First Place: Evelyn Quinn (Auckland)
Second Place: Mark Derbyshire (Te Awamutu)
Third Place: Chris Way (Auckland)
The winner receives a
jigsaw puzzle; not just any jigsaw puzzle but one depicting the greatest of all
Ferraris - the 250 GTO. It's not a new jigsaw, but hey, surely a collectable?
Hope you enjoy it, Evelyn; it'll be in the mail shortly (I did say it wasn't
going to be a great prize...).
No bribes were included, unfortunately, but 13 year-old Mark Derbyshire's
covering letter had enough greasing in it to expand my head some 6 inches in
diameter. The letter is now laminated and framed on the wall next to the
computer. I may even send it to the bank!
First
Place, By Evelyn Quinn
THE BRIGHT PINK TIGER TALE.
The sweet scents of the
spring day, mingling with his after shave and her perfume, filled them with
sensual delight. He, tall and distinguished in his classy casual clothes, her,
soft and gentle in her slinky fluoro green cat suit, walked hand in hand
towards the core of her conversations, the base of her braggings, her passion.
She stepped into the bright
pink Sunbeam Tiger, he slid into the seat beside her. As the seat belts clicked
closed he kissed her tenderly on the cheek. She, with a delicate touch, turned
the ignition key. Cruising along the country roads, the wind on their faces and
tousling their hair, she prattled on, extolling the virtues and accomplishments
of her pink Tiger.
Half listening, away in a
world of his own, daydreaming of the evening ahead, he caught the words
.........'to Hamilton in under an hour'
"That's not
possible" he heard himself saying.
"In my little Beauty
it sure is, Honey" she assured him.
"I've heard some tall
stories and outrageous bragging," he answered, "But that is
ridiculous."
She tapped a long red
fingernail on the speedo, proclaiming "If that shows my Beauty can do
100mph-plus it's sure not lying, Honey."
He gave a chuckle, reached
over and gave her knee a squeeze.
"Now Doll, bragging is
one thing but being down-right ridiculous is another."
"Ridiculous," she
chortled, "My Beauty could do that in first gear."
"Oh really? 100mph in
first gear?" he mimicked with a hearty laugh. Glancing at her face he had
the sudden, desperate wish to erase that statement forever. The ÔI'll show this
creep' expression on her face made him feel scared sick.
She wouldn't would she? Her
hands were now gripping the wheel tightly-her face stolid. She was as if one
with her Tiger-ready to pounce. The road now stretched away ahead, straight as
far as the eye could see. He tried to speak-say her name, nothing came. She
wouldn't - she's kidding! His mind was racing - addled. If ever he wanted to
see a traffic cop it was now. 'Stop her, Please' he prayed.
She pushed the accelerator
to the mat, his body bored into the back of the seat, his hands and knees
gripped and pressed the dashboard. His mind was blank, his stomach churned and
boiled. It hadn't felt like this since his life threatening bout of diarrhea in
Singapore. In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, seconds became minutes.
Nature was desperately, urgently calling.
Her foot released the
accelerator from the mat. Now his back was less heavy against the seat, his
hands went limp, his feet fell back to the floor.
Through the mists of terror
he could hear her voice.
"Now, smart fella,
tell me again I'm bragging, being ridiculous."
The spring day was still
full of sweet scents mingling with their perfumes, but these were lost now
among a different acrid aroma. It was like, well, as if- his shoes were covered
in cow manure.
"Please," he
mumbled "I need somewhere to have a shower, and my underwear from my case
in the boot."
Ends.
Second
Place, By Mark Derbyshire (Aged 13)
MISSION IMP-POSSIBLE
"Oh really? 100 mph in
first gear? I never knew lmps were such fast little beasts!" said a prospective
buyer of Joe's Imp Sport, in a West Auckland Bar, surrounded by 23 empty cans
of Lion Red.
Joe Bloggs was on a mission
to sell his Sunbeam Imp, and this was looking easy. He'd already talked some
drunk guy into paying $20,000 and a beach house near the Mount for it, as he
thinks it does 100 mph in first gear and runs on three AA batteries ( He must
be an Aucklander).
Just as the drunk guy was
bringing out his cheque book, a beautiful, middle-aged woman, dressed in a
short skirt and Bikini top walked in the door. The mysterious lady walked over
to Joe and said with a strong English accent,
"Excuse me, but is
that your pristine, 1968 Sunbeam Imp for sale?"
The room fell silent. This
is the woman every single (and married) man was looking for. She was beautiful,
and she knew her cars. Joe sat there speechless, though the question was pretty
simple!
