#chrysler intrepid

[automotivealchemy]

Dodge Intrepid Full Size Sedan Concept

Dodge Intrepid Full Size Sedan Concept (rear view)

What if...Dodge returned this full sized sedan to their lineup? Equipped with the Turbo Hurricane motor, the Intrepid would be larger than the 300 by only 3 inches. And offer either rear wheel drive or an all wheel drive configuration and this is in conjunction with an 8-speed automatic transmission with manual shift mode. The long curvy shape is both reminiscent of the old style but with new flares and body flow. It would have full LED array tail lights as well as headlights, with an illuminated dodge rear symbol and front would have a sensor and dodge strip symbol that sort of stands out for the adaptive cruise control.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Plymouth Prowler

In the mid-’90s, Chrysler was trying to reposition the Plymouth brand as a trendy and unique option for buyers. At the forefront of this move was the radically unique Prowler sports car. Designed to look like a hot rod, the roadster was and still is one of the most striking vehicles on the road. The problem was that the Prowler was built using a lot of parts out of the Chrysler corporate parts bin, which meant it wasn’t unique (via Road & Track).

Plymouth Prowler

The engine was the same one you’d find in your mother’s Dodge Intrepid and this left a bad taste in the mouths of consumers. So the Prowler and the Plymouth brand were quietly retired in 2001, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that the Prowler is one of the most beautiful cars ever released in Detroit.

[nightguide]

ALBUM ANNOUNCEMENT: GIRLS ALOUD

GIRLS ALOUD: FUNNY, AREN’T YA

LSER FT. THE SATURDAYS, YUNG GRINCH

SHADY MISS LATELY

FUNNY, AREN’T YA

CRY ME A LOVE LETTER FT. JASON DERULO, PARAMPARA TANDON

FCKED UP MR REEVES SANTANA LOPEZ FT. LUKE COMBS, LEOSTAYTRILL

FUNNY ENOUGH, HA. HA. HA. GOT YOU BITCH

DOLLAR SIGN

WUV SCNE FT. CHARLI XCX, MIA KELLY,

MAKEOUT POINT FT. LORD HURON, RIHANNA, WAHID

LITTLE MISS INTREPID FT. ROBYN

CLOSER FT. AGNES

FLICK FT. GREEN DAY, MILEY CYRUS

HEN-DO FT. SUGABABES

KATE MOSS FT. COLDPLAY, JIMIN, ARIANA GRANDE, SHILPA, NE-YO

DIGIT FT. THE VERVE

MENDLER FT. LINNA RIAZ, ANNA KENDRICK

TOON TRICKS FT. BASTILLE, TIERRA WHACK, TYLER THE CREATOR, A$AP ROCKY

NEON WATERS FT. JONAH KAGEN, NIRVANA

LITTL BIT TOO MUCH FOR YA FT. LITTLE MIX, LEA MICHELE, PULKIT SAMRAT

BUNNY BOO FT. SABRINA CARPENTER

CHRYSLER’S ANGELS FT. WE ARE LADY PARTS, YUNG BLUD

KISS KISS KISS FT. CARDI B, NICKI MINAJ, GLORILLA, AMBER RILEY, RICK ROSS

10 FT. RAYE (KATY B REMIX)

YOUR LOW FT. LISA

LIP STICK FT. RHCP, DEMI LOVATO

IMAGINARY FT. ZENDAYA, BELLA THORNE (LINNA RIAZ REMIX)

MATCHSTICKS FT. NXGHT!, FAOUZIA, TAYLOR ACORN, ROYKSOPP

BADDY FT. TEDDY SWIMS, TOMMY RICHMAN, LADY GAGA, NEELKAMAL SINGH

SONIC ORGASM FT. JACK RIDDIFORD

BAM

FOR YOU FT. MONALI THAKUR, THE KID LAROI (DEMI LOVATO COVER)

RIPPED FR. CHAPPELL ROAN, ROYAL AND THE SERPENT, INA WROLDSEN

NO MERCY FT. ADELE, WEEKND, NEHA

KITTEN FT. LP, PITBULL, TRIPTI DIMRI

DOWN FT. FIFTH HARMONY (BELANGER REMIX)

ON THE NIGHT FT. REX ORANGE COUNTY, TRAVIS SCOTT, TAYLOR SWIFT, J-LO

RED APPLE FT. BAD BUNNY, KANIKA KAPOOR

FUN LOVE FT. PUSSYCAT DOLLS, DUA LIPA

BLACK CAB FT. PLAN B

HOMELESS FT. ED SHEERAN, SARA KAYS, ARIJIT SINGH

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“CREW OF SOUTHERN CROSS ON THEIR ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK,” Kingston Whig-Standard. June 28, 1930. Page 1. ---- This picture of the famous Southern Cross pilot, Capt. Charles Kingsford-Smith, conqueror of two oceans, was rushed by train, motor and over telephoto wires. The monoplane flew over the silver tower of the Chrysler buiding as it neared Roosevelt field, where a wildly enthusiastic crowd awaited the intrepid flier's arrival. On the right Capt. Kingsford-Smith is saying "Hello" through the microphone with the other members of the crew on his left.

[vseproavto]

Все 27 лет в одной семье: опыт владения Chrysler Intrepid Sport I

New Post has been published on https://pippip.ru/2024/09/17/vse-27-let-v-odnoj-seme-opyt-vladeniya-chrysler-intrepid-sport-i/

Все 27 лет в одной семье: опыт владения Chrysler Intrepid Sport I

[dasmuggler]

Larry Hama brings back the Original G. I. Joe (and the very fetching G. I. Jane as well) in Marvel’s G. I. Joe #86 to commemorate 25 Years of G. I. Joe, and he showed respect to both characters in the story when Cobra Command mounts a raid on a secret Strategic Defense Initiative set in the Chrysler Building, with the hoped for bonus of framing Destro’s Iron Grenadiers in the process as well.

