BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

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Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 305 Sort of as a footnote explanation, I‟d recently had another experience in my car on this same street. I was in the Willow with some buddies and my motorboat mouth soon overloaded my rowboat ass. I was bitch racing with a guy from another table and finally bragged my car was so fast, we could tape a hundred dollar bill to the dashboard and he wouldn‟t be able to grab it until I reached fourth gear. He took me up on it. Even pulled a crisp new hundred out of his pocket. Well, shit! Who‟d‟ve thought the asshole would make a bet like that? I knew I was dog meat, but I was in too far to back out, so I took up a fast collection from my friends. They suddenly weren‟t so friendly, but after a lot of grumbling, we pieced together a hundred dollars. We showed it, then used his real c-note to tape to my dash. With that guy riding shotgun, I idled my beast out to the street and got ready. The average car today, doing seventy on a freeway, turns around 3,000 rpm, (revolutions per minute). The same average car, if taken to 5,000, or 5,500 rpm, will blow the engine in a minute or less. I‟d rev my Chevelle SS up to 7,000 just to bring it out of the hole, meaning to get started, for those who don‟t speak “drag strip”. I‟d watch my Sun tachometer and shift gears when the engine reached 8,000 rpm, so my car was not a standard model, by any means. The guy sat back, all ready and waiting to claim the money. <strong>My</strong> buddies gave me dirty looks and mumbled ugly names, positive I'd lose, wondering how soon I‟d pay „em back. So, I tached it up to seven grand, dumped the Shiefer clutch, and shifted three times at 8,000 rpm. Leviticus, Limited 33-0505963
Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 306 The hundred was still on my dashboard. He couldn‟t even lean forward in the seat to grab it, my car‟s takeoff was so powerful. The G forces kept him pinned to the seat back. After that, I even believed myself, and so did my pals. So, tonight, I had no worry about blowing this asshole‟s doors off. We finished playing pool, and I made him pay me before we went out back. I told Jack and his crew I was leaving and they all said good-bye. When we were in the parking lot, the black guy saw my car wasn‟t stock, as he‟d thought. He began hedging, and finally insisted I start it up so he could hear it run. I think I explained, the car was now a 412 cubic inch engine putting out 540 horsepower. It came from the factory with 325 horses, so it was a tad improved. <strong>My</strong> Chevelle also had to idle at 1,500 rpm to avoid stalling, and the only exhaust off the headers was a pair of Thrush mufflers. The car was very loud. The black guy, and his three buddies, (did I mention there were four of them and I was all alone?), now called off the race. Oh, and the bet. Half shitfaced by that point, I was now even more pissed at him than I was before. Unfortunately, I told him so, including my opinion of his sorry black ass and his car. Somewhere in my tirade, I crossed a line I shouldn‟t‟ve crossed. For reasons I can only guess at, (like all the nasty things I just said), he was pissed. Very pissed. He decided to exact revenge, but wasn‟t so blind pissed as to take me on all by himself. No, all three friends were gonna join in. Hang on, boys and girls, it gets worse. All four had switchblades. In my opinion. That‟s worse. A whole lot worse. Then it got even more severe. The mouthy black guy, the one I‟d had all this Leviticus, Limited 33-0505963
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BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

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