Towing it to the car show with "The Mongrel", a load of Youffs pulled up next to me at the lights. The 98 Commodore was dropped on it's guts, 18inch wheels were scraping, the bass-kicker a bit louder than a trick exhaust.
A prerequisite peroxide-blond roughie extended from the passenger window and yells, "what the F#@k is that" pointing at the trailer load.
Protruding myself from Mongrel's window I yelled back - "Salt Lake Racer" - checking Da-Boys with reverse Baseball caps in the back seat (except we don't have Baseball here, so the caps extol allegiance to Bunnings Timber, Repco Auto Parts, or Danny's Burgers).
Momentary communication, established with an alien craft, about to end with the changing of traffic lights. Da-Boys were fascinated, but looking worried at The Mongrel (it tends to clear it's own path in crowded traffic).
Da-Boys consorted excitedly a question for roughie-mouthpiece, "how fast does it go"?
"Two Hundred and Ninety Eight..." the thick bushy eyebrows raised to edges of the caps.
"M I L E S - P E R - H O U R" I yelled slow and clear, knowing full-well only two of these five kids knew what a "mile" is, and would argue the rest of their journey about a conversion to Kilometres.
Green-light, old Mongrel let forth a mighty groan and a plume of diesel smoke. Fully-Sic-Mate Commodore stayed still, Da-Boys gave a thumbs-up salute, and waited. I flipped the volume back up, catching the end of a Johnny song, "I'm gunna break free. Gunna break my rusty cage... and run".
A few seconds later there was the noise I expected, the tuned strain of a backwards fart from a waste gate, consoling Da-Boys: they are indeed "Fully-Sic-Mate". Roughie's busy inspecting her painted claws, oblivious to Da-Boys: arms rapidly point at the Belly Tank and gesticulate wildly at each other. The arguement is on.
I love suburban Australia.