The Purity Police were after me again. Not only did they disapprove of my kind of people in general, they absolutely hated what I was doing with mixing the breeds. I drove past posters decrying my lifestyle, my beliefs, and denigrating what I loved. It was hard to take this level of discrimination, but I still chose to live as openly as I could.
Years ago, when I first found out about my unique predilections, I tried to hide them. They were shameful. Nobody should ever find out, lest I lose my career and home. Soon, in the depths of depression, I discovered that I could not live a lie. I had to make everyone see what I loved, damn the consequences.
When I first pulled out of my garage with that 420A-swapped Hyundai Tiburon, I figured people would notice and laugh. No one did. They must have been in awe of my strength. Sure, the message boards tittered once in awhile when my Chrysler valve cover was posted on TiburonTimber dot com, but the hate crimes and slurs that I expected simply never arrived.
I stepped up my approach. By taking the hood off, I could both run that high-rise Plymouth Breeze intake manifold and wave my freak flag at the same time. Still, somehow, nobody noticed. Not a single pedestrian hurled a rock at me. Nobody at a gas station thrust a Bible into my hands, shrieking about how cross-breed engine swaps were wrong. Yet, the internet persisted. What I was doing was evil, they told me, and soon they would find me.
Early one morning, I opened my curtains to see the SWAT team stacked up, waiting for a dynamic entry into my living room. It seemed that one of the message-board thugs had informed on me. Once alerted to my proclivities, I was convinced that the authorities had no option but to finally send that strike force everyone had been talking about. I waited for the battering ram guy to swing back, and then opened the door, so he tripped over my door’s threshold and landed on his face. The laughter seemed to defuse the tension of the situation, and my generally harmless nature put the cops at ease.
While explaining what happened to the officers, I could see their eyes glazing over. Even after I led a group of strike team members into my garage and showed them the sick filth I had been working on, they still refused to oppress me.
Well, except for one guy, who asked me in a small voice if I knew how to replace the PCV on a Tiguan. Disgusting. If the cops only knew they had such a freak working for them.
