CWMC Cold Storage Bunker #3, Ardrossan, Ab: If there was only one rule in the entire vast and hugely varied spectrum of the automotive universe, it would read:
Never Buy a Rough SM.
" 'Never buy a rough SM' was actually the 9th commandment..." said FCD heavyweight and fellow Citroenthusiast Agent 9088 today in a telephone interview from his lavish winter retreat in Cannes where he was last seen partying with Keith and Jack aboard Johnny Depp's yacht, drinking 1962 Richebourg out of paper bags and shooting safety flares at passing tourists, "...until it was changed at the last minute to 'Thou shalt not covet', which is, of course, pretty much impossible, and therefore much better for business."
"Speaking of coveting, that's a sweet SM you have there... "
|Breaking the needle off the "Run-Away"-meter.|
Agents from all the other Divisions have been crippling the ancient switch- board with angry telephonic tirades, mostly bemoaning the inevitable slashing of their own expenses as the event horizon of the budgetary black-hole that accompanies SM ownership annihilates everything in its path.
Even Satan, in town to attend the climate-change summit just for chuckles, has been leaving multiple messages on the Presidential answering machine...
"Whoa, that's a seriously fuckin' bad idea, man; I mean, you should really think about what you're doing there, hey? That is a pretty irrational thing, you know? Like, I've talked some people into some fucked-up shit before, but an SM? A rough SM, in a field? Are you kidding? I can't even watch."
|A 100-metre test drive was deemed sufficient.|
The SM, resplen- dent(ed) in a rusty-matte-grey and black-poplar-residue -crud finish that pundits are suggesting may have been silver back when the SM owners club had names like Chong, Brezhnev and Hailwood on the register, actually ventured out of its northern-boreal-forest home after some minor ministration from FCD Chairman Agent 747, dragging it's flat rear tires like a wounded deer, revving hard and digging some nice trenches in the soft tundra in a manner only somewhat inconsistent with the dignity implied in the car's pedigree.
Witnesses from the French Auto Recovery Team were unsure whether to cheer the repeated attempts to crest the final hill or look away in horror; F.A.R.T. Agents in various states of redneckness smoked monstrous joints and drank heavily-fortified double-doubles and shoved the once-graceful GT towards freedom, pausing only occasionally to ask what all of the green oil was that trailed the cavalcade of Franco-Italian corruption as it inched forward to the trailer procured for the Operation.
|Prime parking in Cold Storage Bunker #4.|
"Hey, it's Satan again, buddy. I just wanted you to really think about what you're doing here. People care about you, you know? We have some good times, right? I mean, do you really think you're going to be the guy that can daily a cheap SM? It's impossible. I mean, I'm pretty crafty and all, but if you think I'm going to help you change the growly input-shaft thrust-bearing on this thing, you're really off the rails. Not for a thousand souls, buddy. And don't think God will come to your rescue, either. I don't think He even has a 9mm offset-stubby ratcheting-flare-wrench... You're on your own here, man."
Luckily, Agent 747 will happily go there for a reasonable hourly-rate. While Beelzebub retreated, blubbering at the prospect of rebuilding the clutch-slave cylinder, Agent 747 calmly relayed the secret procedure in stark, mostly unambiguous language...
"Thou shalt undo that bunch of wires over there, and those bunches there, too.
Thou must then loosen all these shitty little 7mm bolts over here and here..."
ok... "Thou shalt then undo all of these clampy-things on this side of this bracket here. Whenst thou hast removed the Fender, thou may layeth thine eyes upon the ancient and most holy location of the slave cylinder. Here, thou shalt perhaps make an offering in the form of a quiche or perhaps just a nice glass of red..."
And so on for several weeks.
The President, chaining Export Plains from a tattered box of Gualoises and making unsilenced Weber sounds, has not moved from behind the wheel in several days as the French Car Sickness reaches it's terminal phase. All attempts to divert his attention from the 70's futurist dreamscape he now inhabits have met only with muttered mantras of "gotta check the chain tension... don't forget to upgrade the exhaust valves... that big dent in the side will probably just kick out..." etc. All Agents are encouraged to stop in and offer their congratulations or, in the case of Agent 1080, condolences.
|Agent 1080 could literally barely contain himself.|
"Dude. Satan. Am I reading this right? A LeCar? Dude, you need to sell it to me right away; so awesome... Call me."