Chassis Quotes

The great trains are going out all over Europe, one by one, but still, three times a week, the Orient Express thunders superbly over the 1,400 miles of glittering steel track between Istanbul and Paris. Under the arc-lights, the long-chassied German locomotive panted quietly with the labored breath of a dragon dying of asthma. Each heavy breath seemed certain to be the last. Then came another.

the whole worl's in a state o' chassis

We writers aren't sculpting in DNA, or even clay or mud, but words, sentences, paragraphs, syntax, voice; materials issued by tongue or fingertips but which upon release dissolve into the atmosphere, into cloud, confection, specter. Language, as a vehicle, is a lemon, a hot rod painted with thrilling flames but crazily erratic to drive, riddled with bugs like innate self-consciousness, embedded metaphors and symbols, helpless intertextuality, and so forth. Despite being regularly driven on prosaic errands (interoffice memos, supermarket receipts, etc.), it tends to veer on its misaligned chassis into the ditch of abstraction, of dream.

A verb, then, is not just a word that refers to an action or state but the chassis of the sentence. It is a framework with receptacles for the other parts-the subject, the object, and various oblique objects and subordinate clauses-to be bolted onto.

He picked up Gabe’s Camaro by the torn roof, the chassis creaking and groaning. He raised the car over his head and threw it down the road. It slammed into the wet asphalt and skidded in a shower of sparks for about half a mile before coming to a stop. The gas tank exploded. Not a scratch,I remembered Gabe saying. Oops.

Like the apple bruising Kafka’s beetle, each of these pellets of recollection lodged in Moose’s flesh, releasing its cargo of memories of all the things he had lost— “Not lost! Gained!” Moose thundered aloud, but now, mercifully, that debate (lost or gained?) was supplanted in his mind by the proximity of Belmont Harbor and the yacht club. Yes, this was the place; Moose eased the station wagon into a parking space, desperate to free himself of its chassis, whose sole purpose, it now seemed, was to hold him still so that these bullets of memory could assault him, enter his flesh and release their shrapnel of foolish and unreliable nostalgia.

Therefore in 1909 I announced one morning, without any previous warning, that in the future we were going to build only one model, that the model was going to be "Model T," and that the chassis would be exactly the same for all cars, and I remarked: "Any customer can have a car painted any colour that he wants so long as it is black.

Ireland, like Ukraine, is a largely rural country which suffers from its proximity to a more powerful industrialised neighbour. Ireland’s contribution to the history of tractors is the genius engineer Harry Ferguson, who was born in 1884, near Belfast. Ferguson was a clever and mischievous man, who also had a passion for aviation. It is said that he was the first man in Great Britain to build and fly his own aircraft in 1909. But he soon came to believe that improving efficiency of food production would be his unique service to mankind. Harry Ferguson’s first two-furrow plough was attached to the chassis of the Ford Model T car converted into a tractor, aptly named Eros. This plough was mounted on the rear of the tractor, and through ingenious use of balance springs it could be raised or lowered by the driver using a lever beside his seat. Ford, meanwhile, was developing its own tractors. The Ferguson design was more advanced, and made use of hydraulic linkage, but Ferguson knew that despite his engineering genius, he could not achieve his dream on his own. He needed a larger company to produce his design. So he made an informal agreement with Henry Ford, sealed only by a handshake. This Ford-Ferguson partnership gave to the world a new type of Fordson tractor far superior to any that had been known before, and the precursor of all modern-type tractors. However, this agreement by a handshake collapsed in 1947 when Henry Ford II took over the empire of his father, and started to produce a new Ford 8N tractor, using the Ferguson system. Ferguson’s open and cheerful nature was no match for the ruthless mentality of the American businessman. The matter was decided in court in 1951. Ferguson claimed $240 million, but was awarded only $9.25 million. Undaunted in spirit, Ferguson had a new idea. He approached the Standard Motor Company at Coventry with a plan, to adapt the Vanguard car for use as tractor. But this design had to be modified, because petrol was still rationed in the post-war period. The biggest challenge for Ferguson was the move from petrol-driven to diesel-driven engines and his success gave rise to the famous TE-20, of which more than half a million were built in the UK. Ferguson will be remembered for bringing together two great engineering stories of our time, the tractor and the family car, agriculture and transport, both of which have contributed so richly to the well-being of mankind.

The majority of mixed-breed dogs in America are not crosses of two purebred parents, he explained, but multigenerational mutts, or mutts mixed with other mutts mixed with other mutts. Because the number of genes that determine the dog’s shape is extremely small, and so many variations within those genes are possible, looking at a dog’s physical chassis and making a guess as to its probable heritage will inexorably lead to error.

No, I want you to stay,” I say. “I’ve too many secrets from too many people. I won’t have any more between the three of us.” “Learn to count, shithead,” Sevro says, coming around a rusted engine block. The cheap metal door to the outside slams behind him. Smells like autumn even in Agea’s oil-stained manufacturing district. He hops onto the rusted chassis of an old fighter and sits with his legs dangling. “Hey, look, it’s all pricks for once. Let’s tell sexist jokes.” Chuckling,

THEY’D HOPED, BY now, to have banished sleep forever. The waste was nothing short of obscene: a third of every Human life spent with its strings cut, insensate, the body burning fuel but not producing. Think of all we could accomplish if we didn’t have to lapse into unconsciousness every fifteen hours or so, if our minds could stay awake and alert from the moment of infancy to that final curtain call a hundred and twenty years later. Think of eight billion souls with no off switch and no down time until the very chassis wore out. Why, we could go to the stars.

Joseph Andreas Epp. Epp told us that German scientists had secret UFOs’ facilities in Germany and Poland. He particularly mentioned the UFOs’ hangars located in Letow, Breslau and Dresden, which was reduced to ashes by Allied aerial carpet bombings. He stated that 15 UFOs prototypes were built and flew successfully. He added that the early German UFOs were based upon blueprints and instructions given by Maria Ostric’s Vril Society. Epp in his own words, describing the UFO mode of operation: The circular wing blades rotated independently and smoothly around the external body (Chassis) of the machine as the craft moved forward in a centrifugical manner (Auto-gyrocopter), and the craft took off vertically in a spiral mode. It reached a high altitude at an incredible speed…close to a supersonic speed.

