Free Blood and Bullets by James R. Tuck Page B

there were, it damn sure wouldn’t go to the suburbs. So we drive. Parking is plentiful, the streets are wide, and we love our cars.
    I have a few vehicles, but I mostly drive the Comet. I love this car. It was built back when cars were meant to go fast and last a long time. It’s older than I am. A ’66 Mercury Comet, it’s two tons of metal. Long in the hood and with a wide set of doors, it looks vaguely like a shark, menacing and sinister.
    The engine is a 351 Windsor, which is car talk for eight cylinders built for nothing but power and speed. Of course the car is painted black. The interior is from a Lincoln Continental, so it is plush and soft. You can ride in comfort for hours. I am a big guy, and I need a big car to ride for any length of time.
    I can drive anything, but the more comfortable I am, the better I do so. It gets jack for gas mileage, but I am okay with that. I don’t drive this car to save the environment. I drive it because I love it.
    You may not understand, but if you ever got behind the wheel of a car like this you would. It’s a hotrod. I love the sound of the motor as it roars to life. I love the rock of the car in idle because the motor is like a beast chained to a stake, waiting for the links to break so it can roar forth and wreak havoc. The rich smell of gasoline and oil that comes through as you drive, the scent of metal and leather inside the car, these bring me peace. There are no antilock brakes and very little power steering. When you brake, you brake all of a sudden. When you swing into a curve, you hold that car or it will get away from you. The Comet is the loudest, fastest, most dangerous car I have ever driven.
    And I love it.
    Larson and I were in the front seat. He was seat belted in and his knuckles were white as he held on to the door. I would bet it was the first time he had ever ridden in a muscle car that was being let loose to do what it was made for, which is eating highway miles. Highway 75 is a wide, sweeping stretch of asphalt. Up to sixteen lanes on each side and smooth as silk. The Comet was wound up in her high-range and we were cruising down the road just a peg over a hundred miles an hour.
    My finger pushed buttons on the face of the MP3 player mounted on the dash of the car. I love digital technology, so the Comet’s stereo was compatible with my player. Using MP3’s gives me the range of music I listen to in an easy, portable form. It took a second, but I finally found what I wanted. One last push of a button sent music flooding over the noise of the motor.
    An electric organ started off with a light blues boogie run. It danced lightly above the sound of the engine. After a few seconds, a slap bass, guitar, and drummer kicked in, driving the organ into a blues funk corner. That’s when she started singing, whiskey-tinged gospel voice cutting in, carrying with it the promise of everything that is woman. Larson’s eyes got wide and he leaned over to me.
    â€œWho is that ?”
    I smiled. “Susan Tedeschi.” My fingers rested on the volume knob. “Sit back, shut up, and learn something.” Turning the knob pushed the music through the speakers, filling the inside of the car with the blues.
    Susan Tedeschi sang about having evidence that her man was a two-timing dog. Her voice was proof enough for me. Nobody else can touch her, the only one better was Koko Taylor. If some people consider Diana Ross a torch singer, then Susan Tedeschi is slinging napalm.
    From there the music shifted to the blues rock of the Allman Brothers Band and their “Whipping Post” all about a man done wrong who isn’t putting up with it anymore. Son Seals sang out how he just wanted to go home, his guitar driving the point in front of his smooth vocals. By the end of that we were turning off the highway onto North Avenue and we were right around the corner from Helletog.
    Pulling to a stop at the end of the off ramp, the road in