#Strange Engineering drag spools

[strangeengineering]

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[satans-codpiece]

8 with screamer pls

8) oops, we were just hiding in this closet, but then the close proximity get us too turned on not to fuck

(Implicitly TFP Starscream, post-Partners. Him sneaking around the Nemesis is so good for this.)

----

You thought you were dying; that someone's finally come to kill the High Command's pet human in an idiotic power play-

Until he was shushing you.

"What are you doing here?"

You hadn't seen him in weeks, months-- you still didn't see him as talons had curled together in a protective cup. Until your demand registered in his audials and each towering rod of metal sprung apart.

"ME???" He hisses, optics wide, lighting up the room in scarlet. All around you, his thin digits twitch with indignation. He holds you at chest height, but even here he makes you look up to see him. "What do you think I'm doing? I'm running on fumes out there and-" Starscream's head whips towards the door. All at once the red light that had been bathing you is gone, illuminating dark metal. It takes another several seconds before you hear what had drawn his attention. Footsteps- several in succession. A squad of Vehicons. Were they there for him? You turn back towards him and truly take in his appearance. As bright as his lights are in the pitch black room, they're dim- dim for how blinding they should be with him keyed up, ready to fight whatever came through the door. Worse, him looking away gives you the perfect view of the horrid scratch just below his right optic.

He holds you so close, so precariously folding his limbs to fit into the closet anyway- you stretch up onto your tip toes and reach for him. "Starscream..."

Your fingertips barely brush metal. His face snaps back towards you.

In an instant you can see it, plain as though he'd told you himself. He didn't come back for you-- not that you would have expected him to, he was hardly the most dedicated of them-- but now that he has you in his servos again... The apertures of his optics spin, watching you, betraying more than he would ever want to say. Outside, the footsteps recede.

"I was worried about you." You say, "I missed you." and it's true. When you reach for him again, he lets you touch, your tiny palm against his massive, cool cheek.

"Of course you did." Starscream says on instinct. But the waver of his optics, of his derma means there's something else. Starscream quiets as he struggles to say something with sincerity. Evidently, he doesn't quite get there. "I can't mass displace." It's not what he really means to say, replaces his first-line defense of sarcasm and self-aggrandizement with second-line allusion. It's enough to give you pause- "Have to be quick." and that's enough for you to push it aside.

You nod, instantly breathless. You don't know what quick means to him right now, so you skip the formalities and kick your pants off the edge of his servo. His optics darken at the sight of you adjusting, settling back against the quickly warming plates.

And when you part your legs for him- his engine hums, spooling up despite his attempts to suppress the sound- and his glossa spills from his intake. Slick, smooth metal joints trace up your thigh- and that's all the warm-up you get before he's sliding between your lips.

A gasp rips its way from your mouth- and you quickly cover it with your hand, sinking your teeth into your fingers just to keep quiet. From the heat in Starscream's gaze and the momentary flick of his wings, you think he'd wish you wouldn't- regardless of how tactically sound that impulse is.

He drags his glossa up nice and slow, lets his optics shutter, rerouting processing power to the chemical sensors on his glossa. It's been a quartex- no, two- since he last tasted you and your strange little organic lubricant. It's sweet and so strangely inert, his drained tanks aching for energy-dense fuel, not the delicious strings of proteins you leak so obligingly onto his glossa.

His faceplate is cool when he draws his servo even closer, your thighs pressing up to rough-worn metal. You sigh for the contact, squirm in his palm as his languid licks turn intentional, the tapered tip prodding at your entrance while the base rubs teasingly across your clit.

"Star," You sigh into your fist. He must hear it- because his engine gives a stuttering, half-aborted purr and his glossa pushes in.

With so little effort, he fills you- and your warmth, your softness, your taste surrounds him. This time, his engine's spooling goes unchecked, a deep rumble that rises in pitch- and yet does nothing to hide the distinctive shnk of his panel opening.

You wish you had the time, that he had the energy to fuck you properly. It's been so long, and as nice as his glossa feels pumping into you, squirming deliciously against your walls, it's not the same.

Around you, his talons twitch again- and now you watch his arm move and stroke himself with a pace that shuns the very concept of patience. Heat bursts from his vents, fans clicking ever higher in vain. It's been too long- too long without him, too long worrying. There's no room for the nice, slow reunion fuck you each deserved.

"Close," You gasp, but he already knows. He's felt how your soft, squishing walls keep trying to clamp down on his glossa, as though you could trap him inside that soft, wet little frame-

"Yes, yes," He purrs- voice rumbling unimpeded from his vox. Red light washes over your tiny body as he re-engages his optics, watches as you squirm in his servo-

And when you cry out, "Star!" body going rigid because of him- for him- Starscream's engine stutters, skips a cycle and he moans against your skin. His arm trembles, struggles to work himself through his own overload.

He leans away, his vents hot like desert air on your skin. The light of his optics has dimmed, lowered in the wake of his spent charge- but still coat your body in a garnet gleam, every inch of you painted red for him.

You rub your hand along his, feel the grooves between plates. "Do you have to go?" You murmur, staring up him.

"I'll be back." Starscream promises, stroking your body so carefully with one long, sharp talon. "I'll find you."

[glimmerglanger]

Whumptober 2020 - Day 26

Five days left! Five! Today’s is another shorter entry, written for:

No 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?

Wound Reveal | Ignoring an Injury | Internal Organ Injury

Post-ROTS fic. Gen. Injuries and fighting. Ahsoka considering all the things she learned during the war and applying them in a fight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ahsoka considered, the thought a passing fancy in the heat of battle, that she’d never thanked Master Obi-Wan enough for everything he’d taught her. It was just that, at the time, he’d always made it seem effortless, as though carving a few extra hours of bunk time out of his day to offer extra instruction hadn’t been any kind of consideration at all.

She flipped backwards, deflected a blaster bolt back towards the troopers crowded into the hall, and brought her other saber up into a guard. She wished, mind thrumming along while her body moved through muscle memory and the will of the Force, that she’d taken a click after their Jar’Kai training sessions to - to grip his shoulders and let him know that she appreciated it.

She’d always fought well enough with a lightsaber, but practicing Jar’Kai had felt like coming home. Anakin - and even thinking about him still hurt, deep inside her ribs - had been familiar enough with the forms, but….

But he’d learned them from Master Obi-Wan, and, when Ahsoka mentioned wanting to learn, he’d directed her to Master Obi-Wan said something about Obi-Wan having the patience for it, and--

“Move!” Ahsoka barked, darting into the middle of the hall, providing cover to the huddled group of rebels hiding in a tiny room off of the hall. She didn’t know, yet, how the safe house had been compromised. Likely the same way all the rest had been.

The Empire had a terrible ability to sniff them out, to locate them and hunt them to the ground. 

All of these people would have been dead, already, had Ahsoka and Rex not happened to stop, looking for intel and a place to sleep for maybe a single night. And the troopers were still flooding forward, stepping over the bodies of the fallen, an implacable press towards her.

They’d already killed half of the rebels, cut them down in a rain of blaster fire before Ahsoka could draw her sabers. Rex had gone down, in that initial rush, but he was still alive. Ahsoka could feel him, somewhere back in the complex. They hadn’t killed him.

Perhaps, she thought, hopeful, they’d mistaken him for a corpse, perhaps they’d leave him, perhaps he’d survive, even if the rest of them….

She shook the thoughts away, gritted her teeth, and shoved back with the Force towards all the troopers clogging the hall. She knocked the first few rows back, into the rest, buying a precious few seconds of peace. The rebels behind her took the opportunity to bolt, down the hall, towards their ships, such as they were.

And it was strange to think of them as rebels.

They were just people, really. Families. One Twi’lek man was carrying two children, one barely more than an infant and--and these people were trying to fight back against the entirety of the Empire, it was--

Madness.

They’d be killed, just like all the rest, if someone didn’t help them. If someone was not willing to stand between them and the onrushing army, impossible though the odds were. Master Obi-Wan had taught her that, too, though not in a training room.

He’d never said the words, not so baldly. She’d learned them by watching. The Jedi were supposed to be peace-keepers. Diplomats. But her old Masters - and they had both been her Masters, she thought she could freely admit that, now, after everything - had been warriors, too.

Perhaps first and foremost.

And she’d learned from them, learned the importance of standing in front of those who needed protection, of saying, with blade and blood: this far and no further. 

Ahsoka exhaled, hard, taking another step back and then stopping. The hall opened, behind her. Another step, and the troopers would be able to swarm past her on either side. They’d catch up with the rebels - the families - that had hidden in this place. They were faster than a bunch of civilians.

They’d catch up and there’d be a massacre, another one. Ahsoka drew in a breath, adjusted her stance, and spun her sabers into position, deflecting more bolts back, but there were so many. And she was, she considered, already hurt.

Rex had taken a hit, in the first attack. He hadn’t been the only one. 

Ahsoka’s right leg shook, just a little, as the shots echoed all around her. She deflected as many as she could back, into the mass of armor and men across from her. She could feel it, when the troopers died. She’d always been able to feel it, even during the war.

It felt different, after the war. After...everything. The little flashes of relief she felt, each time one of them died, reached inside her and shredded at her heart. They felt at peace, for just an instant, before they flickered away, forever, and--

And another shot made it through her guard, hit her shoulder and spun her, almost throwing her against the wall. She pulled on the Force to remain stable, jerking her sabers back up into a guard, shoving the pain to one side, where she could process it later.

She’d learned how to do that from Master Obi-Wan, too. 

Learned it first by blundering into the infirmary after a miserable battle, one that had slogged on and on, one that had ended with Master Obi-Wan talking to his men, smiling, offering words of encouragement, no signs of distress on his features at all. And then she’d come down to the infirmary, looking for some bacta for Master Anakin and--

And Master Obi-Wan had been sitting on a medical bed, his robes off, one of the medics grumbling as he tended what looked like a blaster injury.

He’d looked over, before Ahsoka could duck out again, and said, “Ah, Ahsoka. Are you alright?” He’d frowned, she recalled. In so many of her memories, he was frowning. It was strange. He’d always seemed to be smiling, at the time. “I didn’t think you’d been hurt.”

“I didn’t think you’d been hurt, either,” she’d said back, because he hadn’t seemed hurt, during or after the fight. He’d opened his mouth, but the medic had interrupted.

“That’s because the General thinks he gets to decide when he’s hurt,” Bones said, with a roll of his eyes, and Master Obi-Wan had smiled then.

He’d said, “I certainly do not. Sometimes, it simply helps no one to dwell on an injury.” And he’d looked at Ahsoka, something unreadable in his expression, and added, “We do what we must.”

Ahsoka dragged in another breath, setting aside pain and hurt and the tremble in her right leg, trying to give from the shot she’d taken to the hip. At the time, she hadn’t understood what Master Obi-Wan meant. And then her world had, in a very real way, ended, except she’d been left to keep going, to find a way to continue onward and--

And mostly it involved doing what she must. Sometimes, it simply helped no one to dwell on an injury.

She shoved aside the pain, deflected bolts, bought the families behind her time to get away, to survive, one more day. The pain didn’t hurt so much, as long as she was moving. As long as she remembered why she was fighting, as long as she could feel Rex, alive.

If she kept the other troopers busy for long enough, maybe he’d recover enough to get out. That would be something. Something worth standing in this hall, the walls all scoured with re-directed blaster bolts. Something worth ignoring the blisters of pain.

And so she did not make a break for it, did not allow them past, even as the air filled with smoke and she heard the engines of the ships outside spooling up, even as the troopers steadily gained ground, scrambling over the dead, a sheer mass of them that would roll over her, without regard or regret or--

The explosion knocked her sideways into the wall and she grunted at the impact, sagging there for a moment, shoulder against concrete, breathing hard.

Dust swirled around her, clogging the air, but, on the plus side, the blasters had stopped. Mostly, she presumed, because the majority of the hall had come down on the troopers. She could see a few pieces of armor, here and there. And her chest ached, because she’d fought beside these men, once. 

Once, she would have thrown herself forward, hands outstretched, to dig them out desperately.

She leaned against the wall, lowering her sabers, and breathed unsteadily through the ringing in her ears and all the sharp aches across her body. She only straightened when she heard footsteps, felt Rex, getting closer, because it wouldn’t do to worry him.

She’d deal with the injuries later.

She could sense other troopers, closing on them, quickly.

She exhaled, turned to face Rex, expression etched with concern, and smiled. They’d do what they must.

[automarketking]

1955 Chevrolet 3100 (Tulsa, OK) $59,900 obo

Big back glass, currently running & driving with 350/Turbo 350 trans. Also includes, new Art Morrison complete chassis with the following: Drag-race 4-link type suspension with polished, stainless 4-bars, fabricated 9-inch rear end housing. Strange polished aluminum center section with spool and 4:11 gears. Strange 40 spline axels. Polished stainless tubular control arms. Coil overs. Detroit Speed rack & pinion. Wilwood 4 corner Dynalite brakes. Mark Williams chrome moly drive shaft. Weld R/T Woodward Wheels – 15x6, 15x10. Mickey Thompson tires. Rossler Turbo 400 Trans, manual valve body with trans brake. Reid bell housing and transmission case, rated to withstand 4000 hp. Engine: 383 small block, Dart Sportsman block, Airflow Research heads, Lunati Signature Series rotating assembly, Mahle forged pistons, Comp Cams mechanical roller cam & lifters, Weiand ceramic coated tunnel ram intake, Quick Fuel 650 double-pump carbs, MSD Pro Billet distributor, Billet Specialties complete front runner set-up with power steering and A/C compressor, engine dyno tested to 588 hp. New PRC polished core support with radiator and A/C condenser & fans. All parts brand new, no expense spared, too much to list.

