The minute I clicked on this one and saw someone had stuffed a GM engine into a ’62 Ferrari GTE 2+2, I knew it was going to be more controversial than vaccine mandates.
I’ve seen it all before.
Back when Jim Bob happened to be at the Austin Auto Auction in hopes of scoring a reasonable F-150, he ended up actually being the high bidder on a Bentley Continental Supersport that had been seized by the Texas Rangers as part of a sting operation involving a Columbian drug cartel, a prostitution ring, and ‘Save the Armadillos’ animal rights group.
Long story short, some hookers were paid by the STA to smuggle a dozen or so Armadillos out of the panhandle in the Bentley they had borrowed from some unscrupulous customers. The ‘dillos, hidden and hungry under the hood of the Bentley, chewed through the wiring that led from the twin-turbocharger to the rear heated seats. That started a fire under the bonnet that quickly destroyed the 700 HP W-12 power plant, so Jim Bob got the thing for a steal.
He towed it back to Fort Stockton with his ’65 Studebaker Wagonaire, only stopping in San Antonio to close the sliding roof of the wagon to keep the smell of burnt armadillo from wafting into the cabin. He got back to town after dark, so few people even were aware of the treasure he had returned with.
Folks did notice, however, the countless trips to Earl’s Auto Salvage & Formal Wear out south of town, and they knew Jim Bob wasn’t the type to need a tux. He spent countless nights and weekends in his shop, leaving only to return to the salvage yard, paint store on Main Street, and the Piggly Wiggly to restock on Pearl Beer and pork rinds.
‘Bout nine months later the door on his shop rolled up and the reimagined Supersport rolled out. Jim Bob had welded three 1.8 liter Pinto engines together to replace the W-12. He and his cousin Bobby Jim had stripped the body down to bare metal and repainted the Continental coupe in blue and orange livery as a tribute to the GT 40.
The purists over at the Rusty Hammer Hardware Store were aghast, but Rusty pointed out that the refurbished Bentley was certainly easier to get parts for now. “And,” he said, “let’s face it, the darn thing is a chick magnet. He’s dated nearly all the volleyball players at Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern High School.”
He’d probably still be driving the Bentley if Mrs. Tuttlebum hadn’t bumped into the back of it with her ’66 Imperial Southhampton Coupe at the red light in front of the Eggs & Ammo convenience store. Jim Bob had used a gas tank from one of the donor Pintos and the Bentley went up in flames faster than the cheap imported fireworks they sell on the Farm to Market Road to Marfa.
The purists chuckled when they found out Jim Bob had way under-insured his creation. But he had the last laugh when a couple guys from out of town paid him six figures for the wreck so they could have access to what was still hidden in the rocker panels.
Lots of lessons learned that day.
2 responses to “A BENTLEY PINTO-DILLO”
Long ago in the early morning light a tortoise and hare raced across West Texas. By mid-morning Bullet Bunny well out in the lead, rear-ended a lady opossum while cutting the apex of a curve. Vision blurred by impact and judgement impeded by ego, Speedy could make out familiar fur laying before him in a very come-hither pose. Accepting her unconscious offer of amorous intent he lived up to his stereotype quickly completing the deed. He slipped off in to the underbrush to uncross his eyes, uncurl his toes, and overall bask in his afterglow as well as his lead. Without a second thought, he left her to awaken later in a dazed and confused, but aroused and unfulfilled state.
After a late evening dining on fermented applies at the Pink Lady orchard, the lady opossum was wobbling back to her burrow as the sun was rising. Virginia was nearing home when Speedy Bullet entered her present from her blurry past. Now just getting her bearings, Painted Pat Turtle was approaching her at a confident pace, hard lines and edges in muted colors, a shining knight in the warm afternoon sun. Sorting out her senses Virginia knew she had been hit from behind, but strangely felt like once had not been nearly enough. As Pat attempted to climb over her to continue the race, she was inspired and reinvigorated. She latched on to his neck and squirmed such that Pat’s flailings carried him exactly where she directed. No longer getting traction, Pat worked even more frantically to win the race. Virginia lost completely in the moment could only hiss and growl through clenched teeth and claw at his faceted shell. Eventually Virginia’s active embracing achieved her desired result and her toothy grip on his neck loosened as she cooed softly drifting off to sleep, grinning.
We all know how the race ended; the turtle won, the rabbit lost. Three weeks later, culminating in a feat of marsupial superfetation, Virginia gave birth to a litter of armadillo pups.
PS. This story is at best a myth. There are no curves in West Texas; but that is one fine looking Pinto-dillo.
I’ll have some of what you’re having.