Joe, please,” Toyoda said. Then he stepped over, took Joe’s hand in his own and guided it to the andon cord, and together they pulled. A flashing light began spinning. When the chassis reached the end of Joe’s station without the taillight correctly in place, the line stopped moving. Joe was shaking so much, he had to hold his crowbar with both hands. He finally got the taillight positioned and, with a terrified glance at his bosses, reached up and pulled the andon cord, restarting the line. Toyoda faced Joe and bowed. He began speaking in Japanese. “Joe, please forgive me,” a lieutenant translated. “I have done a poor job of instructing your managers of the importance of helping you pull the cord when there is a problem. You are the most important part of this plant. Only you can make every car great. I promise I will do everything in my power to never fail you again.

How Evolution Came to Indiana In Indianapolis they drive five hundred miles and end up where they started: survival of the fittest. In the swamps of Auburn and Elkhart, in the jungles of South Bend, one-cylinder chain-driven runabouts fall to air-cooled V-4’s, a-speed gearboxes, 16-horse flat-twin midships engines— carcasses left behind by monobloc motors, electric starters, 3-speed gears, six cylinders, 2-chain drive, overhead cams, supercharged to 88 miles an hour in second gear, the age of Leviathan ... There is grandeur in this view of life, as endless forms most beautiful and wonderful are being evolved. And then the drying up, the panic, the monsters dying: Elcar, Cord, Auburn, Duesenberg, Stutz—somewhere out there, the chassis of Studebakers, Marmons, Lafayettes, Bendixes, all rusting in high-octane smog, ashes to ashes, they end up where they started.

After a while, Trevor said, “Know something funny? Chassie wants us to talk. She thinks it’ll help if we get everything out in the open.” “So she doesn’t realize that was our issue? That we couldn’t be open?” Trevor frowned. “First time you’ve said ‘we’ in that old argument, Ed. You always blamed me for us not holdin’ hands and shit.” “I’ve learned the hard way maybe you were right about the kinda baggage other people hide when they’re showing a different face to the world.” When Edgard didn’t elaborate, Trevor demanded, “You gonna explain that comment? Or you gonna sit there with that smug-ass look and make me guess?” “Trying to explain it when you’re in a piss-poor mood would be a waste of breath.” Edgard gave Trevor a cool once-over. “And for the record, I’m not acting smug. I’m just as screwed up about all this with Chassie as you are.” “Right. I’m sure you’re happy as shit.” Seething, Edgard snapped, “You never had the balls to tell me how you felt when we were together every goddamn day, so don’t you ever f**king presume to tell me anything about the way I feel now when you haven’t seen me for three and a half f**king years.” “I didn’t mean—

Patton had been a reflective man, an extraordinarily well-read student of wars and military leaders, ancient and modern, with a curiosity about his war to match his energy. No detail had been too minor or too dull for him, nor any task too humble. Everything from infantry squad tactics to tank armor plate and chassis and engines had interested him. To keep his mind occupied while he was driving through a countryside, he would study the terrain and imagine how he might attack this hill or defend that ridge. He would stop at an infantry position and look down the barrel of a machine gun to see whether the weapon was properly sited to kill counterattacking Germans. If it was not, he would give the officers and men a lesson in how to emplace the gun. He had been a military tailor’s delight of creased cloth and shined leather, and he had worn an ivory-handled pistol too because he thought he was a cavalier who needed these trappings for panache. But if he came upon a truck stuck in the mud with soldiers shirking in the back, he would jump from his jeep, berate the men for their laziness, and then help them push their truck free and move them forward again to battle. By dint of such lesson and example, Patton had formed his Third Army into his ideal of a fighting force. In the process he had come to understand the capabilities of his troops and he had become more knowledgeable about the German enemy than any other Allied general on the Western Front. Patton had been able to command with certainty, overcoming the mistakes that are inevitable in the practice of the deadly art as well as personal eccentricities and public gaffes that would have ruined a lesser general, because he had always stayed in touch with the realities of his war.

The phone rang and Chassie excused herself to answer it. Silence hung between them as heavy as snow clouds in a winter sky. Eventually, Edgard said, "She doesn't know anything about me. Not even that we were roping partners. Not that we were..." He looked at Trevor expectantly. "No." Trevor quickly glanced at the living room where Chassie was chattering away. "You surprised?" "Maybe that she isn't aware of our official association as roping partners. There was no shame in that. We were damn good together, Trev." The word shame echoed like a slap. As good as they were together, it'd never been enough, in an official capacity or behind closed doors. "What are you really doin' here?" Edgard didn't answer right away. "I don't know. Feeling restless. Had the urge to travel." "Wyoming ain't exactly an exotic port of call." "You think I don't realize that? You think I wouldn't rather be someplace else? But something..." Edgard lowered his voice. "Ah, fuck it." "What?" "Want the truth? Or would you rather I lie?" "The truth." "Truth between us? That's refreshing." Edgard's gaze trapped his. "I'm here because of you." Trevor's heart alternately stopped and soared, even when his answer was an indiscernible growl. "For Christsake, Ed. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? With my wife in the next room?" "You're making a big deal out of this. She thinks we're friends, which ain't a lie. We were partners before we were..." Edgard gestured distractedly. "If she gets the wrong idea, it won't be from me." "Maybe I'm gettin' the wrong idea. The last thing you said to me when you fuckin' left me was that you weren't ever comin' back. And you made it goddamn clear you didn't want to be my friend. So why are you here?" Pause. He traced the rim of his coffee cup with a shaking fingertip. "I heard about you gettin' married." "That happened over a year ago and you came all the way from Brazil to congratulate me in person? Now?" "No." Edgard didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He raked his fingers through his hair. His voice was barely audible. "Will it piss you off if I admit I was curious about whether you're really happy, meu amore?" My love. My ass. Trevor snapped, "Yes." "Yes, you're pissed off? Or yes, you're happy?" "Both." "Then this is gonna piss you off even more." "What?" "Years and miles haven't changed anything between us and you goddamn well know it." Trevor looked up; Edgard's golden eyes were laser beams slicing him open. "It don't matter. If you can't be my friend while you're in my house, walk out the fuckin' door. I will not allow either one of us to hurt my wife. Got it?" "Yeah." "Good. And I'm done talkin' about this shit so don't bring it up again. Ever.