Please call our friend Greg at 918-625-8861 or Mark 918-346-9159

[activatingaggro]

INKTOBER - 18 - EXPOSED

CALICO KUANFU | 9.23 SWEEPS / 20 YEARS OLD

RICKSHAW CC-R, EAST ALTERNIAN SEA | 2,937 WORDS

CW: body horror, helms

If you're perfectly honest, you put up a good face of things, but you don't actually care that much about the other Rickshaws.

You love your community. There's nothing that you wouldn't do for II-J, and you know every face on it, even if you don't know their names. They're your people, and you're their leader. It's a role that you were hatched for, one that you were made for, and you could never be anything less than in love with the position, because it's carved into your very skin.

But the other Rickshaws are not yours. This has always been your greatest flaw, and your guiltiest secret, but that's just the fact of the matter. All you can do is try to work around it.. and when you get an opportunity, try to do your best despite it.

Case in point: you're on CC-R tonight, here to figure out why their engines keep sputtering, and, in the name of honesty, you kind of want to burn the entire place to the ground.

Everyone here speaks - well, literally every fucking language, pretty much. There were teals chattering away in Eastern at the bistro. There's been hands flashing in seadweller sign everywhere, constant little flits of movements to compound each spoken word. There's people speaking the imperial mainlander's tripe everywhere you turn, others slinging around some northern coastal variant, and constantly, constantly, there's fucking Standard clattering against your ears like rocks, nasal and harsh over the din of the rest of the Rickshaw.

You had to take out your worm five minutes ago, just to keep from going insane. Noise's never bothered you, but CC-R is one of the oldest Rickshaws, and it's over three times the size of II-J. This city's fallen into the waves more times than you can count, and it's come back larger each time, with the remnants forming the bobbing islands you can see off in the distance. "Those work off of solar power," Afzudi tells you. He's one of the only trolls on here who actually speaks Seacant, and part of you is desperately, soppily grateful to him for it. "You don't need to worry about those."

"Right, 'course."

Afzudi is the ceruleanblood who manages CC-R. He's shorter than you, like pretty much everyone on here, and bone-thin, also like everyone here. It's weird. There's a lot of things weird about this place, like the fucking language, but the starvation factor?

You've got the blubber stores to rival a goddamn seal, and half of your Rickshaw's passed seal and gone straight into walrus. That's part of the way II-J works! It's part of why you work so hard to make sure it keeps working. No one's ever so much as missed as a meal since you became Calico, one way or another, and no one's ever looked like Afzudi in front of you, so skinny that you can count each knob in his spine. It's weird. You hate it. But you hate a lot of things about other Rickshaws, from the language to the architecture to the starvation and disease that permeate them.

That's fine. That's why you're out here helping. Some folks compare trolls to crabs. They say if one pops up, the rest'll drag it back down into the basket, just to make sure none of 'em get free. You've never believed that! You've improved your Rickshaw.

You're going to improve the rest, too, one city at a goddamn time.

"So! How many helms do you have working in the main generator?" It's strange to walk through a Rickshaw where every building hasn't been reinforced and rebuilt. You've had your residents working for sweeps to redevelop the city, in a mixture of solid carbon-fiber struts and flexible panels that'll absorb the blows of the water, or the rain, or the rare bouts of gunfire. It's never looked pretty, but it looks better than this. The buildings in CC-J are just.. shanties, aluminum siding and wood that's been bleached bone-white over centuries of saltwater and air, and they sway in the wind above you as you walk. The only thing holding them up is the webbing stretched thick between all of them, shining like sails in the moonlight, and spotted with white bodies.

"Four? Five?" you hazard.

"Eight," he says, leading you past the buildings, and straight down an alley where there's pupas playing ulama. CC-R's got more sparkplugs than you've ever expected. They scatter into the air like kinglets when you approach, the rubber ball clattering to the ground in the aftermath.

You snatch it up and spin it on a finger as you walk. "Eight? Seriously? Like, not harshin' on you, dude, but - why? I know it's big, but --"

He shrugs. "Our infrastructure's just old, and it's easier this way." He looks back at you. The light here's weak. Shadow curves across the sharp planes of his face, deepens the hollows of his cheeks. But when he smiles, it softens him. "I was hoping you could help," he says.

Your stomach does a strange flop. "Right," you say, and you don't let your gaze linger on the way his mouth quirks, or the sudden surge of warmth in your voice. "That's what I'm here for!"

CC-R's engine room is buried deep within the rickshaw. He leads you from a shady plaza into a side room, and then down a winding set of stairs, where the chatter of the populace is finally fading, and the drone of engines is gradually replacing it. The original architects of the Rickshaws tried to make every surface sloped to force the seawater to run off, rather than collect. But the concrete here's straight. The engine's have to stay steady.

And biowire's a delicate construct. "Careful," Afzudi warns you as you walk. He's flipped on a light attached to his forehead, and the bug's glow casts an uneven glow: in the darkness, you can faintly see the outline of biowire pulsing on the ground, shadowy impressions that stretch as far as the eye can see. "We had to move all of them further downstairs, after the fifth century raid. It's not ideal, but it keeps people from getting at the engine. Hey, babe -"

A spider is slinking out of the darkness, its eyes focused on you as it steps over him. It's only the size of a dog, high enough to hit his ribcage, but there's venom spooling on the end of its mandibles, and you hesitate until Afzudi waves you forward. "She doesn't bite," he tells you. "You're with me, don't worry. Mum just keeps some of the extra bodies down here to guard them."

"Haha, no problem, dude. She's great! I love her, like.." Afzudi raises his eyebrows at you, like he's encouraging you to continue. So you gesture towards her, rolling your shoulders. "The whole smooth, shiny, bloodless carapace look? Really hot," you declare, then pause, because he's looking at you. The spider is looking at you. You're pretty sure, if you paid attention, even the biowire would be looking at you.

"Uh, not in a weird way, though. Like, I am absolutely not a spider-fucker, although I know that sentence kind of implied it, but no?" It's fine! You can save it, because Afzudi's smile has turned into a proper grin, like he's two moments from laughing. So you grin back at him, careful to show off your teeth, and step in close. "I absolutely person I am a person fucker," you say, earnest, holding out a hand, palm up. Then you curl the rest of your fingers in, until only your smallest one is out. "Pinkie promise, dude."

"You've talked about fucking my mum too much for me to shake hands," he says. "Sorry about that."

But he's still grinning as he starts walking, and when you laugh, he joins right in.

The underbelly of CC-R's much like the rest of it: wet, damp, and, as it turns out, totally moldy. There's webs everywhere as you walk, coating the biowire and the ceiling. ("It's to waterproof it," Afzudi says, and you're so glad you don't mind bugs.) But at least the mold's glowing, adding an uneven sort of light to things, just enough to make the shadows longer and deeper, and catch on all sixteen of eyes of the spiders that keep passing you by.

And eventually, shortly after the pressure shifts and your ears pop, you get to the core.

The helms, as it turns out, aren't any healthier than anyone else on this Rickshaw. It's the opposite! It’s.. honestly one of the most appalling things you’ve ever seen. Back on II-J, you keep your engines healthy, with columns that you replace annually, trolls trained up each cohort cycle specifically to work on them, and wire that’s custom bred to work with their systems. The whole system is hale enough that you don’t even have to run diagnostics: the engines’ll run their own diagnostics and e-mail them to you each week, keeping an eye on each one’s levels and needs, because it knows that each one will get a response.

The helms here don’t look like they could send messages, even if they wanted to. Each engine barely looks like it’s even alive. They’re hanging from the wires like skeletons, their arms bone-thin, the bodies bloodless and stark under the gray-white skin. There’s ash forming on them, like no one bothers to take care of them. There’s mats in the hair, like no one’s ever even thought to shave it.

"Holy shit," you breathe, and Afzudi starts to laugh, say something - then he catches sight of your face.

"Ah -"

You don't wait to hear what he's trying to say. You're striding forward, taking the first helm firmly by the chin and pulling its head down. It's so limp that there's no reaction when you pull an eyelid back. There's streaks all the way through it, black creeping like rot through the yellow of its sclera. When you release the lid, it takes a full five seconds for the skin to fall back down, and when you pinch the skin of its cheek, it doesn't even react.

It's so blanched, you're not even sure what blood colour it is. There's only the fuchsia of where the biowires cut into the skin, and the liquid flooding the veins pink.

The next one isn't any better.

You're not sure, at first, what you're feeling. There's just a certain cold numbness as you step from one column to the next, moving carefully to avoid the wires strewn across the floor. Because that's the only word for them. There's shards of scaffolding on the ceiling, jagged strips of metal where it once must've been, but it's long since folded under the weight of the wires. And the wires are everywhere. They're tangled in masses connecting the columns. They're stretching heavy across the walls, thick enough to pass as wallpaper, and oozing a viscuous pink slime that sticks to your boots as you walk.

It's hard to see where the floor end and the wires begin. Tripping down here's inevitable, really, and that's why, on your way to the seventh helm, your boot finally catches under one, and you fall directly into it.

The worst part of it all is that the helm doesn't react. It's a twiggy little thing, and you fall full-force into it, your hand scrambling at the jumpsuit just to keep yourself up. Your claws hook in, tearing into the fabric, and it's only last minute horror that makes you jerk your chin up, angling your horns back and away from them. It just means your face hits it instead, landing right in its ribcage.

It should've made it howl. When you scramble to your feet and back, there's heat blossoming across your face, and there's brown blossoming on their newly exposed skin. But all they manage is a languid blink, like someone stirring from sleep.

And the chill forming in your chest finally solidifies when they fall still.

"Are you okay?" Afzudi calls. He's still lingering by the door, watching you. From this distance, his face's a blur of darkness.

"Yeah." You're walking over, more careful this time, but Afzudi doesn't know you well enough to recognise the flat edge to your voice. He's only met you a handful of times. The other Rickshaws change leaders too often for them to really know each other: you're one of the only ones that's actually stayed the same, the past four sweeps. "I'm fine. You're going to need serious work down here. The biowire needs seriously cut back - that'll take about eight perigees to avoid shock, and then you'll need to start training it to stay in the scaffolds again. New scaffolds, obviously. Like, your helms need a full treatment, for the veins and the overall."

"The columns need rebuilt. I can do all of this, obviously, but - what brand is all of this, redHotx20? I'm not even going to bother running a diagnoistic, you've got voidrot trying to spread all the way through the lines. You plug in any bugs to this, or a technomancer, and all you're going to do is infect your tech. And -"

Afzudi reaches out, takes you by your shoulder. He's got long, calloused fingers, with gently tapered edges. They match the rest of him, rail thin and delicate in the same way. "You're sure about all of that?"

"Absolutely," you tell him. It's a shame. You'd liked him. "I'm thinking three hundred thousand, max, but at least one hundred and fifty, for all the work I'm going to have to do. And that's just supplies. I'll thread in some of our cultivar, but the medical work your engines are going to need alone is insane. And it's all going to have to be manual."

".. we don't have the money for that." He blinks at you, owlish. You'd thought he was handsome a few minutes ago, with his cheekbones and his frailty, but there's something repugnant about that weakness now. "We'll just get new helms," he says. "We have plenty of psionics on the rickshaw. It's their duty."

"Uh, no. You're not going to go and kill your people to play engine parts, when we've got the mainland right there, and reputable engine sellers, like, literally everywhere. Like, how do you not have the money, dude? CC-R's the biggest Rickshaw in the ocean. You have markets every perigee. Are you saying you can't pull together a few hundred thousand to keep your city from sinking?"

He can't even stop his people from starving. Of course he can't.

"II-J doesn't sell. You don't understand how it works," he says smoothly, like you're a pupa, and when your eyebrows shoot up, he shrugs. "It's not an insult. It's just a fact."

"I don't need to sell to manage a fucking budget. Show me your books, and I'll figure out how you can get the money together." He's already shaking his head before you finish. "Let me help you," you say, frustrated. "That's what you brought me here for. I don't know what you're doing wrong, but, like - your people are starving, dude. And your Rickshaw is dying, all the way down to your goddamn helms. Like, what the fuck?"

"I think," he says, "you need to leave. I appreciate your help, but -"

It's a shame, because you really, really liked him.

You don't like bullying smaller trolls. But he makes it easy. When he pulls his hand back, you snatch him by the collar and you slam him into the wall, one swift move that pins him right against his mother's webbing. She hisses next to you, surging forward, but you tut at her, pressing your hand harder against his collar.

He squeaks. She backs up, her two front legs rising in obvious distress.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, "that I'm having to shame you in front of your mom like this, dude. And I'm sorry that you thought this was a conversation. But it's not. Either you're going to listen to me, or else your entire Rickshaw is going to sink. Or else I'm going to spare your people, and sink it for you. Because this -"

You jerk a hand towards the helms. Everything on this Rickshaw is dying, from the buildings to the residents to the engines themselves, and -

You absolutely want to burn this entire place to the ground. But it turns out you do care about the other Rickshaws, more than you'd ever thought you could.

"- this is not acceptable. And you should know that. You're supposed to be the leader of this place. You chose to take on these responsibilities. You made this fucking choice!" You take a step forward. Your voice's dropping. It's not that you're unaware of his lusus right next to you, or the building tension in her body. But you know how lusii work. How many times have you used their desire to protect their charges against them?

And right now, you've got him pinned like a fly against her own webbing.

Afzudi looks at you. "You're supposed to protect them," you tell him, gazing into his eyes. "So, like, let me help you, and do your fucking job, man."

Then he holds up a hand. His lusus quiets, flattening herself to the ground in a clatter of keratin. "Fine," he says. "What do we have to do?"

