda for the Boss’!” Wink said. “Don’t try to compete with the Mark IIIs and Eldorado’s. Make something expensive and unique for the executive who still wants to enjoy the driving experience. Genius!”

“If we partner with Hurst won’t we need to put a manual shifter in it?” Biff thought out loud.

“Now you’re overthinking it,” the bartender said. Let the spoiler on the back and the bulge on the hood speak for itself. The driver is going to need to keep that hand free for the secretary sitting next to him in the cockpit.”

Next day, calls were made. Agreements were forged. Only 500 lucky souls ever experienced the 300 Hurst Edition. It would have to do until Iacocca came over to Chrysler with more ideas than the bartender.