Still, she felt as though she mattered, and not just in some ephemeral emotional sense, but in a nuts-and-bolts, chassis, gas-tank kind of way.

Soon after three o'clock on the afternoon of April 22nd 1973, a 35-year-old architect named Robert Maitland was driving down the high-speed exit lane of the Westway interchange in central London. Six hundred yards from the junction with the newly built spur of the M4 motorway, when the Jaguar had already passed the 70 m.p.h. speed limit, a blow-out collapsed the front nearside tyre. The exploding air reflected from the concrete parapet seemed to detonate inside Robert Maitland's skull. During the few seconds before his crash he clutched at the whiplashing spokes of the steering wheel, dazed by the impact of the chromium window pillar against his head. The car veered from side to side across the empty traffic lanes, jerking his hands like a puppet's. The shredding tyre laid a black diagonal stroke across the white marker lines that followed the long curve of the motorway embankment. Out of control, the car burst through the palisade of pinewood trestles that formed a temporary barrier along the edge of the road. Leaving the hard shoulder, the car plunged down the grass slope of the embankment. Thirty yards ahead, it came to a halt against the rusting chassis of an overturned taxi. Barely injured by this violent tangent that had grazed his life, Robert Maitland lay across his steering wheel, his jacket and trousers studded with windshield fragments like a suit of lights.

One day in Rome, I found a little cat in the Villa Medicis gardens. He seemed completely inoffensive, but caused an incredible mess at Chassy by turning out to be tyrannical and nasty. He never let any of the other cats eat, and fought with all of them.

Chassie poured the coffee. Trevor automatically grabbed the milk jug from the fridge and set it next to Edgard. He snagged a spoon from the dish rack, passing it and the sugar canister to Edgard, ignoring Chassi's questioning stare. Didn't mean a damn thing he remembered exactly how Edgard liked his coffee. Not a damn thing. "So, Edgard, what are you doin' in our neck of the woods?" "Reliving some old memories. I drove past my grandparents' place yesterday. With the shabby way it's looking I'm wishing I would've bought it when I had the chance." He smiled wryly. "I'm kicking myself for letting another thing slip through my fingers." "Grandparents?" Chassie repeated, not noticing Trevor's rigid posture after Edgard's comment.

Trev, there’s—” “Hang on.” Metal grinding on metal screeched in the cold air. Then, “Motherfuckin’ piece of shit.” Chassie glanced at Edgard who’d gone completely still. “That’s not the way to talk in front of company, hon.” “Who’s here?” Trevor spun around and froze. A beat passed. Then Edgard said softly, “Hello, Trevor.” No one spoke; no one moved. Trevor roared, “You motherfuckin’ piece of shit.” He threw the wrench and bulled toward Edgard. Crap. Maybe they weren’t friends after all. Instead of tackling the man and pounding him into the ground, Trevor slapped Edgard on the back. Clasping him in a bear hug, lifting him in the air, practically swinging him in a circle. Whoa. She’d never seen her husband so…exuberant. From seeing an old friend she’d never even heard of? Chassie’s eyes met Trevor’s in confusion and he hastily set Edgard down. “Ah. Sorry, man. It’s just…” Trevor turned away. As he composed himself, Chassie fired a sardonic look at Edgard. “Well, I reckon he’s happy to see you after all.” For Christsake, Edgard was here. Standing in his goddamn front yard. Next to his wife. How was he supposed to deal with this situation? At least he’d stopped himself from laying a big, wet kiss on him. Kissing another man. In front of his wife. Fuck.

Edgard’s backside rested against one counter; hers on the one across from him. She gulped her beer, cautioning herself to be tactful and calm, but what burst forth from her mouth was, “Are you in love with my husband?” He visibly paled. And knocked back an equally big swallow of Budweiser in lieu of answering. “I’ve heard Trevor’s side. I talked to Channing and to Colby. So that leaves you.” “And if I say yes, Chassie? What then?” “I’m totally thinkin’ we have a gunfight in the street to determine who’s tough enough to win Trevor’s affections,” she said lightly. That brought a slight smile. “You are a smartass.” “And you are avoidin’ the question, amigo.” “Jesus, do you know how hard it is to look at you and answer that question?” “No harder than it is to look you in the eye and ask it.” “Touché.” Edgard picked at the label.

The phone rang and Chassie excused herself to answer it. Silence hung between them as heavy as snow clouds in a winter sky. Eventually, Edgard said, "She doesn't know anything about me. Not even that we were roping partners. Not that we were..." He looked at Trevor expectantly. "No." Trevor quickly glanced at the living room where Chassie was chattering away. "You surprised?" 224 Coming Full Circle by Liz Andrews "Maybe that she isn't aware of our official association as roping partners. There was no shame in that. We were damn good together, Trev." The word shame echoed like a slap. As good as they were together, it'd never been enough, in an official capacity or behind closed doors.

Warning signs went unheeded as the ferocious kisses continued, kicking Trevor’s need into high gear. But the unfamiliar prickle of Edgard’s beard on his cheek began to rouse him from that dark desire. Coupled with the low-pitched masculine moans—not Chassie’s feminine sighs—and Trevor broke away, knocking Edgard’s hands free. “Stop. No.” “Yes,” Edgard grabbed Trevor’s shirt. “This is why I’m here. Because it’s still there, Trevor. This need didn’t go away just because I did.” “It don’t matter.” “It should. God. Please let it matter.” “Ed—” “Don’t. Just…don’t.” Edgard gently rested his forehead against Trevor’s and retreated into silence. The heat of their bodies, the cold air, the confusion, the passion, the anger, the guilt, all swirled in Trevor’s head until he didn’t know which way was up. Unable to squirm either closer or away, damn near unable to breathe, Trevor squeezed his eyes shut and gave in, leaning against Edgard, just for a moment. Finally he dredged up a semblance of sanity. “I love her, Ed. I’m not with her because she was my second choice.” “I know. Why do you think it hurts me so bad, meu amore?” My love. That single, familiar endearment could prove to be his undoing. Another pause lingered before Trevor said, “I can’t do this. I swear to f**king God I cannot do this again.” “We’ll figure something out this time.” “No.” “Look at me.” Trevor shook his head. “Goddammit. Look. At. Me.” Heart thumping crazily, Trevor pulled back and caught the golden gaze that’d haunted his dreams since the day they’d gone from friends to something more. Edgard curled one hand around Trevor’s face, keeping the other fisted in his shirt. “Tell me how to fix this.” “We can’t and talkin’ about it ain’t gonna change nothin’.” “We were always better at f**king away our problems rather than talking them out, eh?” No hint of a smile graced either of their faces.