[muscle-cars-aesthetics]

1967 Plymouth Valiant 100 ---------------------------------- Facts ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️ Engine: Mopar Performance 406 crate engine. entire rotating assembly with SCAT parts and a Mopar .501/.513 230/234 hydraulic roller camshaft. Mopar Magnum RT big-valve heads, M-1 intake and Race Demon carb. MSD ignition Digital 6 controller. 3-inch exhaust with Dynomax Super Turbo mufflers. Transmission: 904 transmission, an ATI converter with a Pro Trans shift kit and a B&M Pro Stick. Rearend: A Mark Williams 9-inch with an aluminum spool, 40-spline gun-drilled axles and Richmond 4.10 gears. Suspension: 2×3 frame ties. The front frame was boxed. Firm Feel adjustable strut rods and Mopar drag race torsion bars and polyurethane bushings up front. Out back, Tri City Launcher leaf springs and all four corners have Strange double adjustable shocks. Brakes: Mark Williams light weight disc brakes on both ends. Wheels and Tires: Weld Alumistar II wheels, 15×3 1/2 up front and 15×10 rear. Hoosier 28×11.5×15 QTP tires and Mickey Thompson tires up front. Paint and Body: A VFN Fiberglass hood and front bumper. The front and rear wheelwell openings were stretched and the gas filler was shaved. The paint is a PPG Base Clear called Mack Silver. Interior: two-tone blue interior and sourced his seats from Summit Racing. ---------------------------------- #mopar #dodge #plymouth #valiant #cuda #roadrunner #gtx #charger #challenger #musclecar #v8 #hotrod #follow #like

[everlarkbirthdaydrabbles]

Hi! My birthday is April 24th and I'd love to read everlark where Peeta thinks he's lost Katniss somehow, like a misunderstanding or even some kind of accident, but everything works out in the end. Love the drama/angst, and I'm down for any rating (but let's be real, the smuttier the better bc it's my birthday lol). No infidelity please! Tytyty! You are awesome!

Happy Birthday! There is definitely some angst in this one. Thanks for having a birthday so we can all enjoy this great story! And thank you to @katnissdoesnotfollowback for writing and submitting it. She’s been a MAJOR contributor to this blog, as have many others, and we can’t thank her enough. Links to part one & part two if you haven’t read them yet. Enjoy! I know we did. 

Happy Birthday! Hope you enjoy this somewhatangsty story. Hugs and lots of love to you on your special day!

 All’s Fair - Part 3

 WARNINGS: RATED E for language, PTSD, and smut. Mostly the rating is forthe smut. SMUT I SAY!

 A/N: HR inthis instance stands for Human Remains. There’s no gore or graphic violence inthis, but there is a healthy dose of angst. Thank you @peetabreadgirl for pre-reading.

 ************************

 My boots scrape the pavement as I stop to stareup and down the parking lot aisles. I find at least four Jeep-shaped vehiclesunder black covers and sigh, drop my bag on the pavement, and search throughthe pockets for my keys. Not even my car keys, either. Customs fucked up mypacking job and I’m pretty sure they wound up back in my footlocker. I find thekeys I need underneath a half empty bottle of Gatorade and unlock my trunk,rummaging around until my fingers find the canvas ribbon on my at homekeychain. Yanking them out, I listen to the jingle of home with the distantgrowl of a C-130 spooling up its engines. The humid North Carolina air pressesdown on my lungs and I blink in the fading light.

 It’s late. I’m exhausted and hungry. And the redREMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT tag on my keys is a one-two punch to the face. Idon’t even know where he is right now. He was supposed to be home sometime lastweek, although I don’t know the exact date, but the fact that he wasn’t here tomeet me means he was delayed somewhere. Or something far worse that I am notprepared to contemplate on four hours of shitty sleep on a cramped rotatorflight and an empty stomach.

 Pocketing my car keys, I slam my footlocker shutand lock it back up, hefting my bag back on my shoulder and hauling the trunkonto its wheels to continue my solitary trek. I hit the lock button on the keyfob twice and hope my battery didn’t die while I’ve been gone. I’ve gotjumpers, but no one I feel comfortable inconveniencing. Most of the others havealready gone home. Prim couldn’t be here this time, unable to get away from medschool. Mom’s too sick to travel. Gale’s still somewhere in Fallujah, I think.At least, that’s the last place I ran into him.

Finally, my car honks back at me and I trudgethree aisles over towards the sound. Think it’s rough remembering where youparked your car after a thirty minute trip into a grocery store? Tryremembering where the fuck you parked it in a long term lot after a year longdeployment. I drop everything when I reach my Jeep. Unceremonious and messy.Fuck the Army and it’s obsession with order.

 It takes me a few tries to get the cover off mycar and folded up enough to shove it in the back. My footlocker and duffle goin next. The pack goes on the front seat since it contains my wallet, such asit is. I climb into the driver’s seat and roll back enough of the canvas sothat I’ll be able to feel the breeze. Keys in the ignition and I freeze, oncemore staring at the bright red tag.

 Peeta gave it to me right before my firstdeployment, in a black velvet box that looked like it contained a fancynecklace. Which it did. A single, luminescent pearl on a silver chain nestledunderneath a layer of padding, but on top had been this keychain. I’d laughednervously and shoved his face away from me when I saw the tag, but then he’dshown me what he’d bought for himself...a red, white, and blue double Akeychain. The emblem of the 82nd Airborne. My unit. They were meant to be asymbol. When we saw the keychains that ought to belong to each other, then we’dknow we were home.

 The C-130 must be warmed up because the tone ofit changes, softens as it faces a different direction. Turning up the taxiway,preparing for takeoff. I wonder what they’re doing tonight. Dropping bundles?Cargo? Jumpers? Or maybe they’re just making proficiency runs. Either way, Iknow Peeta’s not with them.

 “Come on baby, don’t let me down,” I mutter andcrank the engine. She starts rough but she does turn over. I throw my coveronto the passenger side floorboard, needing to feel the wind in my croppedshort hair after months of it being stifled beneath a kevlar helmet.

 As I leave the lot, I make a last minutedecision, turning towards the airfield instead of the main gate. I just want tobe sure. I’d call, but my phone’s buried in the back and I didn’t think to pullit out while I was searching for my keys. And maybe I’m not ready to face thesilence of an empty house.

 The drive is refreshing, but when I reach theairlift wing’s long term parking lot, I realize what a mistake this was. Theirsis almost as full as ours. I drive up one aisle and down the next, slowing everytime I see anything that might be silver. I find it in the fourth aisle.Peeta’s dark silver Mustang, parked next to a black Silverado, a layer ofpollen coating it, obscuring the color. I grip my steering wheel and stare atthe car for a moment. Then I force myself to leave.

 I’ll be going home to an empty house.

 The lights in town feel blindingly bright.Foreign after a year in the desert. When I tip my head back, I can barely makeout a handful of stars as they emerge into the night sky. At a red light, agroup of teens in a Tahoe with all the windows down stops next to me, laughingand singing along with their music. Once more, I’m massaging my steering wheeland trying to find my place in this world. It’s familiar and still disturbing.The lights and the colors too bright, the sounds too much like a dull roar, apounding in the skull.

 It’s when I pass a McDonald’s and my stomachgrowls painfully that I realize I’ll be going home to an empty pantry, too.There might be a can of soup or something, but nothing fresh. No one’s lived inthat house for six months and I didn’t think to ask Eddy, our neighbor’s kid,to stock the pantry for us. He was just keeping an eye on the place,maintaining the yard, and bringing in any mail. It’ll all be junk, but it’sbetter than leaving it to piss off the mail carrier.

 With a sigh, I pull into a grocery store thatlooks new, hoping they have a deli still open so I can get something alreadycooked and warm. I make it quick, though I do spend a few minutes debatingbetween macaroni or potato salad to go with my rotisserie chicken.Choices...something else that feels incongruously familiar. They’ve got abakery, too, and I add a loaf to my basket for dinner, and a couple bagels soI’ve at least got something to eat for breakfast, not caring that they’ll be alittle stale. I’ve eaten worse. I’ll come back tomorrow for a real groceryshopping trip.

 I use the self checkout lane, though, becausethe last thing I want right now is attention called to me in the form of achatty cashier or someone wanting to thank me for my service. Most of them meanwell, but sometimes it’s hard to know what to say in response. ‘You’rewelcome?’ Arrogant. ‘Thank you?’ For what exactly? Thanking mefirst? ‘Just glad to serve my country?’ Yeah, tell that to Darius andhis family… I shake myself and gather my groceries before rushing out of thestore.

 Once I’m safely back in my Jeep with nounnecessary human interactions, I breathe easier. She starts up like a dreamthis time and I drive home, only freaking out at one plastic bag as the windmakes it drift across my path. Pretty good, considering.

 “Here goes nothing,” I say and reach up to pressthe button to my garage door opener. Nothing. Car battery lasted. Remotebattery did not. Time for the car and door dance. By the time I get my Jeep inthe garage, I add grouchy to my list of feelings. My pack goes inside with meand my food. The rest can wait.

 The house is dark and smells musty. I open a fewwindows to air it out, humidity be damned, and flip on a couple lights so it’snot as depressing. Then I eat -- with a real fork, off a plate that I’ll haveto wash -- in about four minutes. Which is savoring my meal, by the way.

 Once I’ve placed my leftovers in the fridge, Iget the rest of my shit inside and in the bedroom, glaring at the neatly madebed. Starting the shower, I toss crap from my trunk until I find my phone andplug it in. Then I wait for the thing to turn back on and for the water to warmup. I’ve got one voicemail from Prim. I’ll call her after my shower.

 I leave my cams on the floor in a pile. I’llshove all of it in the washing machine later. The good thing about shampoo andsoap is that they don’t go bad, although there’s a strange crust around thecaps. I wash quickly, watching the murky water drain away sand and three daysworth of funk layered over remnants from months of half-assed showers.Normally, I’d be in a rush. Limited water and somewhere to be in five minutesmeans that when we got them, showers weren’t luxurious or even very efficient.They were just fast.

 Standing under the clear, steaming stream, I tryto relax. To enjoy the luxury. But I can only manage a few extra minutes beforeI start to feel ansty and get out. It’s silly, but once I dry off and am standingin my underwear, staring at my drawer full of pajamas, I hesitate. Instead, Iyank open one of Peeta’s drawers, finger the neatly folded cotton shirts beforefinally dragging one over my body. The shirt smells stale as well, from it’smonths untouched in storage, but as long as I don’t inhale too deeply, I cansort of pretend that it’s his arms holding me. I comb through my hair andsettle on the bed to call Prim.

 “Hey! Welcome home!”

 “Hi, Prim,” I say and smile for the first timesince stepping off the plane.

 “Oh my gosh! I can actually hear you! Nostatic!”

 “Just one of the many perks of being stateside,”I say and look around the room. Prim prattles on for several minutes aboutschool and how excited she is to see me in a few days. I try to remaincheerful, but it’s not easy. All I can think about is how her life continueduninterrupted while I dodged bullets, sent a friend home in a casket, and camehome to a stale house.

 “You okay?” Prim asks, cutting into my thoughts.

 “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Why?”

 “I asked if you’d be bringing Peeta when youcome home in a few days and you didn’t answer.”

 “Sorry, Duck,” I say. “I spaced out. It was kindof a long flight home.”

 “I’ll bet,” she says then waits for my answer.

 “I don’t know. He was supposed to be back lastweek, but he’s not, so…”

 “I’m sure he’s okay,” Prim says and goes on tosuggest that he can always catch up to us after he gets back, but her wordsopen the gates of fears and worries that I’ve kept carefully under lock andkey.

 I maneuver awkwardly through the rest of ourconversation until I remind her how tired I am. When we hang up, I sit rigidand at war with myself. And even though I already know what's going to happen,I press Peeta's name and hold the phone to my ear.

 Straight to his voicemail, but I listen anyways.Just to hear his voice for a few seconds, something I haven't heard in sixmonths. I disconnect before the beep and power my phone down then toss it onthe nightstand to charge the rest of the way, wondering if he ever called myphone during those six months he was here and I was not, just to hear my voice.I hug a pillow to my chest before laying down. I squeeze my eyes shut and ordermy body to sleep, but as exhausted as I am, I can’t seem to relax. The sheetscarry a musty smell of their own that makes my nose wrinkle, and they feelcold.

 Four months. I haven’t seen him in four months,and even then, it was thirty seconds from a distance and a twist of luck. On atarmac in Baghdad while we were piling into the back of one plane, he waspre-flighting another. At least, I think it was him. We didn’t get a chance totalk. And I’m not even sure he saw me or knew I was there. Since his deploymentwas six months versus my year, we kept in touch better while he was stateside.Skype and e-mail, when I was lucky to stop at a base with internet. Theoccasional letter or phone call. But once he was in the desert too, all but theemails stopped. We just kept missing each other and it was more frustratingthan anything else.

 With a low growl, I shove myself off the bed,dragging the spring green duvet into the living room with me. I plop on thecouch and turn on the TV, hoping it will numb me into slumber.

 It doesn’t.

 News channels covering events I know littleabout, since I was isolated from current events at home for a year other thanthe tidbits Mom, and Prim, and Peeta while he could, would send to me in theirletters. When I stumble across war coverage on one channel, I pause, butquickly move on. I live it. I don’t need them telling me what it’s like.Besides, there’s a small part of me that’s terrified that the next breakingstory will be about a plane crash.

 The rest of the channels disappoint just asmuch. Petty squabbles on reality shows. Commercials and other fluff. It’s justlike talking to Prim only magnified. This used to be my life, I think as I turnthe TV back off and wander into the kitchen. I eat one of the bagels I’d meantfor breakfast just to have something normal to do.