Larry Hama definitely did not make General Joe Colton’s Jane’s appearances token cameos by any means. Instead he wrote it with having Joe be the one who both planned a way to retake the initiative as well as deduce Cobra’s real operation.

Its too bad Larry didn’t have Gen. Colton lead the 1980s Team from the start. As good as Hawk is, Joe was a Green Beret and used to unconventional warfare (a trait Joe Casey demonstrated as well in DDP’s G. I. Joe: America’s Elite’s Phoenix Guard arc).

And as always, Larry added real life elements to this story such as the US military transitioning to the Beretta from the M1911A1, as well as the SDI project- a controversial subject in the 1980s.

(Jane’s explanation of the basics on how the system works with the laser bounced off a series of satellites was one option (also discussed in Payne Harrison’s novel Storming Intrepid). Granted its reminiscent of both the Gamilon Reflex Cannon in Starblazers and the base principle for the Robotech Defense Force Grand Cannon based in Alaska over at Macross, but sound nonetheless). Again Larry shows the importance of doing research for his G. I. Joe tales.

SDI of course was also the subject for Tom Clancy’s The Cardinal of the Kremlin and was a variation of it was presented in Dale Brown’s Silver Tower via Lt. Gen. St. Michael’s Armstrong Space Station.

Of course, G. I. Joe #86 wouldn’t be a oneshot return for General Colton & G. I. Jane; both would return in G. I. Joe #s 127, and 151, as well as in G. I. Joe Frontline #s 1, 2, & 4. And General Colton would later be assigned to head the team for DDP’s G. I. Joe: America’s Elite by Joe Casey, with Jane close by as he commands the unit especially DDP’s World War III arc (America’s Elite #35 has one of that series’ best covers IMHO).

And of course Larry has both on hand during IDW’s G. I. Joe series as well.

If they get around to do a proper animated Joe series (Renegades was the best thus far), Peter Cullen & Jennifer Hale would be my picks to voice them; for a properly presented Live Action film, either Jonathan Frakes or Robert Downey Jr. and Laura Dern would be my choice.

[oglegoggle]

I’ve owned many cars over the years but my very favorites always got cutesy little names

-1996 Volvo 280: Siegfried

-1998 Dodge Intrepid: Hermann

-1996 Chrysler Sebring: Betsy

-1997 Saturn S-Series: Goldwing

-2004 Saturn Vue: Set

-1995 Chevy Astro: Elroy

[juanmecanico]

GDB4012DTM TRW JUEG.PASTILL.D.FRENO,FREN.DISC Chrysler Intrepid, Chrysler LeBaron, Chrysler New YorGDB4012DTM TRW es la marca líder a nivel mundial en diseño y producción de partes automotrices, siendo proveedor de las más prestigiosas armadoras automotrices. TRW ha estudiado las necesidades del Parque Vehicular Mexicano y le ofrece la Solución Perfecta para cada vehículo que cumple y excede las especificaciones de Equipo Original. Con TRW usted puede confiar en que está instalando las pastillas más adecuadas para cada vehículo de entre todas las opciones disponibles en el mercado. Las Pastillas de Freno TRW se fabrican para asegurar el más alto nivel de rendimiento, la comodidad del conductor y su seguridad. TRW es uno de los 10 principales proveedores de seguridad para automóviles en el mundo, como pioneroen el diseño, desarrollo y fabricación de sistemas completos de frenado, módulos de freno y sistemas decontrol avanzados para vehículos. Chrysler Intrepid: 1993 1994, Chrysler LeBaron: 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995, Chrysler New Yorker: 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996, Chrysler Phantom: 1991 1992 1993 1994, Chrysler Spirit: 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995, Dodge Daytona: 1991, Dodge Dynasty: 1991 Chrysler Intrepid: 1993 - 1994, Chrysler LeBaron: 1991 - 1995, Chrysler New Yorker: 1991 - 1996, Chrysler Phantom: 1991 - 1994, Chrysler Spirit: 1991 - 1995, Dodge Daytona: 1991 - 1991, Dodge Dynasty: 1991 - 1991 Chrysler Intrepid, Chrysler LeBaron, Chrysler New Yorker, Chrysler Phantom, Chrysler Spirit, Dodge Daytona, Dodge Dynasty https://zf.tecalliance-solutions.com.mx/articles/detail/GDB4012DTM Mirar GDB4012DTM TRW JUEG.PASTILL.D.FRENO,FREN.DISC Chrysler Intrepid, Chrysler LeBaron, Chrysler New Yor

[eobdtooluk-blog]

Lonsdor K518 Update JEEP DODGE CHRYSLER Models

Lonsdor K518 Pro/K518ISE/K518S updated JEEP, CHRYSLER and DODGE car models on Nov.2, 2023.