Stop.” “You don’t want me to stop, you stupid, stubborn bastard.” Edgard snarled and devoured Trevor’s mouth in another possessive, bruising kiss. Before Trevor could break free from the temptation, a distressed gasp somewhere to the left speeded up the process. Trevor shoved Edgard away. He spun so fast he lost his balance. But the damage had been done. Chassie stood in the shadows in absolute shock. Chapter Seven Not happening. Not happening. Not happening. Her body, her will, her consciousness appeared to be floating in another dimension, as this one shifted and twisted into the surreal. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Not happening. Not happening. Not happening. She had not witnessed her husband in the arms of another man. She had not seen him kissing another man like he was everything in his world. She had not heard the details of how they’d been together, what they’d been together. She had not imagined how badly they wanted to be together now. Not happening. Not happening. Not happening. The mantra she’d used during her childhood to vanquish nightmares wasn’t working this time.

He brought them back up to max-speed and followed the road, tearing around the bends as fast as he dared. This area was more perilous. Away from the estate, there were no houses boxing them in. No barricades, no railings. Just one wrong turn and a hundred-foot drop to certain death. The BMW was on its final throes. Any more significant force applied to its chassis would buckle it completely.

This method soon found its way into every process at his factory. The final chassis assembly went from twelve hours, twenty-eight minutes down to one hour, thirty-three minutes. In the chassis assembling, there are forty-five separate stations. The first men fasten four mud-guard brackets to the chassis frame. The motor arrives on the tenth operation . . . the man who places a part on does not fasten it. The man who puts in a bolt does not put on the nut; the man who puts on a nut does not tighten it. On operation thirty-four, the budding motor gets its gasoline. On operation forty-four, the radiator is filled with water, and on operation forty-five the car drives out onto John R. Street.

For the record, I do not and never will relish the feeling of the engine outrunning the chassis.

Cadillac it was, then. A chassis was ordered and all the protective paraphernalia. Coachcraft, the auto bodybuilder over on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood, were engaged to make it bulletproof. One of the Coachcraft partners, Burt Chalmers, set up a private area to keep the engineering work under wraps. ‘It was the goddamnedest thing you’d ever seen,’ reported Cohen. ‘The bottom of the car was flat – bombproof. It felt like a tank. The glass was made so you could shoot out, but killers could be standing by the windscreen blasting you and nothing would come in.’ Coachcraft ran endless tests on the car’s protective shield, including having it fired on by California Highway Patrol high-powered rifles. They didn’t penetrate. The Cadillac went on to be ‘test driven’ by everything but a bazooka and survived intact. Cohen spent the equivalent of $250,000 on his personal tank.

between the buildings, and went from there to a basement hole, where whatever was left in the bag would be commandeered or the kid would get hurt—or both. The man known as Revenge worried about Traye, wondered how long he would survive. Another year? Another week? Deafening so-called music grabbed Revenge’s attention, coming from a car heading up the avenue behind him. He checked the mirror, saw the black BMW with the death’s-head stencils on the chassis. Okay. Now things were getting interesting. Revenge put the SUV in drive and when the BMW passed him, he pulled out into traffic behind it. Chapter 33

Cominciamo dal fondo. Let’s begin at the beginning. St. Augustine said it most clearly, We are, every one of us, going to die. Rotting is the way of all things. A tree, a cheese, a heart, a whole human chassis. Now, knowing that, understanding that, living begins to seem less important than living the way you’d like to live. Do you agree with that?

The West could help by supplying modern chassis for new or upgraded Ukrainian SAM systems and, ideally, air defense systems that meet the aforementioned requirements for action in eastern Ukraine, especially modern man-portable SAM systems.

EXPENSIVE CARS The most expensive chassis on the British market is the 45-50 h.p. Rolls-Royce and the 50 h.p. double-six Daimler, the prices of both of which range from £1850. Complete cars, of course, vary in price according to the coachwork fitted, but one of the standard models of the 50 h.p. Daimler is an enclosed drive model with a fixed head, listed at prices ranging from £2500. Special coachwork jobs cost as much as £1200 to £1300 on other chassis, bringing the total price up to £3000 or more. There are also, of course, Continental chassis which sell at the same price, but the Import duty partly accounts for their high prices. These include the 45 h.p. Hispano-Suiza chassis (£1950), and Isotta Frasbin sports (£1850); super sports, (£1950). Another expensive English chassis is the 40 h.p. Lancaster (£1800). The Argus

Then the molecules bestowed upon the seeker “the curse of progress”. Progress was something by which man could make his society progressively more iniquitous and unjust and thereby feel more miserable. The other life forms never deviated from what Mother Nature had endowed them with. The seeker had to run faster than his designed speed to achieve progress while the lower creations, who never desired any progress, maintained their designed speed. Going faster than the design is surely going to have a deleterious effect on the engine and the chassis. You cannot send a bullock cart to space and expect it to retrieve a lost satellite. And that was what that exactly happened.

