Emilia, the 1967 Pontiac Consort.

I am constantly working on this car. Whoever worked on this car last before I owned it did a hell of a lot of stupid shit to it, including removing the shocks, the front clip, the driveshaft, CUTTING nearly every damned wire for no reason, taking out the battery cage, unhooking the fuel lines, cutting off the exhaust for no reason and just generally doing stupid shit that they never actually FIXED. If I actually knew who did all this half assed work, I would kick them in the cock so hard they'd cough balls for a week. No fooling.

Right now she still has the old license plates on her and is accruing tickets almost weekly. I have not taken care of them because I have a fantasy that they are going to the previous mechanic who 'worked' on her and that he will one day try to contact me, at which point I will go "Oh man! I'm sorry, I didn't change the plates, send me your address and I will send a check to you to pay for the tickets"

When he sends me his address, I send a package, but instead of a check it has...a MAIL BOMB! With shrapnel and AIDS! You think I'm joking, but I could find some Aids Shrapnel in a neighborhood like mine, no problem.

A lovely black widow found under the lower control arm.