Mopower Garage

By Fletcher P. Kuykendall                                                                 Episode – 2

The night air hung heavy with summer humidity in July of 1990, thick enough to make your shirt cling to your back. But Johnny B. Whiskey didn’t care. He was behind the wheel of his 1968 Dodge Dart, and tonight wasn’t about comfort—it was about proving something.

Johnny’s Dart was no trailer queen. It was a black, sun-faded, pavement-biting beast with a 340 small block under the hood, forged internals, an old Holley 750 double-pumper, and a cam that lopey-idled like a jackhammer on Valium. Dual glass packs barked through cutouts, and the whole thing sat low on red steel wheels wrapped in Mickey Thompson street meats. The only badge on the rear decklid read Dart as if that one word was enough.

Because around these parts—it was.

Johnny pulled into the old drive-in lot that had long since become the unofficial staging ground for weekend races. A dozen cars sat in rows, paint gleaming under fluorescent parking lot lights. Hoods popped, and small crowds of guys and girls gathered in tight circles. The smell of rubber, race gas, and burnt clutch filled the air like holy incense.

A silver IROC-Z Camaro idled across from him, its driver leaning on the T-top roof, cigarette glowing like a fuse. That was Tommy Ray. Loudmouth. He claimed he’d built the fastest car in the county. Lately, he’d been mouthing off about Johnny’s Dart, saying it was “all noise, no go.” Word got back to Johnny.

Now they were here.

Johnny killed the ignition and stepped out, his boots crunching on broken glass. He didn’t need to say much. He just looked at Tommy, then at the long, empty stretch of County Line Road beyond the trees. A mile of dead-straight blacktop that sat between two towns and two counties—nobody ever patrolled it, and everybody knew why.

Tommy nodded. “Thought you’d chicken out, Whiskey.”

Johnny cracked a grin. “I came to shut you up.”

The crowd followed the two cars as they rolled slowly down a dirt path, tires kicking up dust like smoke signals. The blacktop yawned out at the edge of the trees like a challenge. There were no lights here, just the moon, headlights, and nerves.

The Dart lined up to the left. The Camaro eased into position beside it. Two cars, two drivers, and an unofficial starter—a lanky guy named Jesse who always wore a trench coat no matter how hot it got.

Engines roared.

Johnny stabbed the throttle twice, and the 340 snarled, sending a sharp crack through the trees. Tommy revved high, the Camaro’s big Holley howling. Both drivers stared dead ahead, hands on the wheel, one foot on the clutch, the other hovering over destiny.

Jesse raised his arms. The crowd fell silent.

Arms dropped.

Johnny sidestepped the clutch and mashed the throttle. The Dart’s rear tires squealed in protest, sending a haze of white smoke rolling off the quarter panels before finally grabbing hold. The front end lifted ever so slightly. The Dart surged forward like it had been punched in the gut. Johnny’s whole body leaned into the acceleration. Second gear came hard and fast—chirp—the rear squirmed but held.

The Camaro was still there, headlights in his peripheral vision.

But Johnny knew third gear was where the Dart lived.

He rammed the Hurst lever forward, the 340 roared, the tach needle swept past 6,300, and the Dart clawed forward. He could feel the power in his chest, like a drumbeat behind his ribs. The road blurred. The lines disappeared. All that mattered was throttle, timing, and guts.

And then—it happened.

The headlights slipped behind.

By fourth gear, the Camaro was a memory.

The finish line was a reflective road sign nailed to an old fencepost. Johnny blew past it, doing something north of one hundred and ten, let off, and coasted to a stop, heart pounding like he’d outrun the devil.

He turned off onto a side road and waited.

Moments later, the Camaro rolled up, slowing down, Tommy refusing to look over.

Johnny leaned out his window. “All noise, huh?”

Tommy said nothing. Just revved once and turned back toward town.

Johnny sat there a moment longer, the engine ticking as it cooled, the smell of burnt rubber wafting through the cabin. He looked out over the empty fields and stars overhead and exhaled. The Dart had done it—again. A street brawler, a junkyard hero, a car that didn’t need candy paint or slick talk to prove what it was.

It was a Mopar.

And Johnny B. Whiskey, 20 years old and full of fire, smiled to himself.

Because out there, on that black strip of midnight road, the world still made sense.