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Tabs had heard of man, living where the mountains met the desert. This man, who went by various names, but was generally know simply as 'Wayne', was know to have the largest stock pile of Porche parts this side of the great river.
His last encounter with the local gangs had left several bullet holes in his headliner. Late one night, he set off to find Wayne. Cruising at 130mph, he deftly avoided the burned out hulks of trucks and cars that litered the roadway. His massive array of lights lit the night out nearly half a mile.
In the distance, he saw lights on the road. Burning tires. Some local punks looking for easy prey. They saw the light rapidly approaching and nevously fondled their weapons. Suddenly, bright head lights went out, but the sound, the scream of a flat six alive only got louder. "Run!!!!". It was too late. The scream of the engine was suddenly augmented with the with the snort of a pair of Dillion rotary cannons. An unholy spray of metal and pink mist danced in the pale light of the tire fires. The 911 smashed through the debris and howled off into the night. Tabs flicked the lights back on, and reached for the box on the passenger seat. He openned it, and carefully selected his favorite chocolate and popped it in his mouth.
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