The Legend Begins

I guess the whole thing started innocently enough. At the tender age of 15 I was invited by an older friend to attend a "Drag Race". One in which money was being wagered. The competitors were a (then) new IROC Camaro, vs. a 1983 Mustang GT.
The owners of the cars were stereotypical. The new IROC owner had wealthy parents, as evidenced by his perfect hair, and full Polo/Ralph something-or-other wardrobe. The Mustang owner was the same age, but obviously from blue collar roots, wearing Dickies work clothes, and held down a full time job to pay his own way through life.

All I knew of Mustangs at the time was that while feared and revered muscle cars of the 1960’s. The mid 70's thru early 80's cars were hopeless pigs, unable to out run a fat man on foot.

I had heard the rumors that Ford had put the muscle back in the mustang, and was strongly encouraged to bet on the under dog Mustang, at 3:1 odds. I, with no small amount of reservation, bet $50.00 on the mustang, which was pretty much all the money I had in the world.
Ever hear the phrase "The bullshit stops when the green flag drops"? What that refers to is a "Flag man" or woman who starts the race by waving a green flag over their head until they drop it to their waist, meaning "GO". The Camaro had a very ominous sounding idle, like a real muscle car, totally drowning out the exhaust note of the Mustang. Each Driver had a "Spotter" at the end of a 1/4 mile stretch of road, to observe who won or lost. There was rarely disagreement between the spotters, back then "Honor" was still a meaningful word.

As the green flag dropped, dice were thrown, with my money riding on the tumble. Please remember this was 1984, $50.00 was like $500.00 in today's money. At the 60 foot mark, the mustang was ahead by a bumper, a full car length at mid track, and about 3 bus lengths and still pulling hard on the IROC when the race was over.

I won 150.00 that night, had a new respect for Mustang 5.0's…and as it turned out was hooked for life.
Two weeks later, I bought a 1967 Mustang Convertible. It had been sitting since 1979, when it was crashed through a farmers fence, and subsequently struck a cow, and a tree, in that order. I can still hear that old farmer laughing at the fool who not only hauled away the junk Ford, but gave him 35.00 for the fun of doing it.

Thus began my odyssey. Please remember, then there were only 2 places in the U.S. that sold restoration parts for these cars, and the prices for them were higher than they are now, WITHOUT INFLATION ADJUSTING THE VALUE OF THE DOLLARS. So the majority of the parts for the project were scavenged from junk yards and swap meets. I did all the work on the car over the brutal winter of 1984, in a neighbors unheated 1-car garage.
The tools I had were given to me by my beloved Grandfather, may he sit at the right hand of Jesus forever, from culling through his own set (he was a heavy diesel mechanic) and giving me any duplicates he had. (Quick side note: I now work out of a custom painted Matco tool box, built especially for me by Matco, and it is the largest tool box in the state of Missouri, if not the entire U.S. The Craftsman hand box my Grandpa gave me with its 88 piece tool set, is still in my possession, and is one of my most treasured material possessions.)

I think the results were amazing given a shoe string budget, the original 289 was rebuilt by me. You must remember that back then, there was no internet, Jeggs and Summit Racing were mere 20 page leaflets, and I did not even know anyone who owned a credit card.
I scoured junk yards, looking for factory hi performance pieces, had the valve covers chromed at a local bumper shop, and only bought two after market items: The Aluminum Edelbrock intake manifold, and a generic set of made in china headers. The Carburetor came from a 462 Lincoln engine, as it was the biggest I could find.

That Car would go on to win many a street race, transport many a stripper, and was my ticket to the adventure that has Been my life ever since. The 67 Mustang was nicknamed "The Cherry Breaker", I think due to the fact it was painted red?

By 1986, my convertible had reached its terrible limit. When you remove the steel roof from a car, you reduce its structural integrity by a factor of about 60%. Despite my efforts at reinforcing the unibody, the Mustang, by then on its third engine/trans combo was actually twisting under the torque of the Motor. There was no way to add more reinforcement, and the weight of more steel was the last thing it needed. Thus, my 1967 Mustang Convertible was retired, to be my weekend fun/date car. (It is still with me to this day, in its own Special "Princess Garage", taken out rarely when I want to feel young again.)

Thus the search was on for a replacement (Steel roof) car. It was the summer of 1986. There was no Barrett Jackson, E bay, or insane prices for 60's Muscle cars. They were just "Used cars", and often hard for dealers to move due to lousy gas mileage, the fact that most had manual transmissions, and 60's Mustangs were prone to Rust. So that summer, From Honest Charlie’s used car lot, I purchased a 1968 Mustang fastback, with the 428 "Cobra Jet" engine, a 4 speed trans, and a factory option 4.10 rear end. The car cost me $1500 - Rust Free. What that means is, the car cost $1500 and all the rust around the wheel wells was thrown in at no additional charge. The odometer showed 98,000 miles, but due to the blue smoke belching from the tail pipes, there is no doubt in my mind it was at least 198,000 miles.