Updated vehicles:

JEEP:

Cherokee

Compass

Grand Cherokee

Grand Commander

Laredo

Renegade

CHRYSLER:

200

300C

300M

Sebring

Grand Voyager

Neon

Voyager

DODGE:

Caravan

Challenger

Charger

GTS

Dakota

INTREPID

Promaster

Caravan

RAM

RAM 1500    RAM 2500

RAM 3500    RAM 4500

RAM 5500    RAM Truck

In detail:

JEEP

Cherokee\2008-2012\FOBIK

Cherokee\2019-2021\FOBIK

Compass\2017-2020\lmmobilizer

Compass\2017-2020\Smart key

Compass\2021-2023\lmmobilizer

Grand Cherokee\2008\lmmobilizer

Grand Commander\2008-\Smart key

Laredo\2008-2010\FOBIK

Renegade\2017-2020\lmmobilizer

Renegade \2020-2021\ lmmobilizer

Renegade\2022-2023\ lmmobilizer

CHRYSLER

200\2007-2009\ lmmobilizer

200\2010-2014\ lmmobilizer

300C\2008\ lmmobilizer

300M\2004-2007\ lmmobilizer

Grand Voyager\2001-2003\ lmmobilizer

Grand Voyager\2004-2007\ lmmobilizer

Grand Voyager\2008-2009\FOBIK

Grand Voyager\2008-2009\ lmmobilizer

Grand Voyager\2009-2010\FOBIK

Grand Voyager\ 2009-2010\ lmmobilizer

Grand Voyager\2011-2015\FOBIK

Grand Voyager \2011-2015\ lmmobilizer

Grand Voyager\2019-2020\Smart key

Neon\1996-2000\ lmmobilizer

Pacifica\2019-2022\Smart key

Sebring CONV\2001-2006\ lmmobilizer

Sebring CONV\2001-2 006\Remote

Sebring CONV\2007-2009\ lmmobilizer

Sebring CONV\2010-2014\ lmmobilizer

Sebring\2010-2014\ lmmobilizer

Sebring\2010-2014\Read PIN code

Voyager\2020- 2021\Smart key

DODGE

Caravan \2009-2010\ lmmobilizer

Caravan\2009-2010\Smart key

Caravan \2011-2014\FOBIK

Caravan \2011-2014\ lmmobilizer

Caravan\2011-2014\Smart key

Caravan \2015-2020\FOBIK

Caravan \2015-2020\Smart key

Challenger\2008-2010\Immobilizer

Challenger \2011-2014\Immobilizer

Charger\2008-2010\ lmmobilizer

Charger\2011\ lmmobilizer

Charger \2012-2014\ lmmobilizer

Dakota\2012-2016\ lmmobilizer

GTS\2007-2009\ lmmobilizer

GTS\2010-2014\ lmmobilizer

INTREPID\1997-2000\ lmmobilizer

IMTREPID\1997-2000\Remote

INTREPID\2001-2004\ lmmobilizer

INTREPID \2001-2004\Remote

Promaster\2014-2019\Smart key

RAM 1500\2002- 2005\ lmmobilizer

RAM 1500\2006\ lmmobilizer

RAM 1500\2007-2008\ lmmobilizer

RAM I500\2009-2012\FOBIK

RAM 1500\2009-2012\ lmmobilizer

RAM 1500\2013-2017\Smart key

RAM 1500\2018-\Smart key

RAM 2500\2013-2018\Smart key

RAM 3500\2 013-2018\Smart key

RAM 4500\2013-2018\Smart key

RAM 4500\2019-2022\Smart key

RAM 5500\2013-2018\Smart key

RAM 5500\2019-2022\Smart key

RAM Truck \2013-2017\Smart key

RAM Truck\2018-\Smart key

RAM\2009-2012\lmmobilizer

Caravan\2008-2009\lmmobilizer

Lonsdor K518 PRO Key Programmer Vehicle Support List (October):

[thirstworldproblemss]

Part 4 is HEEEEEERE!

Some things are going to be revealed, some hearts are going to be broken (or maybe that's just mine), some things are going doooooooown (and not just bc our intrepid reader has fallen off the Chrysler building... again), and you are going to enjoy every minute of it! I guarantee it!!

EVERY YOU EVERY ME: ISSUE #4

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel O'Hara saves you from falling off the Chrysler building for a second time, and he's not very happy about it.

Word count: 4,400 words.

Content: Slow burn so slow we're getting a reverse speeding ticket, Spidey-boy has a lot of emotions and really needs therapy, he also swears a lot, tiny speck of angst.

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

[Previous] [TBC]

It's shocking how fast the ground approaches from a height of 72 stories. You always imagined it would take longer given the distance. In movies, the freefall is always captured in a hypnotizing slow motion, but real gravity is brutal and unforgiving.

This time, as you fall through the sky, you don’t see the New York concrete grow wider or nearer. All you see is the vast gap between you and the crystal blue sky rapidly pulling away from you. The buildings looming higher with every second. The blinding sun reflected in the thousands and thousands of glaring windows towering above.

You can't feel your heartbeat or the wind beating against your face. There should be panic. But at the sight of familiar inky-blue piercing through your view, an eerie calm takes over until a comforting numb spreads through your limbs.

Call it misguided naivety. No one should ever place this much trust with their life on a stranger they don't even know to come and save them.

But misguided or not, there's no fear in you this time around. You don't think about how you are plummeting down to your death. Not when you see him speeding after you. Diving head-first into the vast empty space as he closes the distance between you, hand outstretched, reaching for you.

His hand catches around your wrist in mid-air. It's a firm grip like he never means to let go. He reels you in until you're defying gravity, gliding up through the air to meet him until he can wrap his arms around you.

Everything decelerates. The reflection of the rows and rows of windows no longer flashing by. It's a gentle descent as the breeze flows pleasantly through your hair, and if you don't think too hard about how you can't control the direction of movement, you can almost believe you’re flying.

The landing is gentle. He sets you on your feet with such great care that it takes you a second to adjust to the feeling of firm concrete beneath your soles.

Once again, you find yourself standing face to face with the masked superhero who has saved your life more times than you can count on both hands.

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, head tilting upwards until your neck strains, and it strikes you that you've forgotten how tall he was. His head tips down, the dark outline of his masked eyes staring down at you, and it makes the hair on the nape of your neck prickle.

Say something. 

You rack your brain, trying to remember all the questions you had meticulously written down in the notepad hidden in your desk as you planned for this very moment. But they’re missing, wiped cleanly from your mind now that he's here in front of you. Your mouth parts, trying to remember how to use your vocal cords again.