 When I finally shove myself back into bed, it’swith little hope of sleeping. Still, I try, and I must succeed because I seethings, some of them real, others more difficult to pinpoint. Sergeant Chaffyelling over the pop of gunfire. A woman racing into the streets to enfold herchild into the black billows of her dress before collapsing and crying over hisbody. Peeta’s smile. The ringing in my ears when a grenade went off close by,drowning out the shouts and gunfire that followed. A door kicked in beneath atan boot. Darius laughing the second before the IED went off. A fireball and atower of smoke against an azure sky, the twisted wreckage of a plane’s tail.

 I gasp and wake up, sweating and trembling.Slowly, I manage to get ahold of my breathing and stand, walking slowly to thebathroom to splash water on my face in the dark. I gulp down a few handfuls andthen return to bed, stripping the duvet off first and using only the sheet.Staring at the ceiling as I wait for morning or sleep, whichever arrives first.I can’t tell which one it is, drifting in and out of dreams. Even when I see myroom, there’s Gale, detailing a strategy for clearing a street, his neckbandaged. My mother humming as she rocks in a rocking chair and sews. Theconstant, choking brown haze of a dust storm.

 I am a stranger in my own life.

 When I wake again, it’s late afternoon. Atleast, that’s what my clock says. The room is dark, the curtains drawn, so I’mnot sure that I’m not still asleep. I roll onto my stomach and stare throughscratchy eyes at what should be the empty space beside me. Only, there’s a bodythere, stomach down and faced away from me. My mouth goes dry and I hope it’snot a nightmare. I wouldn’t put it past my twisted brain to imagine him lyingdead beside me.

 Reaching out, I poke his ribs and he startles.It takes him a moment, but he finally turns his head to look at me, his eyesbloodshot and dark circles beneath them.

 “You look a little rough for a dream,” I tellhim and he blinks at me, confused. “And quiet, too. That’s how I know you’renot real. If you were, you’d have already said ten witty things.”

 “Too tired,” he mumbles behind a yawn.

 “You should've already been here,” I mutter, thefear of what could go wrong still clinging to me.

 “Plane broke and we had to divert to Turkey.Then we got stuck waiting for parts. I called you as soon as we had a takeofftime from Canada, but your phone was off,” he says and I shrug.

 “No one I wanted to talk to,” I tell him.

 “Ouch,” he says and I scoot closer, hoping dreamPeeta feels half as good as real Peeta. He opens his arms and I snuggle againsthis body. My subconscious has at least gotten the incredible warmth that heemits right.

 “You smell good,” I murmur and fist his shirt inmy hand.

 “I better. I just got back two hours ago andtook a shower first thing.”

 “You got naked without me,” I accuse. “Who’s incharge of this dream anyways?”

 “You were out cold when I got in. Didn't want todisturb you. How long have you been home?”

 “No idea. Tell you when I wake up.”

 “Katniss,” Peeta says softly. “You are awake.”

 I open one eye and look up at Peeta. Reachingout, I pat his cheek and he smiles.

 “You didn’t wake me!” I shout and scrambleupright in the bed and put space between us. I’m not sure if I’m more angryover the fact that he climbed into bed without waking me or that by leaving myphone off, I missed the chance to be there for him when he landed. But he justlays there, watching me with tired blue eyes.

 “I didn’t wake you,” he says softly, one handreaching for me and falling short on the bed, “because you looked so peacefuland wonderful, and all I wanted to do was to sleep next to you for a few hours.Just sleep with the knowledge that I wouldn't be alerted soon, and withouthaving to block out the sound of mortar shells.”

 “How's that working out for you?” I ask,resenting the fact that he's the one who brought it up, reminded me that hewasn't all that much safer than I was over there. He shrugs.

 “Not so well. It's so quiet here.”

 “Yeah,” I say and fold my hands in my lap as weadd to the silence. Staring at one another, neither one of us knowing what tosay, and I wonder if I will feel like an interloper in this part of my lifetoo, caught in a world I no longer understand. I search his blue eyes for somehint of the person I left a year ago. His eyes are the same color, but they'reguarded. Maybe even frightened. And defensive. I don't know how to talk to thisperson.

 “This is weird, isn't it?” I whisper. He bracesa hand on the mattress and sits up so our eyes are on the same level, but hedoesn't reach for me again.

 “Feels that way, doesn't it?” he asks.

 “Prim wanted to know if you’d be coming with menext week.”

 “Yeah. If you want me too,” he says and I nod,because what am I supposed to say to this cautious dance around each other.

 “Are you hungry?” I ask.

 “I could eat,” he says. We make our way into thekitchen and eat the rest of my chicken, salad, and bread from dinner lastnight. In silence. And we don't touch one another.

 I try to summon some sort of feeling. But I'm sotired of fighting and I know he must be too. Maybe it's too late for us.

 Two years of visits here and there while he wentthrough his training pipeline, existing on phone calls and quick weekends inwhich we tried to cram months worth of time missing each other. But there wasalways another absence looming on the horizon, and in those absences, it becamenecessary to survive alone. Without each other.

 He fought to get an assignment that somewhatmatched up with mine, requesting an airframe that others in his service oftenlook down on, shocking his superiors when he wanted and pursued a heavy insteadof a sleek shiny fighter. Requesting a base slated for closure just because itwas attached to the fort I was assigned to. Fought to line up our deploymentsso we weren't waving at one another as we swapped places. And now, each of ustwo deployments in, I wonder if we spent so much time and effort trying to betogether that we don't know how to exist together anymore.

 He flicks crumbs across his plate as we sit insilence, his foot bouncing nervously beneath the table. It's a twitch he'snever had before and I don't know what to think of it. Shouldn't we be happy?Crawling all over one another and ravenous?

 Peeta takes a deep breath and I look up to findhim already watching me. “Think I'll unpack...since I'm awake now.”

 “Okay,” I say, pushing away the guilt that Iwoke him after so little sleep when I’ve wasted almost an entire day moping inbed.

 We move around one another, returning personalitems to their places, shoving one load after another into the washing machine,wiping away the fine layer of powdered sand that’s accumulated on almosteverything. We barely speak, just two ghosts sharing a house. I'm not even sureI'd call it a home.

 “Grocery shopping?” he suggests after we'vestored our footlockers in the garage and I nod. I can't even look at him as wedress, afraid I'll find new scars or markings on his body that tell the talesof whatever horrors he lived through. And I don't feel his eyes on me either.

 “Your car or mine?” he asks softly as he doubleknots his shoes.

 “Mine,” I say automatically, and he nods butstill tucks his keys into his jeans pocket. I catch a brief glimpse of hisairborne keychain, dulled a little but still attached to his house key.

 We limit our conversation to the necessary whilewe drive to the grocery store, and while we fill our cart. At one point, herests a palm on the small of my back as he leans around me to grab a box ofcrackers while I read a label and try not to fall apart at the minute touch.The heat of his hand sears through my shirt, and I lean back into it. When hemoves away, the disappointment rushes through me, swift and painful.

 He tosses the box of crackers into the cart andlooks back at me, a small and hesitant smile curving his lips up just on oneside. And I can't take it anymore, pretending like everything's normal and fineand I’m not five seconds from falling apart. I drop the saltines on the groundand fling myself at him.

 He only hesitates a second before his arms surgearound me and he buries his face in my neck, releasing a quiet shuddering noisethat might be a sob or a sigh of relief. I still shake with fears anduncertainties, my fingers digging into the back of his neck to make sure hedoesn't vanish from my arms. Warmth radiates from the spot where his lips touchmy neck. And I don't care that we're in the middle of a grocery store with adozen people muttering in discontent as they have to maneuver their cartsaround us.

 “What’s happening to us, Katniss?” he whispers,and I know he’s not talking about the nightmares or the shortened tempers, butthe apathy. The need to not make a big deal out of things, not even a reunionafter an entire year apart. Or the fact that it’s easier to ignore the possibilityof hurt or death or worse because if you think about it, you’ll go mad.

 “I don’t know,” I whisper.

 “I missed you so much it physically hurts,” hesays, his arms shaking against me for a moment. I think about how many timesthese arms have been my refuge from the world. Always so warm and strong.

 “Me, too,” I admit. But we’ve opened thefloodgates and words pour forth from his lips.

 “It was bad enough being here and watching thenews. I’d go fucking crazy watching it, looking for you in the footage, hopingI’d get just a glimpse of you and dreading it at the same time. But being therewas a million times worse. Every time we got called for medevac or to moveH.R., I’d feel ill, certain that I’d be seeing your face or your name on acasket and knowing it’d be more than I could bear. Katniss, I don’t know if I’dever be happy again if I lost you.”

 My eyes burn with unshed tears. I should tellhim about my nightmares, too. RPG’s and planes shot from the sky. The wordsstick in my throat, and then someone behind us clears theirs impatiently. Iswipe at my eyes as Peeta releases me and we step apart enough to look at theintruder.

 “Excuse me. You’re blocking the shelf,” shesays, oblivious to or blatantly ignoring the obvious tears in both our eyes. Areminder that this is not the place for either of us to break down. Not with anaudience.

 “Thank you for your patience,” Peeta says toher, bending to scoop the dropped box of crackers off the floor and depositingit in our cart as we walk away. Only this time, we join hands and each use onehand to steer the cart.

 Our conversation is still somewhat stilted afterthat, and maybe it will be for awhile as we adjust back to each other’spresence, to the comfort of relative safety and the absence of the fears of thenight.  

 We pay for our groceries and I manage to get ushome without incident. As I cut off the engine, Peeta reaches out a hand tosqueeze my thigh and I look up at him while I press to shut the garage door,the remote now with a fresh battery. His thumb rubs up and down my thigh, asoothing touch along a rubbed raw nerve.

 The air around us already hangs heavy withhumidity, but under his steady gaze, it thickens until it’s almost stifling. Heleans towards me and my grip on the steering wheel tightens. Peeta haltshalfway between us, his eyes flickering down to my mouth and then away with anearly inaudible sigh. For now, I will ignore the voice in the back of my headthat insists there’s no point. One or both of us will just be heading back outthe door in six to twelve months. A seesaw of adjustment to life and thensurvival. Or maybe they’re just two different kinds of survival. But I refuseto let this wall stand between us a second longer.

 With my hands firm on the steering wheel, I moveto meet him over the gearshift and capture his lips with mine. His fingers onmy thigh clench and he brings his other hand up to hold me to him, his palmwarm on the side of my neck, his thumb tracing a path from the corner of mymouth to the edge of my jaw and back again. And I can't believe we waited thislong. I let go of the steering wheel and grip his shirt instead, yankingroughly on the fabric, needlessly because he’s not pulling back or going anywhere.

 He tilts his head and I open my mouth withouthim asking, because I need this kiss right now. Right here. The soft tremorthat shakes through me at the first touch of his tongue to mine. We are sloppyand graceless, but one kiss only makes me want more. All too soon, though,Peeta gently separates our mouths with one last suckle of my bottom lip betweenhis.

 “We should get the cold items put away beforethey all melt,” he croaks and I nod, although I’d much rather kiss him for thenext hour. Releasing my leg to open his door, Peeta kisses the tip of my noseand smiles at me.

 With each mundane task that we complete, thegaping wound between us knits together. A gradual healing. By the time we’vefinished putting our groceries away and managed to prepare and consume a meallike human beings, I’m thinking of tonight, about spooning with him in bed,less in terms of something we just do and more in terms of the comfort that itmight provide.

 When Peeta stifles a massive yawn, I suggestheading to bed, even though I’m not tired yet. He has to be beyond exhausted.Within seconds of crawling into bed, his breathing evens out and I lay in thecircle of his arms, listening to the calm sounds of spring outside our openwindow.

 Eventually, sleep takes me as well, and while Istill see things I’d rather not, they’re easier to face with Peeta’s arms warmand steady around me.

 Some time during the night, I wake to darknessand feather soft touches drifting up and down my side, beneath my shirt, aroundto my belly and up my ribs, back down and around to my side. Over my hip, thetouches dulled through the fabric of my shorts, igniting on my thighs before hereturns to my torso. For a second, I wonder if he’s even awake, but then hislips brush over my neck and I shiver. Peeta’s touches halt and I bite my lip,wanting him to continue.

 “Why’d you stop?” I finally whisper.

 “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers back.

 “I don’t mind,” I say and rest my hand over his,guiding it in the soft caresses for a moment before I tuck my hands beneath mycheek and relax into his touch as he continues unguided. Each delicate brush ofhis fingers lulls me deeper into a boneless state of bliss, reminding me ofjust how starved I’ve been for something like this, for the softness of hisloving touches. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness.

 “You know what I’m thinking about?” he whispersand kisses the back of my neck.

 “No,” I murmur, content to lay here and let himkeep doing what he’s doing.

 “I’m thinking about that quart of chocolate icecream in the freezer.” It’s not what I was expecting him to say, but my eyesjump open as the idea takes hold.

 “You have my attention,” I say and he chucklesbefore kissing my neck again. Then he’s up and tugging me off the bed. We hurryinto the kitchen, laughing as I slide across the floor in my socked feet. Peetagrabs the ice cream while I get the bowls and spoons. Within minutes, we’reseated at the table and enjoying the frozen treat.

 “Dear diary,” I say as I moan around my firstspoonful and then stare at the smeared reflection of my face in the bowl of thespoon. “It has been seven months since my last ice cream. And even then, it wasmelted by the time I got to eat it.”

 “That’s just sad,” Peeta says and grabs thecontainer, adding another scoop to mine. “You need to catch up.”

 “That’s a lot of empty calories,” I protest andhe shakes his head.

 “We’ll burn them off later,” he says, andalthough the comment could be perfectly innocent, my stomach does a strangeflip and warmth pools in my chest in spite of the freezing chocolate in mymouth.