By the time Trevor finished scrubbing the machine oil from his hands, Chassie and Edgard had returned to the kitchen. Chassie said, “Who wants coffee?” “Sounds great, Chass.” “There’s cookies, unless Trev ate them all. The man has a serious sweet tooth.” “Then I oughta munch on you, darlin’, since you’re so durn sweet.” Trevor nibbled the side of her jaw and Chassie squealed. He reached above her head for the coffee cups on the pegs. Trevor turned and saw Edgard staring at them. Not with jealousy, but with longing. Simple affectionate moments had been rare between them and Trevor remembered it was one of the things Edgard had needed that Trevor hadn’t been able to offer him. Why did he feel just as guilty about that shortcoming now as he had back then? Chassie poured the coffee. Trevor automatically grabbed the milk jug from the fridge and set it next to Edgard. He snagged a spoon from the dish rack, passing it and the sugar canister to Edgard, ignoring Chassie’s questioning stare. Didn’t mean a damn thing he remembered exactly how Edgard liked his coffee. Not a damn thing. “So, Edgard, what are you doin’ in our neck of the woods?” “Reliving some old memories. I drove past my grandparents’ place yesterday. With the shabby way it’s looking I’m wishing I would’ve bought it when I had the chance.” He smiled wryly. “I’m kicking myself for letting another thing slip through my fingers.

Eventually, Edgard said, “She doesn’t know anything about me. Not even that we were roping partners. Not that we were…” He looked at Trevor expectantly. “No.” Trevor quickly glanced at the living room where Chassie was chattering away. “You surprised?” “Maybe that she isn’t aware of our official association as roping partners. There was no shame in that. We were damn good together, Trev.” The word shame echoed like a slap. As good as they were together, it’d never been enough, in an official capacity or behind closed doors. “What are you really doin’ here?” Edgard didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. Feeling restless. Had the urge to travel.” “Wyoming ain’t exactly an exotic port of call.” “You think I don’t realize that? You think I wouldn’t rather be someplace else? But something…” Edgard lowered his voice. “Ah, f**k it.” “What?” “Want the truth? Or would you rather I lie?” “The truth.” “Truth between us? That’s refreshing.” Edgard’s gaze trapped his. “I’m here because of you.” Trevor’s heart alternately stopped and soared, even when his answer was an indiscernible growl. “For Christsake, Ed. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? With my wife in the next room?” “You’re making a big deal out of this. She thinks we’re friends, which ain’t a lie. We were partners before we were…” Edgard gestured distractedly. “If she gets the wrong idea, it won’t be from me.” “Maybe I’m gettin’ the wrong idea. The last thing you said to me when you f**kin’ left me was that you weren’t ever comin’ back. And you made it goddamn clear you didn’t want to be my friend. So why are you here?” Pause. He traced the rim of his coffee cup with a shaking fingertip. “I heard about you gettin’ married.” “That happened over a year ago and you came all the way from Brazil to congratulate me in person? Now?” “No.” Edgard didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He raked his fingers through his hair. His voice was barely audible. “Will it piss you off if I admit I was curious about whether you’re really happy, meu amore?” My love. My ass. Trevor snapped, “Yes.” “Yes, you’re pissed off? Or yes, you’re happy?” “Both.” “Then this is gonna piss you off even more.” “What?” “Years and miles haven’t changed anything between us and you goddamn well know it.” Trevor looked up; Edgard’s golden eyes were laser beams slicing him open. “It don’t matter. If you can’t be my friend while you’re in my house, walk out the f**kin’ door. I will not allow either one of us to hurt my wife. Got it?” “Yeah.” “Good. And I’m done talkin’ about this shit so don’t bring it up again. Ever.

Edgard wasn’t convinced the three of them together out on the town was the best idea. “You sure you want me to come along, Chassie? I don’t wanna be a third wheel.” “Trev is relieved to be off the dancin’ hook, aren’t you, hon?” “Yep. I’ll be more’n happy to hold down a barstool and guard the beer while you’re two-steppin’.” Trevor gave Edgard a genuine grin. “You don’t know what you’re in for, Ed. Chassie can go all night.” “I’m the lucky man to test your stamina? All night?” He grinned. “I’m all over that.” “I’ll bet a guy like you has plenty of stayin’ power,” Chassie shot back with a sexy growl. “I’m lucky, showin’ up with the two hottest guys in the county. That uppity Brandy Martinson is so gonna eat her heart out.” “I’m sure she’s used to no one noticing her when you’re in the room, sweetheart,” Edgard drawled. “Ed, stop flirtin’ with my wife.

Would Chassie be jealous? Or would she roll with it like she’d rolled with everything else? She knocked on the door and poked her head in. “Hey, hon. Edgard’s back. There’s something he wants to show me in the barn.” Trevor grinned. “Chass, baby, a country girl like you oughten be fallin’ for that tired old line. For shame.” “It’s only a tired line if it don’t work. Obviously it’s worked on me, since I’ll be in the barn with him.

What could I do? I was beyond pissed off. Trevor not telling anyone about us was always a big issue between us. I understood his reasons and never pushed it. But when he made fun of guys who had the balls to come out of the closet? That was a line he shouldn’t’ve crossed. I hated he’d done it in front of me.” Edgard shoved a hand through his hair. “After dinner, the whole family loaded up and went to the big rodeo dance. I declined. “I burned my bootheels getting to the g*y cowboy bar in Denver and hooked up with a dentist who was in town for the rodeo. I spent the night in his hotel room and didn’t see Trevor until the following afternoon when we had to compete.” Chassie figured she wouldn’t much care for Trevor’s jealous reaction, but she wouldn’t be surprised by it. “We sucked in the arena. Lost our chance for points or purse. Soon as we were alone he lit into me. We fought. Not with words. With our fists. We beat the shit out of each other, Chass. It was ugly.” “Where’d it happen? Since you were always so discreet?” “In the living quarters of the horse trailer. Trev said something. I said something back. He took the first punch. I landed the last. Christ, we were rolling around on the floor, bleeding—” “Whoa—bleeding?” Edgard closed his eyes. “When we were shoving each other some beer bottles got broken and we just kept going, stomping all over them. Trevor slipped and fell and I didn’t help him up, I just kept beating on him. So he has a cut on his back and I have a gash on my arm as a memento.

He reached out a hand and stroked one of the bikes along the sleek chassis. It had words painted along the side, in silver: NOX INVICTUS. “‘Victorious night,’” he translated.