Before you find it, the blue fabric recedes until it reveals his face again. You're met with cutting eyes that glow an otherworldly crimson and the bared sharp canine teeth of a predator as he growls at you. 

"What the hell were you thinking?!" 

The low rumble of his words scrapes down your spine and locks you in a fight or flight response. Except you're doing neither. Fixed in place, unable to move.

One of his hands reaches up to pull at his hair in frustration, as he starts to mumble to himself. He's tugging it so hard you think he's going to yank them out by the roots.

"I can’t believe you! Me estás matando. Casi me da un ataque cardíaco–"

You blink up at him dimly, confused until you realize that he's broken into Spanish. But he's speaking too low and too fast. You can only make out about half of it.

"–No puedo más! I am dying of stress. You're impossible! I turn away for one second…” 

One sentence flows directly into the next without stopping for a single breath, and you're surprised he doesn't go lightheaded from lack of oxygen with how long he goes on.

You raise your hand slightly, reminiscent of a gesture you used to pull in school when you wanted to get the teacher's attention to ask a question. But he doesn't notice. Doesn’t even throw a glance in your direction.

“... and you go Anna Karenina on me. I can't with you, I can't, I can't–"

You try to follow along, looking for an appropriate break in his rant to get a word in edgewise. But like the line of tourists lining up for the Statue of liberty, there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. As rude as it is, the only thing you can think of is clearing your throat, loudly, trying to draw attention to yourself, but that's soundly ignored as well.

"Me vas a sacar canas verdes–-"

One broad hand covers his face as if he's trying to scrub away the beginnings of a migraine, and he keeps going.

Listening to him makes you feel like a child on the receiving end of a scolding by an exasperated parent. Any lingering thread of fear or intimidation gives way to irritation at this man who is so subsumed by his tirade that he doesn't even seem to be aware of your presence, not three feet away from him.

"–Siempre haces esto, una y otra y otra vez–"

You don't know exactly how long he’s been going on for by now, but you know that it's long. You could even swear the shadow by your feet has shifted to the opposite end of the patch of concrete at your feet in the time he’s been talking.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" he asks, apparently finally done. He stands there, arms crossed, with a condescending set to his jaw as he looks down on you.

And god, where to even start with this man? You have enough material about his difficult and avoidant behavior to make a powerpoint presentation out of it. You should block out the boardroom for three whole hours and hold a Q&A after.

How, if he had just spoken to you after you left him not one, not two, but several requests to meet with him, then things could have ended up a lot more civilized.

How, if he hadn't been hiding from you this whole time—gaslighting you— you wouldn't have had to spend over $200 on budget DIY spy crap (in this economy!) on an utterly wasted attempt to catch him. And, to add insult to injury, you’re sure you are never going to use any of that stuff ever again!

How, if he hadn't been talking non-stop and had the self-awareness to take a second to observe others, he'd have realized that you had plenty of things to say to him, if only he had paused long enough to let you.

But somehow in the face of his expectant expression, all that comes out of your mouth is, "I don't know what you want me to say."

His face falls. There's a split second of disappointment, raw and anguished, that flitters across his face. Then it's gone as quickly as it appeared, and he turns away from you. Whatever he was expecting from you, that was obviously not it.

When he speaks again, his voice has turned calm and quiet. He almost sounds resigned.

"Yeah. I don't know either." 

There's a sluggish, awkward silence that lingers on the three feet of concrete stretched between the two of you. The echo of traffic below, the cab horns and chatter swarms the space. After everything that’s happened, it all feels very anti-climatic somehow.

"Can you take me back to my apartment and we can talk? I have coffee. Cake too," you say, trying to break the silence.

"I don't drink coffee." His tone is curt, severing the olive branch you were trying to extend with a sharp snap, and your shoulders sag in defeat and disappointment. But then his face tips back in your direction and meets your eyes. The line of his mouth twitches as if he’s war with himself. 

"But I'll have some cake," he concedes. 

Had you known that a superhero was coming over for a visit, you'd probably have done a better job of cleaning up and making the place presentable.

You would have put away the heap of unfolded, wrinkly laundry that's piled up on your bed, granny panties in full sight. Would have washed the dirty dishes stacked up in your sink like a dangerous game of porcelain Jenga. Or at least cleared out the sad looking take out box where your half-eaten pizza is still resting in a greased up spot on the table.

Still, you're not sure how impressed he would be even if you had. Your studio apartment is a standard size for NYC, meaning in most other places it would be classified as a closet. With his height, he has to duck to make it through the threshold of your door and can barely stand upright without banging his head against the ceiling. It’s ironic that the window entrance is probably less hazardous for him.

You get him a plate of cake and set it on the table in front of him, delicately placing the dessert fork on the side.

"Sorry, I don't have any cookies for you today, just coffee cake."

The sight of him sitting hunched over your Ingatorp IKEA dining table is slightly comical. The table looks like a miniature doll set against his broad frame, and as he picks up the small dessert fork in his large hand, that only adds to the absurdity of the situation. He looks like he’s playing at having a tea party with a child’s play tea set. 

You sit down across from him, watching him intently, trying to gather the nerve to ask the questions you've been dying to ask since this all started. But you're hesitant and fumbling, stumbling on your words like an idiot, "Uhm, so I wanted to ask if you– if you knew why all of this is happening to–"

"No."

You frown at his interruption. "You didn't let me finish," you protest.

He leans back against his chair, waving away your protests dismissively into the air. "I didn't need you to. The answer is no. Next question."

You bite down on your lip to stave off the curse stuck in your throat, trying to force its way out. You hold it. Stemming the tide, as you focus on the task at hand.

"Who are you?"

