el jefe

Vehicle and engine have been rebuilt, obsolete technology, performed Large maintenance..The vehicle was worked extensively, is offered on behalf of customers and can be visited by appointment. For more information please contact our Classic specialists are at your disposal.
“you?” I say to Mickey, jutting the filter end of my smoke at him.

“not at that price.” he says, crossing his arms.

“how ‘bout you, Chas?”

“FUCK that!” he blurts out.

I take a drag, look over at Rico blowing smoke through my nose.

“it’s down to you, baby…you taking this pig home?” I say with a laugh.


I asked Rico last because he, like me, knows this Carrera’s been dicked up; he continues.

“this thing’s like a whore who’ll suck us all off, better than any woman we’ve ever been with, but I’m not giving her the keys to my flat and telling ‘er to move right in.”

“goddamn, Rico…” Mickey says “you and jefe — it always goes back to pussy when it comes to Porsches.”

“take a good look at this thing Mickey, it’s fucking amateur.” Rico was just getting warmed up.

“no rub strip on the rear bumper, aftermarket exhaust looking louder than it sounds, and look here,” going over to the front, opening the hood, “never mind the under-hood pad coming unglued, the yellow factory stickers on the tops of the right side inner fender are gone. whoever rebuilt this thing didn’t give two shits about sourcing or reproducing them. with the exception of mimicking the factory prototype with the rear bumper rub strip delete, it’s that kinda shit that separates the craftsmen from so-called restorers.”

closing the hood, he wasn’t finished.

“then we’ve two wiper arms with the aero foil when only the driver’s side had it…and where’s the Carrera decal on the passenger side fender? hell, I didn’t even see the Carrera GT tattoo on her ass, did you jefe?”

“nope, maybe it’s visible with a black light.”

“and look at this,” walking over to the driver’s side door, opening it. “no ‘Turbo’ sill plates.”

“hey, what about the rolled lips on the front fenders? that’s not supposed to be there!” said Chas.

“no, you silly bitch,” said Rico tousling Chas’ hair, “all the GTs should have them...they’re subtle from a distance.”

“I’ll tell ya something else,” I interrupt pointing at the seven red letters over the showroom, “look at that name…you’d think they’d try and correct shit like that before advertising it. it’s all about the details — there’s no excuse, especially when they’re the source. 

then they claim it to be 63rd out of the 406 made because the VIN ends in 63, right? well...this one isn’t 63rd because Porsche had a gap in VINs between 009 and 053. although some sources claim this can’t be confirmed, it would mean that this car is the 18th 937 produced; an early one, no doubt. shit, who’s running this place, a bunch of 20-somethings living with mom and pop? goddamn amateurs.” I say, punching out the cigarette on my heel.

“from what I understand, this car had something like four owners, the last of which had it registered in Denmark as of a few years ago.” I add.

“I’m getting the goddamned manager out here!” Rico barked.

“easy Rico,” I say holding him by the arm, “none of us are even remotely gonna entertaining the idea of putting an offer on this pig, so why bother?”

“I’ll tell you why, the sonofabitch running this joint’s gotta know that if they’re asking nearly €100.000, they should’ve at least finished the job seeing to details people like us see as blasphemous.” he says.

“look, let’s just get the fuck outta here before they call the Bullen…too much passion gets a man in deep shit. take us to that café, Rico,” I yell, “the one on Münsterstraße…Emma’s Taint, or something.”

Tante Emma, not Emma’s Taint, you Fotze.”



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