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.
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.”