His head tilts to the side at your question, as his hand draws up and gestures vaguely over the spider emblem of his costume draped over his chest. "Isn't it obvious?" he snarkily responds, "I'm Spiderman"

Great, he's a rude and sassy superhero. You narrow your eyes at him

"You're not the Spiderman I know of."

He doesn't respond to that. Just glares down at the cake as he pierces it with a sharp stab of the fork, making the porcelain underneath clank. Then he scoops a large spoonful and shovels it into his mouth.

God, who eats cake so angrily?

"Why did you save–" you start, but he holds up one finger, motioning for you to pause. 

He cleaves off another piece of cake and shoves it into his mouth, chewing slowly. You watch as he beats the Guinness record of slowest chewer across the table from you, before you finally get to repeat your question.

"Why do you keep saving me?"

"I'm a superhero. I save people. It's what I do."

Bright irritation pings through you at his sarcastic attitude. 

This is like playing the world's shittiest game of 20 Questions, except here the whole goal of the game is to see whose sanity cracks first.

Naively, you had thought that being able to sit down with him in person would mean you could finally start getting some answers. You hadn't been expecting the need to deploy strategic maneuvers, and you pause, taking your time before you speak. 

You need to pick a question he won't be able to evade. You think back at the footage of the nanny-cam, that time he carried you to bed. The worry when you weren't where he expected you to be. The over-familiarity that seeps out of his every action with you as if he already knows you and that the last thing you heard as you fell off the ledge was his voice calling out your name.

"How did you know my name?" you finally ask him.

His back stiffens at the question, jaw grinding down until the small muscle there flexes with irritation.

"I don't."

Liar.

"You called my name when I fell," you remind him.

This time instead of answering, he slides the now empty plate at you across the table.

"Can I have another slice?"

You frown. It's an obvious ploy to buy himself some time to avoid answering your question. But you can't deny his request either.

With a sigh, you push away your chair to bring the plate to the counter. You cut up an obscenely big slice so that he won't be able to use this as an excuse a second time.

Turning back around, you find that the gluttonous self-proclaimed Spiderman is pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks a little worse for wear, a pained expression etched into those tightly knitted brows.

"Are you okay?" you ask, concerned.

"No. I–" He breaks off, his broad palm gripping the back of the chair, and you notice a slight tremor in his fingers. "Something’s wrong." 

He pushes the chair back, trying to get to his feet, but to your surprise, he stumbles and sways. 

He seems just as surprised as you are at his newfound lack of coordination. 

"What the–" He looks down on his feet with concentrated effort. Then he takes another step. It's wobblier than the one before, his knee giving way, and his arm shoots out to grip at the edge of your table for balance.

Alarm bells start to go off in your head. You don't understand what's happening, but he's definitely right, something is wrong. A man that can gracefully scale down the Chrysler building from 72 floors down shouldn't be struggling this much just to take two steps back in your living room.

"Maybe you should sit back down," you suggest, looking up at him. There’s a slight sheen of perspiration that's settled on his forehead. The beginnings of a rosy flush tinting his cheeks. "Do you have any food allergies?"

"No. I don't. No. Super metabolism kind of cuts down on that sort of–” he’s stumbling over his words, each syllable slurred on his tongue, as he shakes his head at you. “No, no allergies. No food sensitivities of any kind except...."

He glares around wildly and his eyes land on the remaining slice of cake perched on your kitchen counter. 

"Did you put fucking coffee in that cake?!?!"

“"Yes?” You whip around, and look at the cake on your counter, not understanding the relevance of his question. “I mean... It's a coffee cake? I told you that!" 

You push aside your growing panic as you try to remember if the EpiPen stored away in your kitchen cupboard is past its expiration.

"You didn't tell me there was coffee in it!"

Is he serious?

"I said ‘coffee cake’! What else would be in there? It's in the name," you snap. 

And god, you can't believe this is what you're arguing with him about at this moment.

"Okay, yeah," he concedes testily, "but coffee cake is its own thing too! Isn’t coffee cake just… cake... that you, like... serve with coffee? It doesn't have coffee in it! Why the fuck does it have coffee in it?"

Does the man even hear himself? You're trying to figure out if you need to call an ambulance, and he is arguing with you on the technicalities of what constitutes coffee cake.

"Okay, wait, but are you dying?" you ask, trying to stay calm despite the pandemonium of panic ringing in your head. 

"No! I'm just intoxitac– intocita– intoshica– I'm just fucking drunk okay!?" he spits out.

Your brain stalls at his statement. Intoxicated!? When did he have time to drink? He seemed fine just a few minutes ago, but now he's slurring and about to topple over.

"You're drunk? How–"

"Spiders get drunk on coffee," he interrupts, and the flush on his cheek deepens to a deep alarming red. If you didn't know better, you'd almost think he was blushing.

"Okay, let's sit you down." You rush over, rounding your dining table as you reach for him.

At the sight of your extended hands, his eyes widen in alarm, He steps back from you, eyeing you like you're something dangerous.

"No. No, I'm–" he takes another step backwards, flinging himself away from your touch, but loses his footing in the process. He tilts over, hand grappling for the edge of the table as he goes, but instead of the edge he manages to take the cake plate with him on the way down.

There's a clank of shattered porcelain, followed by the loud thud of his body hitting the ground.

With the large size of him in your tiny studio apartment and the breaking of porcelain left and right, this feels like the idiom of a bull running wild in a China shop, come to life.

You reach out your hand to help him get up, but he doesn't acknowledge it, anchoring his elbow to the floor for leverage, only to wobble and fall flat against his back again with an angry curse.

Why is he so goddamned stubborn? 

