— Will you be wanting the Batpod?
— In the middle of the day? Not very subtle.
— The Lamborghini, then. Much more subtle.
Look at the size of that trunk. You could put three bodies in there. Just kidding. Just trying to levitate the situation.
Remember driving is a freedom. I wish you to enjoy every kind of freedom... As long as you don't hurt someone.
— Want me to drive?
— You're supposed to be suicidal.
— Anybody who drives in this town is suicidal.
— The bill comes to $302.57.
— Three hundred bucks! Three hundred bucks for a couple of dents? Hey, that's bullshit.
— No, it was horseshit. The whole car was full of it.
Shit. I missed the exit to the Chinese restaurant and the last time I went anywhere else, it ended up really bad.
The driver's biggest problem is everyone else. You can't always trust people... to behave properly.
Now, which brings us to our last item, and again… please excuse the language in Mr. Kowalski's will. I'm simply reading it the way it was written.
«And I'd like to leave my 1972 Gran Torino… to my friend, Thao Vang Lor on the condition that you don't chop-top the roof like one of those beaners don't paint any idiotic flames on it
like some white-trash hillbilly and don't put a big, gay spoiler on the rear end like you see on all the other zipperheads' cars. It just looks like hell. If you can refrain from doing any of that,
it's yours.»
The day after I got my driver's license, I went out and bought a 1963 Galaxie, Midnight Blue. 1,255 bucks; every penny I earned for the past three years working in a gas station. I loved it. Because a car to a sixteen-year-old kid means independence, which means he can go wherever he wants whenever he wants. And that doesn't change with age; in fact, it means even more.
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