 Peeta keeps eating, oblivious to the effect ofhis comment, and so I continue to spoon one bite after another into my mouth,savoring it like I haven’t savored anything in months. In between bites, wemanage to open a little more, share a few of the lighter tales of our timeoverseas. It’s relaxing, sitting here enjoying a midnight snack, him in hisboxer briefs and a plain white t-shirt, me in my pajama shorts and a tank top.It feels like something we could do everyday, made special in its normalcy.Eventually, though, our spoons both scrape our bowls to get the last melteddrops. I tip my bowl up and drink what the spoon can’t get.

 “Are they useful calories if they’re slurped?”Peeta asks. When I lower my bowl to scowl at him, he’s grinning, blue eyessparkling in laughter. And for just a second, I see the eyes of the boy I fellin love with in the face of the man I still can’t survive without. My bowl hitsthe table with a loud clink and I wrinkle my nose at him. He bites hislip, like he’s trying not to laugh out loud.

 “What?” I ask sharply.

 “Nothing,” he says as he gathers both our bowlsand rinses them before loading them in the dishwasher. I toss the ice creamback in the freezer and set my hands on my hips to glare at him. “It’s just,you’ve got some ice cream on your chin.”

 I swipe at my chin as unwanted heat floods mycheeks and spreads down my neck. Here I was thinking maybe our relaxing midnightsnack would help us leap the last unspoken hurdle, and I can’t even eat like anadult. Oh so sexy. But Peeta’s smile won’t be contained as he moves to stand infront of me and lifts his hand to my face.

 “You missed,” he whispers, swiping his thumbover my chin. “And you call yourself a sharp shooter.”

 His hand leaves me and his eyes still dance withmirth as he sucks the ice cream from his skin. In a flash, I am heated andrestless, unable to look away from his pink lips as they pucker around histhumb or the deep pools of blue as he watches me.

 “That was mine,” I whisper and he pauses withhis thumb still in his mouth. When he removes it, the silence of the kitchenshatters with the soft sucking noise of release.

 “Come and get it,” he breathes. We stare at oneanother for what feels like ages, the moment strung tighter than a bow ready tofire. We snap at the same time, mouths colliding and hands grasping shirts andhair.

 Peeta steps forward, forcing me back until I’msandwiched between him and the refrigerator. His mouth slants over mine againand again, ravenous and demanding. I can’t tell my moans from his as Ifrantically relearn the feel of his hair, the back of his neck, his shouldersbeneath a soft cotton shirt. The taste of his tongue and the ridges of hismouth. When his hand cups my breast and kneads it in the same rhythm as thehand massaging the back of my neck, my fingers clench, scraping my nails overhis skin. His hips thrust into me and we both moan as my stomach somersaultsfrom hungry to rapacious.

 Peeta flattens his body against mine and triesto say something that gets lost between our joined lips. His arms circle me, asteel band of support and I lift my feet to wrap my legs around his hips,trusting that he won’t drop me. With careful steps, he walks us back to thebedroom, but I refuse to stop kissing him. A year. An entire yearwithout his lips and hands on me.

 We need to catch up.

 When his knees hit the bed, our mouths joltapart and I giggle as we flop onto it, Peeta’s hands and the soft mattressbracing the fall as we bounce and he smiles at me before he resumes kissing me,our hips pressed together as we shift restlessly against one another. My feetcaress over the backs of his thighs and his hands encourage me, skimming overmy legs and grasping my ankle to wrap my leg around him again.

 I want our shirts off. I can feel the heat ofhim burning through the fabric that still separates us. I want it unfilteredand undiluted on my bare skin. But I don’t want to stop kissing him to tell himthat either, so I leave the clothes and let the need build and scratch at thehairs on his neck and the back of his head.

 After who knows how many minutes of this, hecomes up panting and tears at my shirt. Relieved, I arch my back and lift myarms so he can remove it to throw it across the room. I’m expecting him to takehis off, too, and gasp as he instead fuses our mouths together, the cotton ofhis shirt dragging over my nipples. The unexpected stimulation does wickedthings to my nerves, my legs pulling him closer in response, until the hardridge of his arousal presses into the soft folds of mine. His hips buck in myembrace, the sudden pressure sending a frisson of need all the way out to myfingertips.

 “Katniss,” he gasps as he lifts his head to transferhis mouth to my throat. Each word he speaks is kissed into my skin, lower andlower on my body. “Hold. Onto. Something,” he warns, pausing only to give eachbreast one quick, hard suck and a moan of appreciation before he moves on. “Ihave an entire year of not tasting you to make up for.” Until he reaches mypajama shorts and silently slides them and my panties down my legs, lays mebare to his gaze. I slip my hands beneath the pillow and grab hold of it whilehe stares at me.

 “Say something,” I whisper when he remains quietand still, staring between my legs beyond the point where I am still confidentin his desire for me.

 “Words aren’t enough to describe how incredibleyou are. I’ll just have to show you,” he murmurs.

 The bed bounces as he drops heavily between mylegs. With no warning or preamble, he wraps his hands beneath my thighs andholds me open, his mouth descends and he moans loudly as he suckles my folds.At first, I squirm, the sensation of being licked there distant and no longerfamiliar. But Peeta doesn’t let me hide behind shyness or uncertainty. Hismouth is on a quest, and before long, I’ve forgotten time and distance,writhing beneath the onslaught that sets my entire body aflame with need.

 I grip his hair and then mine. The sheets andthen his hair again. I watch him until I can’t, my body taking over andbanishing thought in favor of feeling as I crest and shudder, moaning gibberishinto the night.

 Instead of stopping, though, Peeta keeps going.His tongue pushing deep inside me to drink of me as I tremble and yell that Ican’t. But apparently, I can, as he sends me careening over another peak whenhe flicks his tongue over my clit then sucks it into his mouth.

 Falling limp, on the bed, I gasp for air andgroan in beautiful agony. Still, Peeta gives me no reprieve, sliding his handsover my legs until he grips my calves and pushes my knees up until they touchmy ribs.

 “Peeta, please,” I beg, unable to articulate thesearing feeling I can’t escape as his mouth continues it’s sweet torment. Hetakes it to mean that I want another, but it feels so good that each swipe ofhis tongue actually hurts. “Too much,” I finally manage to gasp.

 Undeterred, Peeta’s head shakes as though he’stelling me “no,” but the result is a streak of pleasure so acute that I screamand kick wildly, thrashing on the bed violently enough to unseat him.

 “Fuck!” I hear him exclaim, followed by a loudthud, but I am so lost in the shudders still wracking my body that I don’trealize what’s happened until the pounding of my heart calms enough for me tohear clearly again. It’s only then that I notice that Peeta’s not between mylegs any more. Not even touching me nor even on the bed.

 “Peeta?” I ask hesitantly and his laughterdrifts up to me from the floor at the foot of the bed. Gathering my wits, Ishift to the edge and peer down at him. He’s lying on his back, looking up atme with a pleased grin on his face, one hand behind his head and the otherresting leisurely on his stomach. If it weren’t for the obvious strain of hiscock against the cotton of his briefs, I’d think he was just reclining downthere to get a rest.

 “What happened?” I ask, self-consciously runninga hand through my own hair and tucking strands back behind my ears.

 “You came so hard, you kicked me off the bed,”he says, but he doesn’t seem too upset about it. He reaches up and grasps mywrist. “Come here.”

 I squeal as he tugs me over the edge and ontohis chest, but then I let go any embarrassment or doubt as he pulls me down tokiss him again. This time, it’s leisurely, allowing me a chance to recover fromwhatever the hell it is he just did to me. He reaches up and yanks the duvetdown to cover us both as he ends the kiss, his arms cuddle me to his chest andI settle my head on his shoulder. He’s still hard against me, but doesn’t seemto be in a rush to find his own relief. As it was when I woke earlier, his handtraces delicately over my skin, my back this time.

 A restless longing takes place in my breast, andeven though he seems content to take things slow, this kind of hunger won’t besated easily.  When he makes no move, I push myself off his chest and sit,straddling his hips.

 “Where’re you going?” he asks quietly.

 “Nowhere,” I tell him, but make my fingers walkdown his torso towards myself.

 His eyes jump between my hands and my face as Iwatch him for any sign that he doesn’t want this as much as I do, but when myfingers curl beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, he lifts his hips fromthe floor and pushes them down his legs. I move my hips, dragging my still wetlips over the length of his cock. With a curse, Peeta drops his hips back tothe floor, his shorts still somewhere on his legs as I take him in hand andkeep up the steady revolutions of my hips over him, sliding him through both myhand and my lips.

 “Oh fuck me, that feels like heaven,” he groans,eyes riveted to what I’m doing to him. I bite my lip and brace a hand on histhigh, and even though I just came three times on the bed, I already wantanother. Heat and blood pulse through me as I move and Peeta whines a little,his hands massaging my thighs.

 I started this to tease him, but it quickly hasme just as excited as him. I let go of his cock and instead grip his shirt,tugging on it like it’s a set of reins and the only thing keeping me frombucking wildly on top of him.

 “Katniss, please,” he begs and bites his lip,lifts his head and smacks it back on the floor in distress. “I wanna cum insideyou.”

 With a nod, I shift myself and he aligns us,releasing a string of expletives as I sink down onto him, his right leg kickingin rapid succession as he tries to hold back. Taking his face in my hands, Ibend over and kiss him as we move. Short, sweet tastes as I slide up and downhis cock. Peeta’s arms wrap around me, hold me close as he draws hearts andswirls on my back, guides my hips in riding him. I try to keep it slow, but hekneads my ass and pushes my hips so they roll over him instead of bouncing. Mybody grasps hold of the pleasure and I take it, following his lead until mylegs start to cramp and I have to straighten them alongside his, laying my bodyflat on top of him.

 When I can move again, I slide up his body andkeen into the night as he curses beneath me. It’s the best of both, taking hiscock in and out while still grinding my clit against him. I grab his chin andhold him so I can stare into his eyes, foggy with need and deeper than theocean. He whispers to me, dirty words in broken phrases.

 “I dreamt about this every night, alone in ourbed and then in my bunk. How fuckin’ sexy you are when you’re on top of me, mycock deep inside you. Jerking myself off when my balls ached with the need tocome. I’d have to bite my lips so no one would here me and blow my load in ashirt or a sock and do laundry the next day. Fuck, Katniss,” he breaks off toswallow and kiss me a moment before I push his head back to the floor because Iwant his words right now.

 “I’ve been starving for the feel of your lips anywhereon me I could get them, your legs around me, and fuck, your tits on my chest,god they feel so good there. And your pussy. I’ve needed your pussy on my cockevery day since the day you left. Fucking starving so bad for the clench ofyour walls and the smoke in your eyes as you come for me.”

 I grip his shoulder and move faster, his wordsdrawing forth a greater arousal and making the slide smooth and easy asbreathing. But it’s not enough to get me there. I whimper and tell him that Ineed more and he grips my thighs, spreading me wide over him as he bends hisknees and leverages himself on his feet to thrust up into me. He’s groaningloudly, getting close as I still lag behind him. And for some reason I think ofthe night I first mentioned the possibility of our future together. I had noidea where we’d be on this night, but I remember the tremulous way he’d offeredme an out, if I’d wanted it. How scared and brave he’d looked as he tried tohide the hurt that just the thought my leaving caused him. Then how he cededcontrol to me without question and let me fuck myself sore and hoarse on him.

 “Pull my hair, Peeta,” I urge and brace myselfto help.

 “What?” he asks with wide eyes.

 “Pull my fucking hair,” I order him and his handshifts to grip the short locks. Then I borrow the words that sent me hurtlingtowards my own orgasm all those years ago. I’ve never forgotten them. “Now takewhat you want. Your cock wants it so bad. I can feel it. Hot and pulsinginside of me.”

 He makes a strangled noise as his fingers tanglein my hair and his hand yanks on me, slamming our bodies together again andagain as pain tingles across my scalp then mellows into pleasure.

 “Stop holding back and fill me with your fuckingcum,” I demand and my muscles ache with the effort of maintaining this pace,but he shouts my name and his hips jerk erratically as his eyes squeeze shut.He stops moving, but I keep going, milking him until he grabs my ass and shovesme down onto him even as he thrusts up into me one last time. We remain there,hips suspended above the floor while he finishes with an elongated moan.

 When he relaxes, dropping us to the floor, Itake his lips with mine and kiss the shuddering breaths from his throat. Hishands flex and clench on my ass and then start my hips rolling again, andbefore I can think or prepare myself, I shatter with a soft sigh, my clitpulsing against him as warmth and wonderment floods through me.

 Peeta makes a sound of contentment in his throatas his leg spasms once more before we lay there, a mess of heavy breathing andfinally sated bodies.

 “Too long,” he groans, his voice rumbling in hischest beneath my cheek. “A year is far too fucking long to go without you.”

 “Yeah,” I agree. Then, because I am an idiot anddon’t think before I speak when I am a melted puddle spread across him, I saysomething stupid. “How long do you think we can live like this?”

 “I don’t know,” he murmurs, shifting us so thatwe’re eye to eye. “But I’m willing to work for us for the rest of my life, ifthat’s what it takes, Katniss.”

 “Me, too,” I whisper and kiss him once more toseal the promise.

[charleshamillton]

The Boost Of Burden: James Rowlett’s Fox Body Mustang Is Ready To Come Out Swinging At Drag Week!

When did you realize that the four-wheeled machine that you spin wrenches on, beat on, sweat over, bleed for and pay for with hard-earned money had become an institution to which you were faithful, no matter what? When did you realize that not only were you well past being the owner of a machine, but that you were well past “until death do you part” and onto the moment where not even death was going to keep you from enjoying that mass of metal, rubber, and chemicals? It’s not an everyday find…most people do have a finite point where the relationship between man and machine gets too painful, or too costly, or too stale and it’s time to move on, but we question whether or not James Rowlett and his “Boost of Burden” Mustang GT is in that hallowed ground.