You glance down at him, this gigantic man that is lying sprawled out on the floor with the gravitas of a turtle trapped on its back. He's so huge that he's eating up half of the floor space of your entire home. If he doesn’t get up, you won't be able to take two steps without accidentally stepping on him.

Shaking your head in disbelief at the ridiculousness of the situation, you hunch down on your knees beside him.

There's hesitation etched in those otherworldly crimson eyes as you come near. But as much as he's scowling at you, baring his fangs and trying to look scary, there isn't much he can do from the floor.

"Let me help you," you insist, "let's get you in bed until it wears off. I can't have you passed out on my floor like this."

He takes your outstretched hand, and you pull backwards, trying to bring him up with you. Between the two of you, you manage to get him on his feet again. Barely. 

Whoa.

You crane your head up, up, up til you meet his eyes. Yup, the man is still huge. Must be damn near 7 feet tall and heavy, and you quickly realize there's not much you can do but try to steer so that he falls in the direction of your bed.

Somehow you manage to shepherd him in the right direction, until his knees hit the edges of your bed. He lands with a dramatic thud and you hear your bed frame groan in protest. 

“Do you need anything?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer you. His broad arm drapes over his eyes, blocking you out. 

You sigh, turning on your heels to clean up the mess of coffee cake and broken plates off your floor.

You barely manage to finish sweeping up the floor before you hear soft snoring filling your home.

Knock-off Spiderman is sound asleep, his large shape curled up on your mattress, entirely still.

You settle yourself back at the dining table, eating the leftover coffee cake as you pull up a book on your phone and wait for him to wake.

This was not how you had imagined your first extended interaction would turn out.

Honestly, you can't make sense of any of your interactions with him. How he's constantly avoiding you, yet can't seem to stay away and routinely checks in on you.

How he acts overly familiar in one instance and excessively rude and put off by you the next.

Maybe you remind him of someone else... Maybe even an ex? It feels weird to speculate, but it would explain a lot of things. His belligerent attitude towards you. The way he looks at you with eyes full of resentment, even as he's saving you from certain death. That look in his eyes like he knows you, even though you've never met him.

It doesn't explain how he knows your name though.

From the bed, you can hear him stir, shifting against the mattress with a quiet groan muffled into your pillow. He's softly murmuring something that you can't quite make out, and then he turns in his sleep again, making a pained noise that makes worry squeeze tight in your chest.

Maybe letting him sleep it off wasn't the brightest idea you've had. You probably should've called for the ambulance as soon as he showed physical signs of distress.

You're not a biologist. You don't know how a hybrid spider-human’s physiology works.

What if he's not just drunk? Whoever heard of coffee making someone drunk! And how could it affect him so quickly? There was barely a minute between him stuffing his face and falling all over the place. Some quick, panicked googling confirms that coffee makes spiders a kind of drunk, but it doesn’t say if it’s outright toxic to them.

Oh fuck, what if he's dying!? Oh god, what if a superhero dies in your bed? How will you explain this to your landlord? Or the police! “I fed him coffee cake, and it killed him, officer.” Right, that’s going to go over like a lead balloon! It’ll probably look like you poisoned him. TMZ will be swarming the place. You'll be classified as a supervillain.

Setting down the book, you make your way over to sit on the edge of your bed. You lean over his sleeping form and peer down at him, checking for any signs of physical distress.

That red flush from earlier is still riding high on his cheeks, looking like the beginnings of a fever. You reach out your hand to rest it on his forehead to check his temperature.

Warm.

He stirs at the touch, turning his face and practically nuzzles into your palm. It’s almost endearing as he buries his sharp nose into your wrist.

You hold your breath, worried that exhaling would be loud enough to wake him as you gaze down on him. Up close like this, when he's not being rude, and stubborn and defensive, he's... quite attractive.

He has the kind of sculpted face that Hollywood dreams are made of, angular jaw and a prominent nose that makes him look regal. Not to mention those chiselled cheeks of his are a fucking marvel to look at. But more than that, curled up asleep in your bed, there’s a gentle softness to his features that hadn’t been noticeable when he was awake.  

Now that  he’s not frowning down at you and the line of his mouth isn’t pulled into an angry snarl, you can see that his lips are full and luscious, delicate even. His heavy brows look less intimidating now that his face has relaxed from its perpetual scowl. 

He looks... soft, somehow.

There's a spark of something heated in your veins that has you feeling flushed and warm. You have to turn your eyes, shaking your head and tutting at yourself, because you’re creeping on the drunk guy passed out on your bed, and it’s not a good look on you. 

The commotion makes him stir, his eyes blink softly open. He looks up at you, with half-lidded eyes, and it's different from how he's looked at you up until now. His gaze is still so…. soft.

"Nena," he says quietly.

Your cheeks warm at the warmth in his voice , and you gently pull your hand away from his forehead.

"Sorry, I was just checking if you were okay," you explain awkwardly as you start to back away from him, sliding your knee along the mattress to climb off the bed.

At your movement, he darts upright into a seated position and pulls you to him, clinging onto every inch of you as he buries his face to your side. 

“Don't go,” he murmurs into your neck. His voice is trembling, and you can feel the panic radiating from him as the grip he has on you tightens until it’s bruising.  

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he says, keeps repeating it. You don’t know what he’s apologizing for but the guilt and sadness in his voice tugs at something deep inside your chest. 

Nena, he said, and you realize that even though you're the one he's holding in this moment, he's not talking to you. He thinks you're someone else.

"Please don't leave me again. I-I can't–" he chokes out the words into the hollow of your throat where he's pressed his face tight into your skin. You can't help but notice the damp wetness that gathers there. "I'm trying, but I can't– I don't know how to do this without you."

The words are raw in his throat, and despite your confusion, your chest squeezes tight with a sympathetic ache at the man's obvious heartbreak.