"'m sorry, I suppose I
should introduce myself, my name is Mary Rootes. My Grandfather and Great-Uncle
founded the company that made your car, and I am looking for an Imp to finish
off my collection of cars my Grandfather produced. I noticed yours was for sale
for $2,500, do you mind if I have a closer look?"
"What!!" yelled
the drunk guy next to Joe, "I was going to pay $20,000 for that piece of
cra-" And with that, he passed out, landing face first in a bowl of
peanuts.
"Sure", Joe said,
falling off his stool, waiting for the feeling in his legs to come back.
"This is it. I've had
it for the last 20 years and its never had any major problems. I'm upgrading to
a Tiger", he said, proudly.
" Oh, like mine. It's
that pink one, with the Mini-lites, and, oh, I should introduce you to my
sisters." Sisters, eh?
" This is my younger
sister, Cindy". Joe looked across to see a complete look-alike of Mary.
"And this is my other
sister, Lisa. She's a photographer."
Another look-alike!
Halailujia!!
She stepped into the bright
pink Sunbeam Tiger and returned with a cheque while Cindy walked over to the
Imp, and started undressing, and Lisa set up a camera.
"This looks like a good
place to shoot", she said.
They were going to pose
nude on his Imp! This must be a dream!
"Joe, here's your
money, now gimme the @!#$ keys!!"
Joe woke up, startled, to
see he was still in the bar, and the drunk guy was waving a cheque in his face
that was signed by Elvis. He knew it had to be a dream.
He looked down to see his
shoes were covered in cow manure, or was it dog poop? He didn't really care,
what he did care about though was selling his Imp, but not to the drunk guy.
Ends.
Third Place: By Chris Way
A TALE OF A PINK TIGER, GUCCI SHOES, MEETING A COWPAT, AND
100MP/H IN FIRST GEAR
Rachel pressed the button
on the remote. The garage door yawned open, revealing the pink tongue within.
Her car, nestled in charcoal shag-pile carpet, was surrounded by pristine white
walls and ceiling consisting mainly fluorescent lights behind diffusers. No
tools or mechanical paraphernalia showed. This edifice was used for one purpose
only; the bedding down of a prized personal possession. The sun shone in and
the car glowed happily.
Rachel smiled ruminatively.
This was the culmination of her efforts. After the stormy marriage broke down,
her husband had violently left with his other love (a bright-red and white
early Corvette) she had had to pickup the pieces and carry on. Feeling no
regrets she had calmly carried on with her life facing the two main problems
head on, a lack of money and transport. She had generated enough money to
survive, sales of un-needed and renewable assets had enabled her to put the
Tiger on the road.
He had left the Tiger,
unfinished, stripped to bare metal. The body had been panelled and strengthened
in strategic places. The chassis had also been modified. The car was lowered
with HD suspension, disc brakes and sway bars all front and rear. The diff was
a Ford 9 inch unit, located with a 4 bar system. The engine and gearbox had
been fitted, so all she had to do was paint. She had removed the engine and
box, put the car on jacks and stands, lain underneath and painted the entire
underbody with underseal, using the only brush she could find, a lin trim
brush.
The only paint in any
quantity she had was house primer. Deciding the colour was a bit yuk, she had
added a small can of Corvette Red and was delighted with the result. Out with
her lin brush and a few hours later the car was painted, inside and out.
Admittedly the finish was a tad lumpy, more like rough sawn timber really, but
she could polish it up some.
After baking the paint in
the hot sun for a few days, she glued some emery boards to a cloth, and rubbed
the hills and valleys smooth. This was a rather tedious operation, taking
several weeks. Next the final coat. Guaranteed non yellowing clear spar varnish
was applied in traditional coachbuilding manner, with the one inch brush.
Smoothed out with thinners before properly curing, she had gone over and over
the car until perfectly satisfied with the glassy, glossy wet-look finish.
The sound but faded leather
interior was rejuvenated with her Daughter's ballet shoe paint, and the trusty
one inch.
She stepped into the
bright-pink Sunbeam Tiger, with bright-pink upholstery, chrome wires. Let the
purists laugh, she thought. The engine barked, settled to a deep rumble. She
set off towards her destination.
The man left the red Tiger
and ambled over. They were deep in the country, surrounded by lush grass.
"Oh really? 100mp/h in
first gear?" he sneered, "In your pink Tiger?"
"Get in, buckle
up."
She snicked the lever into
first. Her foot caressed the accelerator. Six seconds later 110mp/h registered
on the speedo. He shivered nervously, she stopped, he fell out. Standing, he
looked down and saw his shoes were covered in cow manure - or worse.
"351 Ford, Brodeck
heads, roller rockers, turbo. Switch pitch converter drag race prepped
powerglide" she laughed - "Never underestimate the power of a
woman" and took off - showering him with grass - and worse.
Ends.
**