Let’s start the Mustang’s story on Drag Week 2017. A few miles before making it to a hotel in Illinois, a valve in cylinder #5 of the turbocharged LS mill dropped and proceeded to turn just about everything within the cylinder wall into a modern art piece. Not good. The car wound up being towed to Todd Bowers’ shop and left until Rowlett could return to recover the Mustang. That alone would’ve been enough for some folks, but that was inspiration to get the combination right for 2018. You’d think that would be enough of a kick in the junk, right? Let’s step to round two, which happened in June. At an event at Crossville Dragway in Tennessee, the Mustang’s left rear wheel bailed from the program and the wall was kissed a couple of times. There wasn’t much else that could’ve been done, but the Mustang had been wounded. Rowlett still wouldn’t give up, and vowed to come back stronger than ever. Then there was the hood incident…one thing after another, it seems, but Rowlett is hell-bent that 2018 is going to be his year at Drag Week.

So let’s give you a run down on just what has been thrown at the Boost of Burden to get it ready for this year’s Drag Week. The mill is a 370ci LS build that’s drinking E85 via a Holley EFI setup. Goodies inside include Wiseco pistons, A1 Racing Parts rods, a Brian Tooley Racing Stage IV turbo camshaft, LSA heads with Brian Tooley Racing 660 dual springs and pushrods. The party piece is an 88mm VS Racing turbocharger with an air-to-water kit and a five-inch downpipe that Rowlett put together. Power runs through a PTC Powerglide with a PTC billet torque converter out to a Strange 9-inch with Strange 40-spline axles, 3.50 gears and a spool. Strange brakes can be found front and rear, and Strange also provided the struts and shocks. AJE Suspensions is the source of the K-member and the control arms up front, while out back Team Z control arms and an anti-roll bar handle what the road surface can dish out. The mill is fed via 210-pound injectors that are supplied via an Aeromotive Eliminator pump that is taking fuel from an Aeromotive 2003 Cobra fuel tank.

And just to top off what is already going to be an pretty nasty ride, there’s the seven-inch screen that will control the tunes, the twelve-inch subwoofer in the back that is going to try like hell to override the engine’s noise, and the American flag wrap that was put on by Micah DeLozier. Together, you have Boost of Burden’s best foot forward for Drag Week, and I promise you, more than enough oats to play along all week…my request for a trailer burnout shot turned into Rowlett’s chance to really check out the Mustang’s tune, for what seemed like an eighth of a mile. It’s been a year of bona fide frustration and moments of anger at the 1985 ‘Stang, but the commitment is there, the pride in the car is still there, and come hell or high water, the desire to race this beast will remain.

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[itsworn]

1973 Ford Pinto: Gapp & Roush’s Fast Little Pro Stock Pony

In many respects, the domestic automotive scene in the early- to mid-1970s was a growingly dismal situation. The end of the muscle-car era arrived, compression ratios plummeted, 5-mph bumpers debuted, the oil embargo hit, and subcompact economy cars began to sell in volume. While doom and gloom dominated dealer showrooms, all was not lost in the world of high performance. Production-based race cars were running faster than ever, and those new subcompacts that were so underwhelming in factory form, were solidly embraced in Pro Stock. Pintos, Vegas, Gremlins, and Colts were quickly becoming the standard-bearer in the top door-slammer class, and few found more success in the early 1970s than the Ford team of Wayne Gapp and Jack Roush.

While not sponsored by Ford itself (Ford ended motorsports support at the end of 1970), Gapp and Roush had a long history with the Blue Oval. Both Gapp and Roush were engine engineers for Ford, and Gapp was a longtime drag racer. To say the least, Ford connections ran deep for the duo who first paired up in 1971 with a Pro Stock Boss 429 Maverick, which was soon followed by a Pro Stock Pinto in 1972.

The car you see here is believed to be the second Pinto campaigned by G&R, this one’s chassis being built by Tom Smith of Wolverine Chassis. It was one of two G&R Pintos the team campaigned for 1973, with the other being destroyed at a race in St. Louis. NHRA Pro Stock rules at the time awarded the season championship to the winner of the World Finals, no matter their performance at the six previous races. Jack Roush offered an interesting 1973 World Finals story to us when we discussed the Pinto with him recently. “We ended up running Bill Jenkins in the final, and ‘Grumpy’ had been running about half a tenth faster than us all weekend. I’d been doing some evaluation of parasitic losses due to lubricating oils and figured we could pick up a bit if we ran less oil. I put the Pinto on jackstands and got under the car with a 5-gallon bucket. We were pitted next to Jenkins, and he just stood there and watched. I drained a third of the engine oil, half the dif oil, and all of the transmission oil out of the car. In the final, Wayne picked up one- to two-tenths, and we won the race.” And with that, Gapp and Roush had secured the 1973 Pro Stock Championship. As an aside, Gapp won two races and was runner-up in two more, a combination that no other Pro Stock driver achieved in 1973.

We can date this photo to 1974; the 1 Pro stickers on the window indicate the prior year’s championship. Here, Wayne Gapp is his typical wheels-up while Jack Roush observes from behind.

G&R debuted their famous Tijuana Taxi four-door Maverick during 1974, at which point the Pinto wasn’t the team’s featured vehicle moving forward. However, it did continue to race through the 1975 season and was then sold in Spring 1976 to privateer Tim Goodner of Minnesota. In an interview with Pro Stock photographer Dan Williams, Goodner explained that he purchased the Pinto for $6,000 sans engine, and Gapp himself gave him one particularly sage tip: “Don’t mess with the suspension.” Goodner proceeded to race the car as “Genesis” in C/G and C/MP with a Boss 302, primarily in Division 5. He eventually concluded that just qualifying for the Pro Stock field was a better payout than winning a Sportsman class outright, so Goodner returned the Pinto to the Pro Stock ranks. In 1978, he updated the car to appear as a ’76, fitting a new grille and bigger bumpers (among other things) to comply with NHRA rules that mandated Pro Stock cars to appear within five years of manufacture. Goodner stopped racing after the 1982 season, as the debut of 500-inch engines effectively ended the competitiveness of his Genesis operation. His best run in the 1981/1982 era is said to have been an 8.89 e.t.

This photo is circa 1978, after second-owner Tim Goodner updated the car to 1976 appearance specs with big bumpers and egg-crate grille. The NHRA required Pro Stock cars to appear within five years of manufacture.

It’s at the end of the Goodner era that the trail of the 1973 Championship Pinto goes a bit cold. Goodner says he sold the car at the end of 1982 to a racer in New Orleans and heard that it was sold again by the late-1980s to someone in Ohio. About the same time, fellow Pinto racer Jim Evanuik was turned on to an ex-G&R Pinto being sold in Kentucky, believed to be the same car, and alerted his friend Bob Sharp. Sharp ended up purchasing the Pinto and enthusiastically bracket-raced it for a decade or so around the Northeast, now lettered as the “Gambler.” Evanuik built a 400M-derived engine for the car and paired it with a Powerglide for “easy 9.40s.”

When Sharp put the Pinto up for sale in National Dragster in 2000, Rob Holzman noticed the G&R lineage and mentioned it to Ford collector Brent Hajek of Ames, Oklahoma. Says Hajek, “Rob and I went out to buy the car, and right away took it to the track to have some fun. We probably made 25 passes one weekend, and I turned it over to Rob for some freshening and a return to its Gapp & Roush appearance.”

Besides a fresh paintjob, Holzman’s main task was to get a period drivetrain back in the car. He did just that by using a former Bob Glidden 351C that Hajek had acquired through former Tasca mechanic John Healy. Holzman also fitted a period-correct Lenco four-speed. You’ll note that much of the interior is well-used, and Rob believes the carpet, seats, door panels, and more are per original G&R days. Other items are not to original spec, but acknowledge several decades of evolution and history. As an example, the mods that make the car appear as a ’76 were actually never seen with Gapp & Roush livery—rather, this was done during the car’s Genesis era.

Speaking of the Genesis era, then-owner Goodner reportedly showed up to try and qualify the Pinto in Pro Stock, perhaps for the first time under his ownership, at the 1977 NHRA Springnationals. During tech, Goodner was disqualified for having a rollcage that was made of “too-thin” material. When he asked how the same ’cage passed when it was being raced by Gapp & Roush, he was told that inspectors figured it had been built in a legal manner since it was done by one of the leading teams. Go figure! The DQ required Goodner to have the ’cage rebuilt, and upon returning to Minnesota, he turned to Don Ness for the necessary work. Clearly, it wasn’t the first modification ever made to this historic Pinto, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last!

Tech Notes Who: Brent Hajek What: 1973 Ford Pinto Pro Stock Where: Ames, OK

Engine: Ford’s 351 Cleveland was beginning to become a favorite powerplant for the Ford camp by 1973, with Gapp & Roush leading the charge. Hajek’s current engine came in a roundabout way after Bob Glidden sold off his Cleveland parts to John Healy when Glidden switched to Boss 429s. The block is a rare furnace-brazed Boss 351 casting with markings that indicate a Roush origin. G&R engines typically used an internally balanced Boss crank, Brooks aluminum rods and pistons, and a General Kinetics valvetrain and roller cam (period article mentions specs of 321/330 degrees duration and 0.721/0.700-inch lift). Much-modified Boss 351 cylinder heads feature raised-exhaust port plates to straighten the exhaust port (again, these heads once being in the Glidden inventory). A modified Edelbrock tunnel-ram mounted twin Holley Dominators. Sounds simple, but the truth was infinitely more complicated!

Exhaust: Custom JR headers.

Transmission: Rob Holzman performed the mechanical restoration of the Pinto in 2000 and reinstalled a Lenco four-speed, per original. Remarked Holzman, “Even though it had a Powerglide in it when Brent bought it, the original mounts and holes for the Lenco were still there and were used when we reinstalled the trans.”

Rearend: Ford 9-inch with 5.68 gears, a spool, and Strange axles.

Chassis/Suspension: Gapp and Roush had Tom Smith’s Wolverine Chassis build the chassis for this car, one of many Pintos Wolverine did in the era. The front suspension was a production-based double A-arm arrangement with Koni coilovers, while the rear suspension featured Koni coilovers, a Watts link, and adjustable ladder bars.

Brakes: Strange 4-wheel discs.

Wheels/Tires: Period photos during the 1973 season generally show the Pinto running Motor Wheel Flys up front and Spyders in the rear. The 1975 images show Flys all around by the end of the G&R era, and that’s the way the Pinto appears today. Appearances can be deceiving, however, because the current wheels were actually custom-made by Bogart to strongly resemble Flys. The 15×3.5/15×12-inch rims are shod with Moroso frontrunners and Firestone 14.5/32.0-15 slicks.

Interior: The interior is pretty much as found in 2000, which is to say that it’s circa 1973 with various revisions through the years. Holzman tells us he believes the carpet, dash, seats, and door panels to be original, and likely other bits and pieces as well.

Exterior: Roush tells us that the G&R Pinto was so fresh when it arrived at the 1973 Winternats in Pomona, that it had yet to be painted: “Pomona ended up getting postponed for a week due to rain, so we took it to a nearby shop and had it painted in the interim.” A period article in Super Stock credited Tom Stratton for that paint job with multi-color accents, which was replicated in 2000. Fiberglass panels were used for the hood, hatch, fenders, and dash.

The post 1973 Ford Pinto: Gapp & Roush’s Fast Little Pro Stock Pony appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[strangeengineering]

Best Drag Racing Differentials and Spools | Strange Engineering

Built for the demands of high-horsepower drag racing, Strange Engineering’s differentials and spools are precision-crafted for serious racers. The lightweight spools ensure full power delivery to both wheels with zero slip—ideal for straight-line traction and consistent launches.

Key Features of the Product:

High-Strength Construction – Made from premium 4140 steel and heat-treated alloys for extreme durability.

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Contact Information:

For more details or to request a sample, visit Strange Engineering’s differentials and spools or contact Strange Engineering directly:

Phone: 800-646-6718

Choose the differentials and spools for a reliable, efficient, and top performance.

