Time to repost this, I guess.
I originally posted it to rec.autos.driving 9 years ago.
Entirely forgot about it, until the recent gun posts here.
Since I still believe that DOHC is overkill and needlessly
complicating for the typical family car, I thought the best line was
"No torque."
I always enjoyed tweaking the Honda guys.
It was essentially written to show my affection for my 1988 Chevrolet
Celebrity. Great, great car.
Had close to 180k basically trouble-free miles on it then.
Some took it as something else.
But let's not get into "intentional fallacy."

************************************************** ***************************
Well, it's been a busy week in my neck of the woods, a seemingly
peaceful suburb of Chicago.
But things aren't always what they seem to be.

On Monday, as I was pumping gas into my '88 Celebrity, two punks
approached from another pump. I put my hand in my jacket pocket
and gripped the snub-nose S&W .38 I keep there for just such
emergencies.
The punks looked at me, saw that I was ready for them, and steered
clear of me and my car as they went to pay for their gas.
I kept an eye on them as they returned to their Ford Expedition, and
they nervously glanced my way as they gave me a wide berth.
That Expedition costs more to support than an addiction to crack
cocaine, so it pays to be wary when a driver of one gets too close.
When two punks work together, it's elementary math to figure they can
arrive in one car, but leave in two.
By packing my iron, I thus kept my car on Monday, and prevented at
least a felony auto theft, and possibly a murder or kidnapping and
sodomy.
Me: 1
Criminals: 0


On Tuesday I stopped at the 7-11 to pick up the April issue of True
Police Stories.
As I was leaving, a punk was entering. He wore a long coat, and had
both hands in its pockets.
The cashier, a sultry young woman, looked a bit nervous at being alone
with this new customer, so I decided to get a hot dog.
The cashier was happy about that.
She gave me the dog, with mustard and onions. The punk was
still looking around, moving into every one of the short, low aisles
of the store.
I leaned against the counter by the Slurpy machine and slowly ate the
hot dog, using only one hand, as I watched the punk.
My other hand held the .38 in my jacket pocket.
The punk kept glancing at me, no doubt hoping I would leave. He saw
that I kept one hand in my pocket, and the hope drained from his face.
The cashier, feeling confident because of my presence, shouted to the
punk,
"Can I help you?"
The punk was startled that this little lady should shout at him,
and nervously glanced over at me. I just stared at him, while I
slowly
chewed a bite of my dog.
Then the punk said, in a quavering voice,
"Uh, do you have Super-absorbent Tampax?"
I stopped chewing my dog, and the room was filled with silence.
Finally, the cashier loudly said,
"Sorry, we're all out."
The punk just dropped his head, and hurried past me out of the store.
I finished my dog as I looked out the store window. The punk
jumped into a Jeep Wagoneer and hauled ass.
It didn't take too much imagination to realize that had I let the punk
get the upper hand, he would have left driving my Celebrity.
I turned to the cashier, and tipped my hat. She smiled broadly
at me as I turned to leave the store.
"Hey, honey", the cashier called to me as I reached the door.
I turned around, and saw that she had her fingers to her lips, as if
blowing me a kiss.
Then she said, in as sexy a voice as ever touched my ears,
"You've got mustard on your mustache."
I wiped the mustard off with a finger, and said,
"Thanks, baby."
Looking at my finger, I added,
'Had some chopped onion on there too, sweetheart."
I left then, knowing that she would be there waiting for me when I
came back next month for the May issue.
Packing iron had saved the day again, preventing a robbery, felony
auto theft, and quite possibly rape, torture, kidnapping, sodomy, and
a double homicide.
Me: 1
Criminals: 0


Today. Wednesday.
I stayed home from work, since last year there had been a daytime
burglary in my neighborhood on a Wednesday.
About 11:00 AM, as I sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and
reading the magazine I had purchased yesterday, my dog started barking
by the front door.
I grabbed my kitchen .38 from the countertop (I keep a piece in every
room, mostly .38's), and put it in my pants pocket.
I looked out the peephole of the front door and saw a punk approaching
the house. He had disguised himself as a mailman.
Of course I know my mailman, and the usual substitutes. I had never
seen this guy before.
I told my dog to stay put, swung the door open, and was on the porch
before the punk reached it, with my hand in my pocket gripping the
kitchen .38.
The punk stopped on the second step of the three-step porch.
He looked up at me curiously, and saw I was ready.
I just stared at him. The dog kept barking behind me.
The punk looked down at the leather bag he carried, lifted its flap,
and reached inside.
Like greased lightning, my hand came out of my pocket with the .38
and I cocked the double-action as I swung it around behind
me, concealed but at the ready.
The punk froze, having heard the unmistakable sound of a well-oiled
..38 being cocked, then slowly lifted his head to look at me.
I recognized fear in his eyes.
The street was silent. Even my dog had stopped barking, as he too
knows that sound.
Whatever hardware the punk had planned on pulling from that bag was
forgotten, and he said to me, in a shaking voice,
"Are you V-Victor Smith?"
I just nodded once.
"I'm g-going to g-g-give you your m-m-m-m-mail,", he stuttered.
"You just go ahead and do that. Punk", said I.
Very slowly then, the punk pulled from his bag a packet of "mail"
bound by a rubber band. I took it from him with my free hand,
and glanced at it, keeping my peripheral vision ready to pick up any
sudden movement from the punk.
The "mail" consisted of sale flyers from a few of the local grocers.
The punk looked at me once more, then slowly turned around and
walked away, with each step growing a bit longer and quicker, so
that by the time he reached his car, a riced '98 Civic putt-putting
away at the curb, he was running like a striped-ass gazelle.
He jumped in the Civic, gunned it, and popped the clutch, stalling it.
No torque.
He cranked it over to restart as he looked at me, then finally pulled
away, shifting like mad, clashing the gears and trailing a cloud of
blue smoke.
He was one lucky burglar. If he had pulled from that bag any real
1st-class mail addressed to me, that would have told me had stolen the
U.S. Mail, and I would have plugged the SOB.
As it was, I just went inside to the kitchen, and poured myself a
fresh cup of coffee.
Being armed and prepared had once again stood me in good stead.
Had this punk been the only one armed, he could have tied me up
or killed me, possibly sodomized me, and ransacked my house, then set
it on fire.
He probably would have found my car keys and the garage remote, which
were hanging on a cup hook in the kitchen, and stolen my Celebrity.
So again, by simply exercising my Constitutional right to keep and
bear arms, I prevented breaking and entering, burglary, theft, and
quite possibly murder, kidnapping, sodomy, arson, and grand theft
auto.
Me: 1
Criminals: 0
The only reason I'm telling you guys about this is because some of
you don't believe that armed citizens are preventing crime somewhere
in this great land of ours every minute of the day.
By looking at my very real examples of what an armed law-abiding
citizen can accomplish, in just three short days, in the crusade
against crime, I hope you will see the light.
Note that I did not once fire a shot. Indeed, not one of these punks
even *saw* my weapon.
I didn't report any of the many the crimes I stopped. Why should I?
It's enough for me to know that crime *can* be stopped if we are
prepared to do it.
And believe me, this is not an exceptional week, but about average.
I am eagerly waiting to see what new challenges Thursday will bring.


Sincerely,


--Vic