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PART III: War Snake 2

By the time 1992 Rolled around, my 1983 GT had seen better days. It is well known that any American built car from this era was not a long term, high mileage option, and the GT was showing it's age badly. Having so much emotion in this car, selling it was out of the question. So I parked it under a tree, where it sets to this very day. In case you were wondering, YES, this IS the Jail Bait $10,000 challenge car.

I heard an interesting rumor in 1992, that Ford would once again have to produce an automobile, or risk losing the copyright/trademark name of "Cobra" forever.

As fate would have it, the Local Ford Dealer would not be receiving any of these cars, because even though they were a Ford Dealer, they were not an approved "SVT" dealer. "SVT", or Special Vehicle Team, was the name Ford created for it's "High Performance" vehicles and only certain dealers were certified to sell/service them.

This all mattered little to me anyway, since, in my opinion, the local Ford Dealer was the equivalent of that part of a horse found beneath the top of it's tail.

I did become aware, though that only 4,993 of these cars were going to be produced. Apparently, Ford was serious about this car. It had a lot of High performance additions (Freer flowing cylinder heads, a higher ratio roller rocker arms, just to name a few). WOW. A REAL Muscle car Cobra Mustang Could once again be purchased from a Ford Dealers lot.

Please remember, the days of the internet were not yet here, and it took a week of calling all over the country to find one not yet spoken for. I had to send them a SUBSTANSIAL deposit, almost half the purchase price of the car to guarantee getting one, and even with that, I had no choice on options, colors, or anything else. As I have often said to my 6-year-old daughter, "You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit".

Two painful months of waiting, I finally got the call that my new car had arrived. After doing the math, it was cheaper to fly out and drive back than to have the car shipped, so that is what I did, booked a one way ticket to Los Angeles for $198.76. God, I miss the prices of the early 90's.

As usual, the airline, which my attorney has advised me not to name, made a complete cluster fuck of the trip. What was supposed to be a 6 hour trip from Springfield Missouri to Denver Colorado, to Los Angeles international airport turned into a 36 hour traumatic ordeal, while my flights were delayed, cancelled, and I was finally re- routed, out of TEXAS!!!

Thankfully, the only luggage I had was my carry on, as I figure my luggage would have ended up in Egypt.
During this wait, I purchased a certain car magazine, which again, under the advice of counsel, I cannot name. It seems it was having a "Fastest muscle car of all time contest". THREE days after my arrival. The qualifications to enter this contest were thus: "Any American Muscle Car, must be factory stock and un- modified, run through a street legal exhaust system, pass current safety inspection, and run only DOT approved tires (NO racing Slicks).

Hell, L.A. is a fun place to hang around in, so I finalized the paperwork on my car, and when registration started, 2 days before the event, I showed up at the venue to register, 100.00 entry fee in hand. The greeting I received from the magazine staff was not unlike a loud fart would be received at an orgy. First, they told me "60's muscle cars only". Until I pointed out a 1973 Mach 1 Mustang, Then I was told a current Safety Inspection was required. I pointed out that since the car was brand new, none was required to register it in California, or any other state.

It was then I noticed there were only about 20 cars there to register. Kind of odd for a contest published in a nation-wide magazine. As I visited with some of the other owners, the real intent of this "contest" became clear. The other 19 cars were owned by MAJOR advertisers in that particular magazine as well as many of its sister publications. Neat how that works, huh?

Standing out of the line of sight of the magazine staff, I noticed a few other odd things. One entry was a 1969 Camaro, with a 400 small block engine. That engine WAS NOT an option on the 69 Camaro, or any other Camaro to this very day. While my knowledge of Mopar is limited, I am sure none left the factory with traction bars or a racing type fuel cell with 2 ELECTRIC fuel pumps. Above all, I am sure that Nitrous Oxide was not an option on the 71 Trans Am.

I had a rather hostile conversation with the magazine editor, who was kind enough to inform me of the shortest exit, as well as warn me against being struck in the posterior by the door upon my departure. I had only one chance: bluff. I claimed to have photographed the many aftermarket modifications to these cars, as well as the fact I had noted they were all major advertisers with his publishing group. I offered him a choice. Let me enter (fee waived, of course), OR I would send the photos not only to rival magazines, but to the DIRECT COMPETITORS of the advertisers, as well.

I think the editor, his prodigious gut and bald head considered swinging at me, until he realized that, due to his stature, it would hurt when his fist hit my belt buckle. I was in! The race was locked. Problem was that even though Ford had put together a hell of a package in the ‘93 Cobra, all of my competitors were extensively-modified, thinly-disguised all out race cars. I had 2 days before the event, the power of prayer, and a little bag of black magic that goes with me everywhere.

I knew at the time only one person in L.A., a fellow named Jim Stewart. I had beaten him and his Hemi powered Dodge Charger in a VERY close best of 3 money street race 8 months prior. After the race, he handed over the wad of 100 dollar bills I had won, shook my hand, congratulated me, and in general behaved like human beings should. In my mind, Jim Stewart was, is, and always will be a true gentleman. Jim, if you are out there reading this, just let me know if I can ever return the favor.

After calling the other 99 Jim Stewarts in the L.A. Phone book, I located my former rival, explained my plight, and he quickly offered me the use of his shop and tools. Lucky for me, L.A. is the world capitol of hot rod cars and parts, as well as fake tits. In no time, I had sourced all the parts I needed (By the way, did you know it is possible for a visa card to catch fire after extended use?).

Behind the closed doors of a borrowed shop, with unfamiliar tools, and a car I had never even SEEN until 2 days prior. Three people: me, myself, and I gave Birth to "War Snake 2".

Having had no sleep, I arrived the day of the race at Orange County Raceway, a track I had never even walked before. The contest was simple, single elimination, winner take all, no second place. One winner, 19 losers.

I was up first, against the 400 horsepower 69 Camaro. Due to the fact that I doubt the Camaro owner had ever even seen his car before (He inherited the company he owned), he fell easy enough.

The second round pitted me against the 73 Mach One whose owner had no idea what a clutch was, due to the fact he was a MAJOR manufacturer of high performance automatic transmissions.

Then the Finals.

My War Snake 2 vs. the 71 Trans Am. I was informed 20 seconds before the race that the car owner had taken ill, although he looked fine pacing around his car, and a replacement driver would be substituted. I won't mention a name, but he had been a 2-time world champion pro stock driver, whose team was mostly funded by the Trans Am's owner.

It was one hell of a race, I didn't know who won until I saw the tape played back after and read the time slips, War Snake 2 won by .001 seconds, or about a bumper length. The tape also captured the spectacular explosion of my car’s clutch and pressure plate 10 feet past the finish line.

The Trans Am was declared the winner, because at that point, my Cobra could not race again without major repair.

BULL FUCKING SHIT!

Even the other car owners agreed, rules were rules. It was a single elimination race, and the blue Cobra bumper clearly crossed the finish line ahead of the nose of the Trans Am.

With no ceremony whatsoever, the trophy was thrust at me, along with my winners check for $5,000.

The story never ran in the magazine, but the check cleared the bank and War Snake 2 had been loosed upon the world.