Custom blades flicked, stainless exhaust pipes sparkled and combs greased back locks, as the Low Riders moved in on the Customs turf.
Hot mamas pushed their leather clad boys into scuffles with the Low Riders under a desperate envious M(.)(.)N as the territorial takeover ensued.
Slashed faces, sandwiched knuckles, chain whipped torsos and fisted machine metal did battle in the open air coliseum as anxious stilettos became bloodstained prizes.
Cedrics, Deuce Coupes and Hemi's fought the good fight, but, slowly, forced back into a dark corner of the lowly garage, tires deflated, pumps exhausted and engines blown, the victors claimed their silky prizes.
Fearful of being sold as Low Rider scrap, the customs banned together with their two-wheeled brethren to do final battle!
With the Banzai Hootenanny raging in the backdrop, race lines edged to and fro, as teams of slicked back grease charged through red lights uninhibited.
Finally, the death of Justine laid all in somber reminiscence of past and future, with mutual respect achieved, and an agreed upon territorial division, now, hopefully, the garage of futures past will live in solace and with the admiration of building one from the other.