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[frenchwellness]

Forever Home East of a little town and down out past the hedges and burrows and scarlet-veined ivy there are two tobacco brown rivers that slit the soil and as they roll off into a backdrop of innumerable golden bushels of wheat and grain and pebbled soybeans there lies a treasured slice of triangulated land that sways rhythmically and sweet beneath the swarms of larks and teals and red breasted mergansers and they all funnel into a conflux where starlings swirl and trails amalgamate and muddy waters gurgle and here the earth inhales as farmers till up bronze and silver dust that seeps low and thick and leisurely with low pressure fronts arriving now and then and bringing with them a hollow feeling now and then akin to that uncanny calm before the storm that sears your nerves extraordinarily sensitive and carves your insides out and dilates your pupils as you cast them out upon the windswept cash crops that caress the jagged spines of carcasses that are strewn amok among the countless chinked and serrated arrowheads of which the farmers have sifted up as if they were artifacts of lost and incinerated souls and here beyond the beams of combines that move so slow they look like the silhouettes of toys you can catch the glimpse of an incandescent plume rising high on the land's southernmost rim nitric and looming and obscuring the horizon while it smears the distant view of ripped and mutilated flesh that drips with dripping drops of blood drip-by-drip-by-drip-by-drip into the soil until it becomes so densely saturated and infused with blood that the soil is glazed with only the deepest hues of crimson but the crimson grows deeper still into one shade short of black as the elongated shadow of a towering road sign inches over it and hovers like the octagon of an apocalyptic eclipse while a half smoked cigarette with its filter stained red with lipstick tumbles down into a ravine with its every ember glinting as if someone were actively taking a drag off it and it comes to rest beside a handful of cows that graze and huddle dead eyed and playful and unassuming and as the dripping blood glistens in little rivulets that sweat and fuse with dew to produce prismatic steam that wafts up from fallen leaves and jimsonweed and blades of uncut grass the cows strangely begin to congregate around the cigarette which still bellows with a barren burn though not a single suspect smoker is in sight and one by one the cows begin to low and look back and forth to one another and stare at the cigarette passively with sunflowers bursting flamboyantly behind them silent though you could imagine if they could speak and there are lovers parked not too far down the road who whisper with flickering anticipation and notice nothing before them but the relentless thrash of time as they await the sun to sink westward and bring the night so they can gaze at the fantastic stars that will soon dance and fracture in the reflections of their spiral eyes which are also galaxies of their own design that streak with microscopic stardust along the fathomless vaults of their own dark inner heavens while they unwittingly weld their hearts shut spark by spark until they are astrally castaway into the never-ending life defining consequences of the coming unforgettable night that will rend over the long run equal amounts of massive pleasure and suffering while the barbs surrounding them and the barbs that strangle them from loving freely and truly and without limit throughout that delicate and irredeemable time hang dull and oxidized with stiffened spools and clefts of wool left glued here and there from the viscous serum oozed out from the lacerations of prey and predator alike and as the fields all around start to burn you can feel a trembling roar begin to ripple down your spine with the robust and vital sensation that only the most arousing expectations can summon and sustain and as the firmament reigns on with gunshots reverberating amidst a sky of wispy clouds all wayward signs seem to point here to this very venerated and impossibly beautiful coordinate east and down of the little town where sits nothing but a faded stop sign half devoured by rust-riddled holes shot out by the blast of a man who at the time was a young cartographer of the heart but is now old and dead and the stop sign never did anything to him to deserve that blatant buckshot save serve as a mark of civilization in a land with no need for it since the lonesome intersection was passed by only a handful of motorists a day each of whom over the years had absentmindedly ambled through this unparalleled trek of land including this late mapmaker god rest his broken soul but every one of them had automatically and more accurately programmatically stopped at the stop sign and stared and looked both ways to see that it was only solitary dust that crossed the gravel minimum maintenance road but still every time without fail the motorists would give the dust the right of way and as the dust dispersed and settled and new dust formed they all began to feel something mysterious dispersing and forming deep inside of them that seemed to poke around for portals in need of calibration until they each began to feel the rigorous and synergetic schisms of something churning indescribable changes within them that made them all in the coming days dispense of their old selves as if they were worn out and no longer relevant snakeskins and they all became narrowly and obsessively focused on the single critical question of why they hadn't stopped there in that land and hung their hats and called it a merry day in the first place and they had all like atomic clockwork begun to ask themselves at the break of each new splendid rising sun how on god’s green earth could they have been so hapless to have let themselves press on that day when they'd been surrounded by all that staggering beauty and anything and everything to each of them soon became a mere retrospective shadow of that seismic inner moment and ever and spectacularly after once they’d allowed that truth to ferment and the memory had become something that bubbled like champagne in the crystal vessel of their mind’s unsinkable eye and their lives were all swept inevitably away from the sacred time they spent in that sacred space the stop sign ceased growing infinitely smaller behind them and began to grow infinitely larger before them because they had all begun to approach it from another angle in another dimension until it possessed them wholly and without doubt and none of them were ever the same again because they all knew that they'd been conquered by something absolute and pure and immeasurably special that had no bounds and could never be contained and though most of them thereafter never returned physically the memory had haunted them like the warm torment of something they could only feel and never touch which resided in the silent gaping holes that antagonized their each and every earthly delight until their souls were slowly devoured and spit out covered in a chemical concoction that petrified them into that bygone but somehow miraculously retrievable moment when they’d been ignited with a blaze of indestructible love that would never be extinguished nor allowed to burn dry and whenever and wherever they’d stopped and stared and looked both ways from that point forward whether it was by chance or choice or circumstance they were always struck with the eternally recurring question of why they hadn't stopped in that land of otherworldly beauty long ago and they all savagely tried to navigate their way back to it and though most of them had failed the hope was never lost by a single troubadour who made that lengthy quest that someday they would again attain the brilliance of that lost blessing and some of them did indeed attain it and those who did all said later when they were very old and wise and extremely teary eyed and smiling with a heartbreaking quiver that despite the clear improbability of reverse engineering that magnificent moment in time it had always been the slim possibility of their ultimate dream becoming true that kept them moving wildly and unmistakably onward and it wasn’t until they had finally returned to the starting point of their greatest odyssey that they had known in the heart within their heart that they had come to the place they were meant to build a life and so each of them upon their final return dropped to their knees and unraveled and exhaled and kissed the ground and called that land forever home.

[jesusvasser]

First Drive: 2018 Porsche Panamera Sport Turismo

VICTORIA, Canada — A revealed silhouette formed a disarmingly sleek shape at the 2012 Paris auto show, transforming the bubble-tailed Panamera into an elegant, easier-on-the-eyes wagon. The peanut gallery begged, “Build it!” Five years later, Porsche has obliged. From design experiment to a serially produced car, the 2018 Porsche Panamera Sport Turismo is a more utilitarian – and some would say better looking – take on the Panamera form.

If not for a quick walkaround before climbing into the driver’s seat of the Panamera Sport Turismo, you wouldn’t know you’re piloting a wagonized version of the sports sedan that was widely adored for its driving dynamics and only recently appreciated for its facelifted looks. While piloting a 2018 Panamera Turbo Sport Turismo down a gravelly b-road on the outskirts of town in British Columbia, character lines and cargo capacity are the last things on my reptile mind as I focus instead on the abject absurdity of a 550 horsepower grocery getting wagon that can punch to 60 mph in 3.6 seconds and dance the fandango like a banshee. Strange days we face indeed, when enthusiast-appeasing niches are tackled with such earnest gusto.

Real World Ready

Unlike countless concept car cul de sacs, the Sport Turismo’s compromises are nearly nil, with less than 100 pounds of weight gain countered by a three-person rear seat that makes it the first five-passenger Panamera in history (though the small middle seat really makes it more of a four-plus-one). Volumetric gains are incremental, achieving between 4 and 5.5 cu-ft of space depending on seat fold-down configurations. Sure, the power operated fifth door offers a lower load-in and a slightly friendlier form factor for payload, but let’s stay sober: the Sport Turismo is more an aesthetic power play couched under the veil of practicality (“Honey, it’ll fit the kids!”) than a low-slung answer to the eternal crossover question.

Four Sport Turismo variants are available: Panamera 4 ($97,250), 4 E-Hybrid ($105,050), 4S ($110,250), and Turbo ($155,050). Corresponding powerplants are a 330 hp single-turbo 3.0-liter V-6, an electrified 462 hp twin-turbo 2.9-liter V-6, a 440 hp twin-turbo 2.9-liter V-6, and a 550 hp twin-turbo 4.0-liter V-8. All are mated to an eight-speed PDK transmission.

Predictably, Porsche didn’t just sloppily tack on the hunchback and let physics fall to the wayside. Key to managing the hatch’s aerodynamic stability is a Sport Turismo-specific, three-position active rear spoiler that reduces drag below 105 mph and creates up to 110 pounds of downforce at higher speeds. The spoiler also works in conjunction with the optional panoramic roof in order to reduce wind noise. Also employed are electromechanical anti-roll bars which activate more quickly than hydraulic setups, enabling stiffer suspension in the curves.

Road (Trip) Warrior

The 4 E-Hybrid makes full use of the spoiler’s noise reducing effect with its electric-only “E” mode, which seamlessly propels the Panamera at speeds up to 87 mph. Expect an average EV-only range of 31 miles. Press the right pedal hard enough and the twin-turbo V-6 kicks in, but not obtrusively enough to lose the silky smooth storyline. Though the hybrid doesn’t hit you over the head with its peakiness or surprise surges, its broad powerband makes for swift acceleration. Countering that tendency for facile forward motion is a brake pedal that feels counterintuitively light at lower speeds, until the regenerative braking switches to a traditional caliper-squeezing endeavor. Haters may hate the idea of a partially electrified Porsche, but the Hybrid’s 4.4 second 0 to 60 mph time and 170 mph top speed should quell those critics. While the 4 E-Hybrid does remarkably well at masking its 4,828 lb curb weight on mountain passes (my tester was aided by $1,620 rear axle steering and $8,970 carbon ceramic brakes), the mass becomes evident during challenging corners when road irregularities involve heave motion in addition to cornering. Pressing the shock-stiffening button makes the Panamera feel more planted, but compliance suffers and it makes it more difficult to tackle the bumpy bits without upsetting the chassis. Admittedly, it’s a bit nitpicky to criticize the hybrid’s handling at speeds that would challenge some sports cars. For some perspective, consider the crucial data point that you’re in a full-size five-passenger car, not a focused two-seater.

Switch to the Turbo Sport Turismo, and the sensations of grunt increase considerably. Without an electric motor assisting with thrust there’s a suspense-building crescendo that feels fiercer and can sprint to 60 mph in 3.6 seconds. If you can do without the wagon part of the equation, the Panamera 4 E-Hybrid produces an even more stunning 680 horsepower. Regardless of range-topping stablemates, our tester, kitted out at $198,360, offered arrest-me-now performance with a suspension that felt better equipped to handle the inevitable imperfections of real world roads. Its 4,486 lb curb weight is likely the greatest contributor to the improved handling. Switch the steering wheel mounted dial to Sport or Sport +, and the Turbo feels spooled and ready to tackle the next high speed pass.

Weapon of Choice

For all the aesthetic appeal inherent to the Orthodox School of Wagons, Porsche’s Sport Turismo models do satisfy some practical considerations the Panamera can’t answer. But the true appeal lies in their ability to tie an elongated silhouette to performance that defies the usual trappings of utility. Though the Turbo delivers more cohesively engaging high-speed handling, the 4-E Hybrid’s quiet coasting and discreet power reserves offer a novel combination of city-friendly EV power and balls-to-the-wall grunt when you want it. The standard Panamera’s updated styling already lends the four-door a certain appeal, but the Sport Turismo adds an element of inscrutable whimsy. Choose your weapon wisely, though it’s hard to go wrong if you have the means to indulge in either variant of these six-figure sleds.

2018 Porsche Panamera SporTurismo Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $96,200 (base) ENGINES 3.0L turbocharged DOHC 24-valve V-6/330 hp @ 5,400-6,400 rpm, 331 lb-ft @ 1,340-4,900 rpm 2.9L twin-turbo DOHC 24-valve V-6/440 hp @ 5,650-6,600 rpm, 405 lb-ft @ 1,750-5,500 rpm 2.9L twin-turbo DOHC 24-valve V-6/330 hp @ 5,250-6,500 rpm,331 lb-ft @ 1,750-5,000 rpm plus electric motor/136 hp @ 2,800 rpm, 295 lb-ft @ 100-2,300 rpm; combined/462 hp @ 6,00 rpm, 516 lb-ft @ 1,100-4,500 rpm 4.0L twin-turbo DOHC 32-valve V-8/550 hp @ 5,750-6,000 rpm, 567 lb-ft @ 1,960-4,500 rpm TRANSMISSION 8-speed dual-clutch automatic LAYOUT 4-door, 5-passenger, front-engine, RWD/AWD wagon EPA MILEAGE 18-21/25-28 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 198.8 x 76.3 x 56.2 in WHEELBASE 116.1 in WEIGHT 4,144-4,828 lb 0-60 MPH 3.4-5.2 sec TOP SPEED 160-188 mph

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[jonathanbelloblog]

First Drive: 2018 Porsche Panamera Sport Turismo

VICTORIA, Canada — A revealed silhouette formed a disarmingly sleek shape at the 2012 Paris auto show, transforming the bubble-tailed Panamera into an elegant, easier-on-the-eyes wagon. The peanut gallery begged, “Build it!” Five years later, Porsche has obliged. From design experiment to a serially produced car, the 2018 Porsche Panamera Sport Turismo is a more utilitarian – and some would say better looking – take on the Panamera form.

If not for a quick walkaround before climbing into the driver’s seat of the Panamera Sport Turismo, you wouldn’t know you’re piloting a wagonized version of the sports sedan that was widely adored for its driving dynamics and only recently appreciated for its facelifted looks. While piloting a 2018 Panamera Turbo Sport Turismo down a gravelly b-road on the outskirts of town in British Columbia, character lines and cargo capacity are the last things on my reptile mind as I focus instead on the abject absurdity of a 550 horsepower grocery getting wagon that can punch to 60 mph in 3.6 seconds and dance the fandango like a banshee. Strange days we face indeed, when enthusiast-appeasing niches are tackled with such earnest gusto.

Real World Ready

Unlike countless concept car cul de sacs, the Sport Turismo’s compromises are nearly nil, with less than 100 pounds of weight gain countered by a three-person rear seat that makes it the first five-passenger Panamera in history (though the small middle seat really makes it more of a four-plus-one). Volumetric gains are incremental, achieving between 4 and 5.5 cu-ft of space depending on seat fold-down configurations. Sure, the power operated fifth door offers a lower load-in and a slightly friendlier form factor for payload, but let’s stay sober: the Sport Turismo is more an aesthetic power play couched under the veil of practicality (“Honey, it’ll fit the kids!”) than a low-slung answer to the eternal crossover question.

Four Sport Turismo variants are available: Panamera 4 ($97,250), 4 E-Hybrid ($105,050), 4S ($110,250), and Turbo ($155,050). Corresponding powerplants are a 330 hp single-turbo 3.0-liter V-6, an electrified 462 hp twin-turbo 2.9-liter V-6, a 440 hp twin-turbo 2.9-liter V-6, and a 550 hp twin-turbo 4.0-liter V-8. All are mated to an eight-speed PDK transmission.

