There's no way this thing is going back on the road, at least not with you in it. You stroll on over to the passenger side and check the glove compartment for any insurance information. To your surprise, there is some information within. It looks like the former owner had a policy of some kind with Oxford Dry Cleaning and Insurance Inc. Finally, some luck, and even though the policy information is printed on a sheet of loose-leaf paper, you feel confident that Oxford will fulfill their end of the bargain, even though you have no claim of ownership on the car. After all, one can't forget the old Oxford DCI jingle: "Oooooxford! Ooooooxford! Fixin' you car, and pressin' your slacks! Just come in, and we'll pay the amount indicated on your insurance policy when you get in an accident and we won't even check to see if the policy is in your name or if you even own the car! Hoo yeah!" It was a catchy song.

As luck would have it, and luck does have it, as luck would have it, there's an Oxford DCI building on the other side of the Popeye's Chicken parking lot. You head on over and walk inside. "Dave," as the attendant's shirt tag reads, greets you and asks if he can help. You show him your sheet of insurance info. Dave's eyes shoot open as he reads the name of the car.

"The Bundy Dodge!? I remember the day that policy was sold. It hadn't been more than a minute after before a side mirror fell off. We've been paying the bills on that car for years! It's all but put us out of business!!"

No wonder that car lasted so long, and provided so many jokes over the years. You try to cut him short and ask for your money, but instead, he grabs a lead pipe, leaps over the counter, and makes a beeline for the Dodge. You follow him into the parking lot, in part because you don't want him to mess the car up any further, but mostly because you've given up hope on it, and would like to see it go out with a bang. He starts taking swing after swing at the car, and all you can do is watch. Windows shatter, the roof caves in, the door falls off, it's quite remarkable sight. After a few minutes, he starts working the back of the car over. Disaster strikes, however, as a single blow from his pipe crumples the chassis and ruptures the heavily rusted gas tank. Though there is only a few pints of gas left in the tank, it's still enough for the tank to explode and put a rusted, triangular chunk of metal well into your abdominal. The last thing you see as you collapse on the ground, struggling to put your organs back in through the blinding pain, is a piece of Popeye's Chicken as it tumbles out of the huge tear in your stomach.

DIDN'T FINISH DIGESTING YOUR MEAL EH?
WELL NO DESSERT FOR YOU! START OVER!