Behind the parking lot was a larger, two-story corrugated-steel building. The front building blocked most of what lay behind it from view, but Pike could see that the grounds were crowded with stacked auto chassis, rusting pipes, and other types of scrap metal. Two new sedans were parked out front on the street, and two more sedans and a large truck were in the parking lot, but the gravel drive was chained off, and a sign in the front office window read CLOSED. As Pike watched, a man in a blue shirt came out of the front office building, and crunched across the parking lot to the corrugated building. As he reached the door, he spoke to someone Pike didn’t see, and then that man stepped out from behind the parked truck. He was a big man with a big gut, and thick legs to carry it. The two men laughed about something, then the man in the blue shirt went into the building. The big man studied the passing traffic, then slowly returned to his place behind the truck. Everything

A fuel or energy source (natural gas, gasoline, electricity) simply makes a machine run. When you don’t supply it, the machine continues to exist. It has stopped, but it does not die. The fuel does not reconstitute. It does not keep the motor in existence, nor the chassis, nor any other piece whatsoever of the automobile. Food, in contrast, not only furnishes the calories that enable the body to function; more fundamentally it contributes to the subsistence, the growth, and then even the fecundity of the individual whom it nourishes.

Heavy Equipment Recovery Combat Utility Lift and Evacuation System (HERCULES) (M88A2) Mission Provide towing, winching, and hoisting to support battlefield recovery operations and evacuation of heavy tanks and other tracked combat vehicles. Entered Army Service 1997 Description and Specifications The M88A2 HERCULES is a full-tracked, armoured vehicle that uses the existing M88A1 chassis but significantly improves towing, winching, lifting, and braking characteristics. The HERCULES is the primary recovery support vehicle for the Abrams tank fleet, the heavy Assault Bridge, and heavy self-propelled artillery. Length: 338 in Height: 123 in Width: 144 in Weight: 70 tons Speed: 25 mph w/o load; 17 mph w/load Cruising Range: 200 miles Boom Capacity: 35 tons Winch Capacity: 70 tons/670 ft Draw Bar Pull: 70 tons Armament: One .50-calibre machine gun Power train: 12 cylinder, 1050 HP air-cooled diesel engine with 3-speed automatic transmission Crew: 3 Manufacturer

M113 Family of Vehicles Mission Provide a highly mobile, survivable, and reliable tracked-vehicle platform that is able to keep pace with Abrams- and Bradley-equipped units and that is adaptable to a wide range of current and future battlefield tasks through the integration of specialised mission modules at minimum operational and support cost. Entered Army Service 1960 Description and Specifications After more than four decades, the M113 family of vehicles (FOV) is still in service in the U.S. Army (and in many foreign armies). The original M113 Armoured Personnel Carrier (APC) helped to revolutionise mobile military operations. These vehicles carried 11 soldiers plus a driver and track commander under armour protection across hostile battlefield environments. More importantly, these vehicles were air transportable, air-droppable, and swimmable, allowing planners to incorporate APCs in a much wider range of combat situations, including many "rapid deployment" scenarios. The M113s were so successful that they were quickly identified as the foundation for a family of vehicles. Early derivatives included both command post (M577) and mortar carrier (M106) configurations. Over the years, the M113 FOV has undergone numerous upgrades. In 1964, the M113A1 package replaced the original gasoline engine with a 212 horsepower diesel package, significantly improving survivability by eliminating the possibility of catastrophic loss from fuel tank explosions. Several new derivatives were produced, some based on the armoured M113 chassis (e.g., the M125A1 mortar carrier and M741 "Vulcan" air defence vehicle) and some based on the unarmoured version of the chassis (e.g., the M548 cargo carrier, M667 "Lance" missile carrier, and M730 "Chaparral" missile carrier). In 1979, the A2 package of suspension and cooling enhancements was introduced. Today's M113 fleet includes a mix of these A2 variants, together with other derivatives equipped with the most recent A3 RISE (Reliability Improvements for Selected Equipment) package. The standard RISE package includes an upgraded propulsion system (turbocharged engine and new transmission), greatly improved driver controls (new power brakes and conventional steering controls), external fuel tanks, and 200-amp alternator with four batteries. Additional A3 improvements include incorporation of spall liners and provisions for mounting external armour. The future M113A3 fleet will include a number of vehicles that will have high speed digital networks and data transfer systems. The M113A3 digitisation program includes applying hardware, software, and installation kits and hosting them in the M113 FOV. Current variants: Mechanised Smoke Obscurant System M548A1/A3 Cargo Carrier M577A2/A3 Command Post Carrier M901A1 Improved TOW Vehicle M981 Fire Support Team Vehicle M1059/A3 Smoke Generator Carrier M1064/A3 Mortar Carrier M1068/A3 Standard Integrated Command Post System Carrier OPFOR Surrogate Vehicle (OSV) Manufacturer Anniston Army Depot (Anniston, AL) United Defense, L.P. (Anniston, AL)

I’ve had affairs before but never like this - I need a reason to leave my wife,” Shimansky said, desperately appealing to me. “Won't you wife be annoyed?" I asked. “Probably. No doubt. She usually is…” he said. “That's very complicated. Even worse, what if your wife forgives you…? What then? You going to stay with her and keep doing the other one…?” From: "The Sundial Salesman.

Can anyone be arrested for being such an asshole as him? Should they pass a law, legislate for just such things, make it a criminal offense you could be detained for being such an asshole? But then most of the world's men would be behind bars serving life term sentences, without parole.

As far as I could tell his problems with his wife were pretty typical, they’d run out of things to say to one another. And the things they did think up to say were pretty unkind and shit. Their life and marriage sounded as if it consisted of him gradually removing their most impressive moments and then rearranging them in a mutually one-sided fashion so that every moment with her was torture.

I wouldn't say I hate my job and hate my life. But if I'd to choose it'd be a pretty fine line and so indiscernible I easily wander over the border between the two and back again without ever being fully aware of the transgression.

Even if she was only just 17, sometimes a woman can be so busy they forget to have a sense of humour and can't remember even how beautiful they used to feel and all that remains is the marching band smile of several serious but invisible injuries.