You don't know what's going on here or who he thinks you are. The only thing you know is that you want to make him feel better. To make his hurt a little less painful. To make the consuming guilt you can hear in his voice a little bit smaller. 

"It's okay," you say. 

What the it refers to, you have no idea. But the least you can do is to give the man who has saved your life over and over, a tiny crumb of comfort.

You return his embrace, circling an arm around his shoulder, matching the tightness with which he’s holding you. Your other hand slides into his hair and he shivers at the touch, face burying deeper into your neck.

"I'll protect you,” he murmurs into your skin, “I can do better this time. Keep you safe. I promise.”

"It's okay. It’s okay. I’m already safe," you reassure him, giving him the only truth you know for sure in this moment, "You saved me."

Dedication & Credits: as always to my collaborator on this series, who helps me brainstorm, write, edit and beta-read and everything in between and over with this series. This exists because of her, and I am so grateful to her. The hours I spend shouting into her DMs and bother her on the daily since this series infected my mind. You guys don't know what I put poor @thirstworldproblemss through.

Also to @guruan who was kind enough to read through this and steer me in the right way with the spanish, but also for giving me porn that has kept my brain buzzing for days!!!

Please follow both of these insanely lovely, kind and talented people.

Author's note: the Spanish in this chapter has been left untranslated on purpose, so that it's left ambiguous whether reader speak/understand Spanish. The idea is that if you as a reader understand it, then so does the reader, and vice versa 🥰

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[seat-safety-switch]

“I don’t believe in this kind of bullshit,” explains the driver as a tricycle goes sailing onto the hood and bounces off the expanded-metal mesh over the windshield. “It’s just exploitative, and trains you to get used to it rather than look for what’s really important, the child.” For my part, I’m not entirely sure that my travelling companion actually did check for the presence of a child before swerving onto the sidewalk to clip what he assumes was a deliberately abandoned false-flag prop tricycle.

For a couple years now, I’d been noticing the rise in the neighbouring suburbs of various street indicators that children were at play. My favourite was a life-size injection-moulded plastic child with “SLOW” stamped on his buttocks. The idea, in case you hadn’t cottoned on yet, was that you would be reminded of the existence of children, feel some kind of deep-seated communal guilt, and plow through the intersection without taking your eyes off your smartphone at 37.5 km/h instead of the legally-tolerable full fifty.

A couple weeks before the interview, I noticed that the amount of roadside props had only grown. Some houses would make a whole diorama, scattering toys and conveyances as to give the impression that a child had just abandoned them and was getting ready to run into the road. While looking for this phantom child, the idea goes, you’d naturally slow, as everyone who operates a car in my city slows to a snail’s pace whenever they have to think about anything at all. Stuck behind one of these individuals is where I found my new interview subject, a guy driving a blacked-out third-generation Firebird who I will only refer to as “The Asshole.”

The Asshole did not believe in this propagandist approach to road safety, and in fact was outraged by it. He made it his mission to drive recklessly through the neighbourhood but not to hit any children, because no parents ever let their kids play in the middle of the fucking road. He stressed to me later when I was interviewing him for The Journal of Bad Cars (our new higher-class, literary publishing arm which attempts to target a more wealthy reader, such as those capable of buying a used Intrepid in cash) that ice cream trucks, lawncare technicians, letter carriers, and coyotes didn’t count as “children” for the purposes of his great social experiment.

Personally, I had a bit of a thrill at the excitement of racing through an unfamiliar suburb at six-tenths, mandated-identical homes flickering through the thin slit of an acrylic racing windshield like the end of 2001. When I bid farewell to The Asshole, I made sure that I was fully outside of the vehicle and its NASCAR-grade door bars before I asked him what he felt about playground zones.

“They’re great,” he yelled, before engaging the line lock to lay a smoke screen a mile thick. “Gives me a chance to warm up my tires!”

As he sped off into the distance, I could just barely make out his bumper sticker: I BRAKE FOR CORNERS.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Plymouth Prowler

In the mid-’90s, Chrysler was trying to reposition the Plymouth brand as a trendy and unique option for buyers. At the forefront of this move was the radically unique Prowler sports car. Designed to look like a hot rod, the roadster was and still is one of the most striking vehicles on the road. The problem was that the Prowler was built using a lot of parts out of the Chrysler corporate parts bin, which meant it wasn’t unique.

The engine was the same one you’d find in your mother’s Dodge Intrepid and this left a bad taste in the mouths of consumers. So the Prowler and the Plymouth brand were quietly retired in 2001, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that the Prowler is one of the most beautiful cars ever released in Detroit.

[coloursteelsexappeal]

[skaarj551]

45th street at night by Andrew Mace Via Flickr: classic view from hamilton park

[gruntydiecast]

That Time Forgot: Chrysler Thunderbolt

I have a thing for old concept cars and castings Hot Wheels appears to have forgotten about over the years. So, why not combine them into a single segment? Our first installment of this segment talks about the Chrysler Thunderbolt, Chrysler’s halo car design for the 1990s that never came to be. I got the idea for this from a Motor1 segment that runs every so now and then known as “Concept We Forgot”, so might as well credit it now before we get on with it.

The Thunderbolt was a front-mid-engined concept car designed in 1993 by GM designer Tom Gale, intended to be Chrysler’s halo car. According to Neil Walling, Chrysler's director of advanced and international design at the time, DaimlerChrysler had a program where they wanted to do a car that would be the epitome of each of their marques; these marques were Plymouth, Dodge, Jeep, and of course, Chrysler. The cars that came out of this design program were the Plymouth Prowler, Jeep Ecco, Dodge Viper and the Chrysler Thunderbolt.