Predictably, Porsche didn’t just sloppily tack on the hunchback and let physics fall to the wayside. Key to managing the hatch’s aerodynamic stability is a Sport Turismo-specific, three-position active rear spoiler that reduces drag below 105 mph and creates up to 110 pounds of downforce at higher speeds. The spoiler also works in conjunction with the optional panoramic roof in order to reduce wind noise. Also employed are electromechanical anti-roll bars which activate more quickly than hydraulic setups, enabling stiffer suspension in the curves.

Road (Trip) Warrior

The 4 E-Hybrid makes full use of the spoiler’s noise reducing effect with its electric-only “E” mode, which seamlessly propels the Panamera at speeds up to 87 mph. Expect an average EV-only range of 31 miles. Press the right pedal hard enough and the twin-turbo V-6 kicks in, but not obtrusively enough to lose the silky smooth storyline. Though the hybrid doesn’t hit you over the head with its peakiness or surprise surges, its broad powerband makes for swift acceleration. Countering that tendency for facile forward motion is a brake pedal that feels counterintuitively light at lower speeds, until the regenerative braking switches to a traditional caliper-squeezing endeavor. Haters may hate the idea of a partially electrified Porsche, but the Hybrid’s 4.4 second 0 to 60 mph time and 170 mph top speed should quell those critics. While the 4 E-Hybrid does remarkably well at masking its 4,828 lb curb weight on mountain passes (my tester was aided by $1,620 rear axle steering and $8,970 carbon ceramic brakes), the mass becomes evident during challenging corners when road irregularities involve heave motion in addition to cornering. Pressing the shock-stiffening button makes the Panamera feel more planted, but compliance suffers and it makes it more difficult to tackle the bumpy bits without upsetting the chassis. Admittedly, it’s a bit nitpicky to criticize the hybrid’s handling at speeds that would challenge some sports cars. For some perspective, consider the crucial data point that you’re in a full-size five-passenger car, not a focused two-seater.

Switch to the Turbo Sport Turismo, and the sensations of grunt increase considerably. Without an electric motor assisting with thrust there’s a suspense-building crescendo that feels fiercer and can sprint to 60 mph in 3.6 seconds. If you can do without the wagon part of the equation, the Panamera 4 E-Hybrid produces an even more stunning 680 horsepower. Regardless of range-topping stablemates, our tester, kitted out at $198,360, offered arrest-me-now performance with a suspension that felt better equipped to handle the inevitable imperfections of real world roads. Its 4,486 lb curb weight is likely the greatest contributor to the improved handling. Switch the steering wheel mounted dial to Sport or Sport +, and the Turbo feels spooled and ready to tackle the next high speed pass.

Weapon of Choice

For all the aesthetic appeal inherent to the Orthodox School of Wagons, Porsche’s Sport Turismo models do satisfy some practical considerations the Panamera can’t answer. But the true appeal lies in their ability to tie an elongated silhouette to performance that defies the usual trappings of utility. Though the Turbo delivers more cohesively engaging high-speed handling, the 4-E Hybrid’s quiet coasting and discreet power reserves offer a novel combination of city-friendly EV power and balls-to-the-wall grunt when you want it. The standard Panamera’s updated styling already lends the four-door a certain appeal, but the Sport Turismo adds an element of inscrutable whimsy. Choose your weapon wisely, though it’s hard to go wrong if you have the means to indulge in either variant of these six-figure sleds.

2018 Porsche Panamera SporTurismo Specifications

ON SALENowPRICE$96,200 (base)ENGINES3.0L turbocharged DOHC 24-valve V-6/330 hp @ 5,400-6,400 rpm, 331 lb-ft @ 1,340-4,900 rpm 2.9L twin-turbo DOHC 24-valve V-6/440 hp @ 5,650-6,600 rpm, 405 lb-ft @ 1,750-5,500 rpm 2.9L twin-turbo DOHC 24-valve V-6/330 hp @ 5,250-6,500 rpm,331 lb-ft @ 1,750-5,000 rpm plus electric motor/136 hp @ 2,800 rpm, 295 lb-ft @ 100-2,300 rpm; combined/462 hp @ 6,00 rpm, 516 lb-ft @ 1,100-4,500 rpm 4.0L twin-turbo DOHC 32-valve V-8/550 hp @ 5,750-6,000 rpm, 567 lb-ft @ 1,960-4,500 rpmTRANSMISSION8-speed dual-clutch automaticLAYOUT4-door, 5-passenger, front-engine, RWD/AWD wagonEPA MILEAGE18-21/25-28 mpg (city/hwy)L x W x H198.8 x 76.3 x 56.2 inWHEELBASE116.1 inWEIGHT4,144-4,828 lb0-60 MPH3.4-5.2 secTOP SPEED160-188 mph

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[muscle-cars-aesthetics]

1966 Dodge Charger ---------------------------------- Facts ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️ Engine: Chrysler 470ci big-block Block: factory 400 block bored to 4.378 inches Oiling: Melling oil pump, Moroso pan Rotating assembly: forged 440 Source 3.900-inch crank, rods, and 10.3:1 pistons Cylinder heads: ported Edelbrock Victor aluminum castings with 2.200-/1.810-inch valves Camshaft: COMP Cams 275/285-at-.050 solid roller; .660-/.660-inch lift; 108-degree LSA Valvetrain: COMP Cams valvesprings, timing set, and pushrods Induction: Indy Cylinder Head single-plane manifold, Barry Grant 950-cfm carb Ignition: MSD billet distributor, 6AL ignition box, and crank trigger Exhaust: Hooker long-tube headers, custom H-pipe, dual 3.5-inch outlets Cooling system: CSI electric water pump, four-row radiator, Nissan electric fans Output: 540 rear-wheel hp at 6,400 rpm Transmission: Chrysler TorqueFlite 727 automatic, Dynamic Trans 4,400-stall converter Rear axle: Chrysler 8.75-inch with Strange 35-spline axles, 4.30:1 gears, and spool Front suspension: factory Hemi torsion bars, Competition Engineering shocks, Flaming River steering box Rear suspension: Super Stock leaf springs; Mopar Performance shocks and sway bar Wheels: Weld Drag Star 15×4, front; 15×10, rear Tires: Widetrack 165R15 radials, front; Mickey Thompson 315/60R15 ET Street Radials, rear ---------------------------------- #mopar #dodge #charger #challenger #hotrod #musclecar #v8 #follow #like #plymouth #cuda #roadrunner

[robertkstone]

First Drive: 2018 Porsche Panamera Sport Turismo

VICTORIA, Canada — A revealed silhouette formed a disarmingly sleek shape at the 2012 Paris auto show, transforming the bubble-tailed Panamera into an elegant, easier-on-the-eyes wagon. The peanut gallery begged, “Build it!” Five years later, Porsche has obliged. From design experiment to a serially produced car, the 2018 Porsche Panamera Sport Turismo is a more utilitarian – and some would say better looking – take on the Panamera form.

If not for a quick walkaround before climbing into the driver’s seat of the Panamera Sport Turismo, you wouldn’t know you’re piloting a wagonized version of the sports sedan that was widely adored for its driving dynamics and only recently appreciated for its facelifted looks. While piloting a 2018 Panamera Turbo Sport Turismo down a gravelly b-road on the outskirts of town in British Columbia, character lines and cargo capacity are the last things on my reptile mind as I focus instead on the abject absurdity of a 550 horsepower grocery getting wagon that can punch to 60 mph in 3.6 seconds and dance the fandango like a banshee. Strange days we face indeed, when enthusiast-appeasing niches are tackled with such earnest gusto.

Real World Ready

Unlike countless concept car cul de sacs, the Sport Turismo’s compromises are nearly nil, with less than 100 pounds of weight gain countered by a three-person rear seat that makes it the first five-passenger Panamera in history (though the small middle seat really makes it more of a four-plus-one). Volumetric gains are incremental, achieving between 4 and 5.5 cu-ft of space depending on seat fold-down configurations. Sure, the power operated fifth door offers a lower load-in and a slightly friendlier form factor for payload, but let’s stay sober: the Sport Turismo is more an aesthetic power play couched under the veil of practicality (“Honey, it’ll fit the kids!”) than a low-slung answer to the eternal crossover question.

Four Sport Turismo variants are available: Panamera 4 ($97,250), 4 E-Hybrid ($105,050), 4S ($110,250), and Turbo ($155,050). Corresponding powerplants are a 330 hp single-turbo 3.0-liter V-6, an electrified 462 hp twin-turbo 2.9-liter V-6, a 440 hp twin-turbo 2.9-liter V-6, and a 550 hp twin-turbo 4.0-liter V-8. All are mated to an eight-speed PDK transmission.

Predictably, Porsche didn’t just sloppily tack on the hunchback and let physics fall to the wayside. Key to managing the hatch’s aerodynamic stability is a Sport Turismo-specific, three-position active rear spoiler that reduces drag below 105 mph and creates up to 110 pounds of downforce at higher speeds. The spoiler also works in conjunction with the optional panoramic roof in order to reduce wind noise. Also employed are electromechanical anti-roll bars which activate more quickly than hydraulic setups, enabling stiffer suspension in the curves.

Road (Trip) Warrior

The 4 E-Hybrid makes full use of the spoiler’s noise reducing effect with its electric-only “E” mode, which seamlessly propels the Panamera at speeds up to 87 mph. Expect an average EV-only range of 31 miles. Press the right pedal hard enough and the twin-turbo V-6 kicks in, but not obtrusively enough to lose the silky smooth storyline. Though the hybrid doesn’t hit you over the head with its peakiness or surprise surges, its broad powerband makes for swift acceleration. Countering that tendency for facile forward motion is a brake pedal that feels counterintuitively light at lower speeds, until the regenerative braking switches to a traditional caliper-squeezing endeavor. Haters may hate the idea of a partially electrified Porsche, but the Hybrid’s 4.4 second 0 to 60 mph time and 170 mph top speed should quell those critics. While the 4 E-Hybrid does remarkably well at masking its 4,828 lb curb weight on mountain passes (my tester was aided by $1,620 rear axle steering and $8,970 carbon ceramic brakes), the mass becomes evident during challenging corners when road irregularities involve heave motion in addition to cornering. Pressing the shock-stiffening button makes the Panamera feel more planted, but compliance suffers and it makes it more difficult to tackle the bumpy bits without upsetting the chassis. Admittedly, it’s a bit nitpicky to criticize the hybrid’s handling at speeds that would challenge some sports cars. For some perspective, consider the crucial data point that you’re in a full-size five-passenger car, not a focused two-seater.

Switch to the Turbo Sport Turismo, and the sensations of grunt increase considerably. Without an electric motor assisting with thrust there’s a suspense-building crescendo that feels fiercer and can sprint to 60 mph in 3.6 seconds. If you can do without the wagon part of the equation, the Panamera 4 E-Hybrid produces an even more stunning 680 horsepower. Regardless of range-topping stablemates, our tester, kitted out at $198,360, offered arrest-me-now performance with a suspension that felt better equipped to handle the inevitable imperfections of real world roads. Its 4,486 lb curb weight is likely the greatest contributor to the improved handling. Switch the steering wheel mounted dial to Sport or Sport +, and the Turbo feels spooled and ready to tackle the next high speed pass.

Weapon of Choice

For all the aesthetic appeal inherent to the Orthodox School of Wagons, Porsche’s Sport Turismo models do satisfy some practical considerations the Panamera can’t answer. But the true appeal lies in their ability to tie an elongated silhouette to performance that defies the usual trappings of utility. Though the Turbo delivers more cohesively engaging high-speed handling, the 4-E Hybrid’s quiet coasting and discreet power reserves offer a novel combination of city-friendly EV power and balls-to-the-wall grunt when you want it. The standard Panamera’s updated styling already lends the four-door a certain appeal, but the Sport Turismo adds an element of inscrutable whimsy. Choose your weapon wisely, though it’s hard to go wrong if you have the means to indulge in either variant of these six-figure sleds.

2018 Porsche Panamera SporTurismo Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $96,200 (base) ENGINES 3.0L turbocharged DOHC 24-valve V-6/330 hp @ 5,400-6,400 rpm, 331 lb-ft @ 1,340-4,900 rpm 2.9L twin-turbo DOHC 24-valve V-6/440 hp @ 5,650-6,600 rpm, 405 lb-ft @ 1,750-5,500 rpm 2.9L twin-turbo DOHC 24-valve V-6/330 hp @ 5,250-6,500 rpm,331 lb-ft @ 1,750-5,000 rpm plus electric motor/136 hp @ 2,800 rpm, 295 lb-ft @ 100-2,300 rpm; combined/462 hp @ 6,00 rpm, 516 lb-ft @ 1,100-4,500 rpm 4.0L twin-turbo DOHC 32-valve V-8/550 hp @ 5,750-6,000 rpm, 567 lb-ft @ 1,960-4,500 rpm TRANSMISSION 8-speed dual-clutch automatic LAYOUT 4-door, 5-passenger, front-engine, RWD/AWD wagon EPA MILEAGE 18-21/25-28 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 198.8 x 76.3 x 56.2 in WHEELBASE 116.1 in WEIGHT 4,144-4,828 lb 0-60 MPH 3.4-5.2 sec TOP SPEED 160-188 mph

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Get 12-Bolt Drop-Out Installation Kits: Strange Engineering

Strange Engineering’s 12 Bolt Drop Out Ford 9-Inch Third Members are built for racers and performance enthusiasts who demand strength, easy serviceability, and consistent performance—even under extreme torque. Engineered for durability that lasts.

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7075-T73 Billet Aluminum

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