A LIGHT RAIN fell across Tokyo. I looked out the window over the dull, grey landscape of TV aerials poking into the sky and out over the smoking, smouldering remains of the city in the distance looking much like an old, ugly industrial painting with its thick dirty, smudged colours.

You're mother's a whore." "She is," I’d agreed but my father, he'd mistook my conforming opinion as a question because he'd said: "She is, son, I'm sorry.” I knew by the time I was 3 my mother was getting around. The only difference between a prostitute and my mother was my mother didn't usually charge. Unusually.

When I was leaving August Burgman looked at me, mystified. "You could've asked for the world!" she said, which just proved, she'd no idea how the goddamn world worked or how much it would’ve cost.

Downtown, in a parking lot in the middle of the day whilst people shopped around with their kids amidst their arguments and new purchases, Ronald Ford had purchased a range of narcotics. It had been that quick to get high. So while Ronald Ford was the son of royalty and I was King of the Dreamers we were both impecunious. And, as you can tell, pretty well read.

So while Ronald Ford was the son of royalty and I was King of the Dreamers, we were both impecunious. But, as you can tell, pretty well-read. All of which still counted for shit when you no money. Downtown, in a parking lot in the middle of the day whilst people shopped around with their kids amidst their arguments and new purchases, Ronald Ford had purchased a range of narcotics. It had been that quick to get high.

The weapon was one of the variants of the standard SAS sniper rifle, the British-made Accuracy International PM — Precision Marksman — or L96A1. Designed for covert operations, the rifle Dekker had chosen was the AWS, or Arctic Warfare Suppressed, model. The name was a hangover from the days when the manufacturer produced a modified version for the Swedish armed forces, a move which spawned several different models generically known as the AW range. The stainless-steel barrel was fitted with an integrated suppressor which reduced the sound of a shot to about that of a standard .22 rifle. It was a comparatively short-range weapon, because of the subsonic ammunition, effective only to about three hundred yards in contrast to other versions and calibres of the rifle, some of which were accurate at up to a mile. Both the stock, its green polymer side panels already attached, and the barrel were a tight fit in the case, each lying diagonally across its interior. He pulled them both out, fitted and secured the barrel, and lowered the bipod legs mounted at the fore-end of the machined-aluminium chassis to support it, while he completed the assembly. Then he took a five-round magazine out of the recess in the briefcase, along with an oblong cardboard box containing twenty rounds of 7.62 x 51-millimetre rifle ammunition.

The Porsche was one of the new “throwback” extended-range electrics with a quad-motor chassis that could do 0 to 60 in .9 seconds and had a range of 1,000 miles on full charge.

He picked up Gabe’s Camaro by the torn roof, the chassis creaking and groaning. He raised the car over his head and threw it down the road. It slammed into the wet asphalt and skidded in a shower of sparks for about half a mile before coming to a stop. The gas tank exploded. Not a scratch, I remembered Gabe saying. Oops.

Thus, the aim of the chassis designer is to: One: ensure that the tyres are presented to the ground in an even and consistent manner through the braking, cornering and acceleration phases. Two: ensure the car is as light as possible. Three: ensure that the car generates as little drag as possible. Four: ensure that the car is generating as much downforce as possible in a balanced manner throughout the phases of the corner.

He's got a car bomb. He puts the key in the ignition and turns it—the car blows up. He gets out. He opens the hood and makes a cursory inspection. He closes the hood and gets back in. He turns the key in the ignition. The car blows up. He gets out and slams the door shut disgustedly. He kicks the tire. He takes off his jacket and shimmies under the chassis. He pokes around. He slides back out and wipes the grease off his shirt. He puts his jacket back on. He gets in. He turns the key in the ignition. The car blows up, sending debris into the air and shattering windows for blocks. He gets out and says, Damn it! He calls a tow truck. He gives them his AAA membership number. They tow the car to an Exxon station. The mechanic gets in and turns the key in the ignition. The car explodes, demolishing the gas pumps, the red-and-blue Exxon logo high atop its pole bursting like a balloon on a string. The mechanic steps out. You got a car bomb, he says. The man rolls his eyes. I know that, he says.

Alicia’s gaze veered to the river. She imagined taking a sudden, sharp turn. Her car would barrel over the grass toward the water. There would be a rush of adrenaline followed by the slow calm of her chassis submerging. Alicia wouldn’t try to claw her way out. She’d just close her eyes, reveling in the intoxicating feeling that soon it would all be over.

Chino did as he was told but received the same response, accompanied in quick succession first by a vise clenching his stomach in its grip, then the metallic clang of bullets impacting the vehicle’s steel chassis. He twisted in his seat, his attention instinctively drawn to the sound of the impacts. In the back, Cpl. Miles Roth and Pvt. Stan Oxley had hunched low, behind the protection of the metal sides

When developing a new service, it would be too time consuming to reimplement these concerns from scratch. A much better approach is to apply the Microservice Chassis pattern and build services on top of a framework that handles these concerns.

The tagline “thanks for listening,” which has been so copied and admired, derived from the successful 1976 senatorial campaign of S. I. Hayakawa. Hayakawa was a professor of linguistics at San Francisco State University (before he became university president). He knew how to use the English language. The calm manner of his radio commercials, his thanking the listener for staying tuned, really impressed me and, six years later, provided the chassis and the closer for Trader Joe’s commercials. We used the commercials to keep us in front of the public between editions of the Fearless Flyer. We didn’t do both at the same time, or else the stores would have been overwhelmed with business. In short, the radio commercials were and are extremely effective. In the course of this, my voice became one of the best known in California.

So I went ahead and got coked out of my brain box. I was already kind of awake-dreaming due to no sleep since we left home, and now it took on a nightmare aspect, with prospects of future sleep slim to none. For the record, I do not and never will relish the feeling of the engine outrunning the chassis.

the bull-man bellowed in rage. He picked up Gabe’s Camaro by the torn roof, the chassis creaking and groaning. He raised the car over his head and threw it down the road. It slammed into the wet asphalt and skidded in a shower of sparks for about half a mile before coming to a stop. The gas tank exploded. Not a scratch, I remembered Gabe saying. Oops.

