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Based on 3 pictures in 280z seller, Henry, bathroom of life in Montana  :

Henry’s father behind the wheel of a topless Willy’s jeep. There’s a mob of beer-bottle-busting, cowboy-hatted, sons o bitches standing around him.

“That jeep’s about a slow-ass plug of a mount Henry. Jonny’s cross would take it any day.”

“Well, I don’t believe that.  How about we prove it?”

The Willy’s is primed. Tire pressure. Check. Every bolt touched & torqued. Air filter shook out

The quarter-horse, thoroughbred mix, Tupelo, is rested. Had a couple apples this morning, and a beer.

Rider, Jonny’s got his western saddle tucked up, collected. The stirrups’r yanked up high. Jonny’s knees all double-triple-angled up — like that 6-foot-2 cowboy were a tiny bird-boned Mexican racing jockey.

Dusty road through a chaparral flat. Tupelo’s stamping out a sprint of a snare drum snarl.

“¡¡¡ Run like the wind, you son of a bitch !!!

Jeep rooster tailing an atomic bomb o dust behind him.

“¡¡¡ Git ‘im !!!!”

Willy’s breathing hard. Getting squirrel-ly up front but tracking mostly straight across the washboard — every ripple backbone-slipping  one more notch outta Henry’s x-ray of a spine.

Tupelo’s smooth as silk. He’s breathing strong, hard and tracking true. His front and hind-ends ‘r’ straighter than a triple-grained thirty-ought-six Winchester round.

Finish line. Willy’s by a quarter-panel.

That Willy’s Jeep in The Winner’s Circle. He’s feeling pretty with a Kentucky Derby garland of black-eyed-Susan’s throwed across his shoulders.

No.

Not really.

Just some creosote bushes and one rattlesnake snagged in his grill teeth. But there was a crowd of cold ones for the cowboys. Henry senior whispers in the Jeep’s cold-air-intake:

“I’ve got a quart of STP Premium for you after this, my gallant steed ..   and now I forgot to tell you … Willy’s, I’m putting you out to stud.   You’re gonna get more ass than you ever dreamed of

— one sweet quarter-ton at a time.”

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