First presented at the 1993 North American International Auto Show in Detroit, the Thunderbolt stole the show at the DaimlerChrysler booth. The Thunderbolt was also fully functional; it was based on a lengthened LH platform that was used in the Concorde, Intrepid and 300M and was powered by an experimental 4.0L 32-valve V8 designed by Chrysler’s engineering chief at the time, François Castaing. The engine generated 270 BHP and was essentially a more advanced version of the engine found in the Eagle Optima. The transmission was a four-speed automatic, and ABS, four-wheel disc brakes and traction control were standard.

The car was hand-built by a company known as Metalcrafters, which took the car from a one-fifth scale model built by Chrysler to reality within a span of eight months. The car was built of real steel and glass, with no plastic or fiberglass to be found. The engine was stuffed in the front; one half of the engine was in the actual hood secton, with the other half under the dashboard, making this a front-mid-engined car. The lines of the Thunderbolt were made to be somewhat reminiscent of the original 1941 Thunderbolt concept, which this concept recycled the name of.

The interior for the Thunderbolt was highly advanced for the time, featuring power seats and enough legroom at the rear to comfortably seat four. An on-board infotainment system was also provided, including satellite navigation and a computer with video games. The cab forward design of the Thunderbolt helps to add to the legroom as well. At the rear, the car’s distinctive double bubble canopy also showed.

After being presented at the NAIAS in 1993, the car may have gone on to be displayed at a number of auto shows, before finding its permanent residence at the Walter P. Chrysler Museum; with the closure of the museum in 2016, however, the Thunderbolt was subsequently moved into storage, and its current location remains unknown.

Now, about the casting. The small-scale Thunderbolt was designed by a man you may have heard of: Mark Jones. Jones originally joined Mattel in 1986 but began designing Hot Wheels around 1993; some of the castings he designed include the following:

• Bugatti Veyron (2003 First Editions, 2003 – 2010) • Corvette SR-2 (2002 First Editions, 2001 – 2012) • Enzo Ferrari (2003 First Editions, 2003 – 2014) • Ferrari 250 LM (2007 First Editions, 2007 – 2009) • Flathead Fury (2005 Acceleracers: Metal Maniacs, 2005 – 2016) • Ground FX (2003 First Editions, 2003 – Present) • Hyper Mite (2001 First Editions, 2001 – 2013) • Mazda 787B (2018 Car Culture: Circuit Legends, 2018 – Present) • Nissan Silvia (S15) (2018 HW Entertainment: Forza Motorsport, 2018 – Present) • Pipe Jammer (1993 First Editions, 1993 – 1996) • Prototipo Alfa Romeo B.A.T. 9 (2006 First Editions: Realistix, 2006 only) • Volkswagen Käfer Racer (2017 New Models: HW Speed Graphics, 2017 – Present)

Jones left the Hot Wheels design team circa 2005 to go to Matchbox’s design team to design cars for the Real Working Rigs and SkyBusters lines, only to return to Hot Wheels in 2014, where he currently designs for the mainline and Premium lines.

This small scale replica of the Thunderbolt was introduced in 1998, alongside thirty-nine other models, such as the ‘65 Impala, Tow Jam, Customized C3500, Mustang Mach 1 and the Dairy Delivery. It was introduced in a silver paintscheme replicating that of the real Thunderbolt, with purple windows. From my examination, the Thunderbolt’s sloping roof section is plastic and appears to be snapped onto the windows. The rear of the double bubble canopy features the Hot Wheels logo cast in.

Sometime between 1999 and 2001, the base was changed, now featuring copyright information pertaining to the Dodge Car Company; it appears that it was around the ‘00s where copyright or trademark information pertaining to a car manufactured by a certain few manufacturers had to be added to the bottom of the base was mandated (i.e. “TM GM”, “DCC” or “Chrysler Group LLC”).

The casting received a total of eight releases, with the last release of this casting being in 2003 under the Highway 35: World Race series under the Wave Rippers team. Under its Wave Rippers guise, the car was given a number of embellishments in terms of specifications and performance figures; the cartoon version produces 670 BHP from an experimental V10 mated to conceal worm-drive propellers.

This casting has not been seen since its Wave Rippers release, although it was never officially retired under the Final Run Series (which has been on hiatus since 2006). It’s likely that this casting has been quietly retired, and will most likely never be seen again.

Now, I’m a big fan of the Thunderbolt, with its absolutely unique styling, but this was not easy to write about since the history of the Thunderbolt is so scattered. However, I hope this helps to provide the viewer with at least some history of the Thunderbolt, with all the various sources I could string up over the web.

- Grunty

[seat-safety-switch]

When they make Kit Kat chocolate bars, the ones that fail quality assurance are melted back down and used to make newer, better bars. That's why they're so delicious: they learned their lessons from previous generations of failed chocolate and are afraid of an ignoble death in the recycling vats. Cars are the same way, if you think about it even medium-hard.

Most of the cars you see on the road today are probably made at least partially of recycled old cars. When you send your trusty Intrepid to a junkyard and it gets flattened, it's entirely possible that some of that metal is going to be recycled into new steel that gets turned into the unibody of a Bentley. It kind of warms my heart a bit, thinking of all the rusty turds I've gone through that are now all that keeps a Hong Kong speculator alive when he pirouettes his Ferrari into a bridge abutment.

In order to test my theory, I had to spend a few bucks. I tried to contract a psychic to see if I could communicate with the long-dead bodies of millions of Mopars mixed into the chassis of a new Fiat, but all she said was that she "doesn't do CAN bus." Too spooky for her, apparently.

Sure, I assume that when they make a new unibody, they filter out the rust somehow at the big metal-recycling plant, but nobody has ever made a machine that separates the soul from the car. Although, if they did, it would probably involve road salt and a focus group somehow. Which would honestly explain a lot of newer cars.