In early 2000, Thiel and Musk were set to meet with Mike Moritz at Sequoia’s office at 2800 Sand Hill Road in Menlo Park to discuss the merger. Musk offered Thiel a lift from Palo Alto. The year before, Musk had purchased a Magnesium Silver McLaren F1, Chassis #067, from Gerd Petrik, a German pharmaceutical executive. A $1 million sports car complete with gull-wing doors and an engine bay encased in gold foil, Musk dubbed the automobile a “work of art” and “a really beautiful piece of engineering.” Even among McLarens, #067 was distinctive—one of only seven McLaren F1s legal to drive in the United States at the time.

I like to explain stability using an analogy from my favorite sport, auto racing. A few years ago I drove to a racetrack in Southern California to spend a couple of days training with my coach. To warm up, I took a few “sedan laps” in my street car at the time, a modified BMW M3 coupe with a powerful 460+ HP engine. After months of creeping along on clogged Southern California freeways, it was hugely fun to dive into the corners and fly down the straightaways. Then I switched to the track car we had rented, basically a stripped-down, race-worthy version of the popular BMW 325i. Although this vehicle’s engine produced only about one-third as much power (165 HP) as my street car, my lap times in it were several seconds faster, which is an eternity in auto racing. What made the difference? The track car’s 20 percent lighter weight played a part, but far more important were its tighter chassis and its stickier, race-grade tires. Together, these transmitted more of the engine’s force to the road, allowing this car to go much faster through the corners. Though my street car was quicker in the long straights, it was much slower overall because it could not corner as efficiently. The track car was faster because it had better stability. Without stability, my street car’s more powerful engine was not much use. If I attempted to drive it through the curves as fast as I drove the track car, I’d end up spinning into the dirt. In the context of the gym, my street car is the guy with huge muscles who loads the bar with plates but who always seems to be getting injured (and can’t do much else besides lift weights in the gym). The track car is the unassuming-looking dude who can deadlift twice his body weight, hit a fast serve in tennis, and then go run up a mountain the next day. He doesn’t necessarily look strong. But because he has trained for stability as well as strength, his muscles can transmit much more force across his entire body, from his shoulders to his feet, while protecting his vulnerable back and knee joints. He is like a track-ready race car: strong, fast, stable—and healthy, because his superior stability allows him to do all these things while rarely, if ever, getting injured.

When a parent creates a child, in fact they have no idea about the history of that stream of consciousness, as in what that they did in their previous lives, and more importantly whether it will be a good entity, or a bad one. What they need to realize is that they have simply created the shell, or the chassis of the car, that the entity will enter and control. Genetic similarities and conditioning are the only tools that will help the parent to mould that child, as it evolves.

If a man who can’t count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky?

I wanted to disable the vehicle, but the cab doors were locked, and the engine hood was latched from the inside. Damn. I crawled under the high chassis and drew my knife. I don’t know much about auto mechanics, and Jack the Ripper didn’t know much about anatomy.

A car with the right exterior, but the wrong parts, the wrong chassis. Boys just want the model that doesn’t take any mods to get it the way they like.

The carriage was wooden and ornately painted, without a roof. It was merely a chassis and two seats mounted on enormous wheels, although the rear seat was cushier, designed for the passengers. Mike sat in the driver’s seat, snapping the reins. “Have no fear!” he shouted. “The cavalry is here!” “Don’t stop!” Catherine yelled to him. “There’s no time for that!” “Good!” Mike yelled back. “Because I don’t know how to stop this thing!

Jeremy George Lake Charles The classic Corvette (Richard Nichols, 1984) contains the following chapters on the Corvette's design, engine, chassis, interior and exterior design. The Corvette Bible (Mike Yager (2007) is a comprehensive guide to the history of the Chevrolet Corvette from 1953 to 1987. Jeremy George Lake Charles This show includes a full-color illustration of the original Corvette and a detailed description of the interior and exterior design of each car. You will notice that all 65 of the 1968 convertibles were, but the covered models include the Corvette Stingray, Corvette ZR1, Corvettes, Camaro and Corvette Convertible.

Figure 1 schematically shows how in-vehicle networking will be conceived. In this conception, CAN and the other communication protocols developed concurrently made it possible for multiple LANs to exchange data efficiently via a gateway. Motor Motor Motor Air Sub network Switch Switch Sensor Safety system Passenger detection conditioner Radar Door CAN Up to 125 kbps zLIN 2.4 to 19.2 kbps AFS Instrument panel meter Keyless Body White line detection Head lamp Levelizer Combination lamp Sub network system Squib zSafe-(150 kbpsby-Wire ) Airbag Gateway control Tire Information Engine and powertrain pressure system ACC ITS system system CAN CAN 500 kbps 125 kbps MD/CD Audio VICS Engine Steering Brake changer Video navi TVSS Sub network compo zFlexRay *2(5 Mbps) zMOST Chassis z1394 AT system CAN 500 kbps Failure diagnostic system zCAN (statutory control) Diagnostic tool Figure 1. Conception of In-vehicle Networking * 1 : ISO stands for International Organization for Standardization.* 2 : FlexRay TM is a registered trademark of DaimlerChrysler AG. REJ05B0804-0100/Rev. 1.00 April 2006 Page 2 of 44

Jeremy George Lake Charles The Fast Track C3 Corvette chassis is the ultimate aftermarket chassis for the Corvette 68-82. The development team at Art Morrison Enterprises worked with leading manufacturers to develop the latest addition to the Ames series of GT-Sport bolt-on chassis for C2 applications. In order to simplify assembly, the C3 chassis has been designed to use the factory mounting points for bumpers, core and support bearings. Jeremy George Lake Charles We offer a C-4 conversion, which includes a tailor-made front frame section that accepts crossbeams from 1984-96. Viper Super 44 / 9 QuickChange IRS diffusers are mounted on custom axles. If you move the 500-pound V-8 engine 75 feet to the rear and the 300-pound automatic transmission 28 feet to the rear, you get a Corvette with a different weight distribution. Jeremy George Lake Charles The bearings, in turn, improve acceleration and traction by shortening the braking distance, and all four tires are able to do their share of braking performance.