By that time, I had moved away from my parents house, and rented a crap ass little shack on East Bergman. The house sucked, but what a killer garage it had, heat, overhead lights, Running water, for me a dream come true. To off set the expenses, I had 3 room mates, all three of whom were "Exotic Dancers". The stories of what went on inside that house are the stuff of every school boys dream, but that is best left for another time, and perhaps an "Adult" oriented website.

The 68 Fastback was rolled into that beautiful garage, which the girls I lived with referred to as my "Lab", and the black magic began. The rusty rear wheel wells were a blessing in disguise, as it made it much easier to cut them with a Sawzall to accommodate the racing slicks. The engine was removed and gone through, and I hand port matched the intake runners to the heads, which were also hand ported and polished. Remember, CNC technology was 20 years away. I had a total of 100 hours in intake/cylinder head work alone. Along with other tricks that will go with me to my grave, I added a (then) new system to the car, Nitrous oxide. I quickly realized the jets that injected the Nitrous could be easily enlarged, I was off and running.

After such huge expenditure on the engine/trans/rear end, .I had no money (Or energy) left for paint. So, I rattle can painted grey primer over the worst of the rust, hoping to prevent the holes from getting bigger, and hit the street.

The Mustang had reproduction Shelby snake emblems on the front fenders when I bought it, I saw little object in removing them. Over the next year, the car saw approximately 200 money races. Suffice it to say that I made a living without a full-time job.

All good things must end, however, and the ratty mustang was soon known not to be a car to bet money against. I had no choice but to use a buddy's pick up and trailer, and every Thursday night we made the trek to Saint Louis, where we were totally un known. I had even practiced "The Act". When I saw a group of hopped up cars, I would approach them, in my bib overalls and John Deer hat, and say, " Howdy boys! Dad sent me up here from our farm down in Springfield to sell a load of cattle, when I noticed your car. Is that one of them there Chevrolet Corvettes? Looks like you fellers might be racing fer money, so I brought along my Mustang. (Flashing wad of 100 dollar bills) Any you folks like to place a friendly wager?"

So, of course, I would pick the slowest car in the bunch. Not an easy task among a group of Chevrolet Camaros and Corvettes, and Trans-Ams, and challenge him to race for 100.00. When the green Flag dropped, I would intentionally let out the clutch, and not touch the gas pedal, thus killing the motor, and the Fireturd, I mean Firebird an easy win. Time for stage 2, pick the fastest car there, and say, "Shucks, That was the most fun I ever had without committing the sin of masturbation, You wanna run me for say, 500.00?

The poor Bastard in the Corvette never knew what hit him. Just that in 10 seconds, he lost 500.00. (Another side note, I had a friend with me carrying a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum, one of the old police "K" frame guns, and thank God, in all the years of racing, it never left its holster.
Thus, St. Louis became a gold mine. Go up every Thursday night, get a room, scout out the competition. Race Friday and Saturday night, and come home with a minimum of $2,500, on a bad weekend.

Then came a fateful night. I was running against a brand new Z-28, whose owner was so confident of his cars prowess, he let his girlfriend drive. As we pulled up to the starting line, I shut off my engine, reclined the seat, and lit a cigarette. Buffy, Mitzy, who ever she was took off with a tire squeak that only a late 1980's Camaro can produce. I enjoyed my smoke, started my car, and easily caught up with her by half track. She was perhaps 17, and a very in experienced driver, so when my Mustang magically appeared next to her, she did the logical thing: she swerved into me. The impact scraped my passenger front fender badly, but, lucky for me, the inertial force of acceleration carried me past the Camaro, where she parked it in a convenient ditch. I collected my winnings and didn’t really notice in the dark of night the scrape on my fender.

Upon returning home the next day, one of my stripper/girlfriend/room mates noticed the scrape, which had badly damaged the snake emblem on the fender. "Wow", she said, "Looks like your poor snake was in a war!" And thus the term, “War Snake” Eventually, War snake number 1's run ended. By then, the collector market for these cars had started up, and some dumbass offered me $10,000.00 for the car, dents, rust, and all. I was never one to miss the chance to part a fool and his money. But War Snake had one last Race.

There was a new fellow in town with what was supposed to be quite the bad ass Trans Am with the name "Jail Bait" painted on the rear spoiler in large, Olde English script. It was simple, I wagered $1,000 cash against the name “Jail Bait” The Trans Am was quite a handful, and I only won by a fender length, but a win is a win. True to his word, He had the name "Jail Bait" painted over the next day, and thus I had a name for my shop.