Grand Cherokee 5.7 Hemi V-8

And there he hung, far up the tree, he had been looking for the eggs of the Australian Kolibree. They'd finished both the VB kegs and he'd commenced his expedition, by piggy-backing with his mate. It was a long standing ambition, though, unbeknownst now tempting fate. The local experts had suggested that hatching out those eggs would bring a princely sum, that, if invested, would make them richer than a king. So here they were, replacing fear inside their country boys' small brains, with gallons of the local beer, which sends adrenalin through veins. And just when Cecil had decided that he was ready to proceed, his mate, who swayed a bit one-sided, remarked, but matey, how indeed will we be celebrating this, when, as I noticed right this second: We're OUT of beer, which truly is a great disaster, as I'd reckoned we'd have enough to see us through! So what you say, I'll drive to town and get some of that lifeblood brew? When I get back you'll be back down. So, see you in a bit, my friend. And he had started the old Rover and disappeared around the bend. As happens in the Aussie Bush, one situation does get tired, sick of itself for various reasons, so it retreats as fate has sired a small distraction of the season, with lightning-fast and deafening whooosh, a flash flood now appeared so quick, that Dundee felt his bowels calling. A wall of water came, and sick he felt, what was appalling, is that he still had Wombat Hill in front of him, a steep incline. And so he floored her for the kill, the Rover's differential whine gave him the mental lift he needed. And up he went at eighty clicks. He could not wait 'til floods receded or he'd be buried in these sticks. At first it looked like he was winning, the turbodiesel soon protested, it changed his face from one of grinning to features that had been arrested in mental journeys to Canossa. He yelled now 'Bloody British Sucker' just hold together a bit longer! ', just then the truck became a 'fucker', judged by the language, which got stronger. Four metres from the summit then all sound expired and he was, like others, long before him, men, whose vehicles also had flaws, at Nature's mercy here for sure. He set the brake, engaged first gear in an attempt to stop a tour back down by forces of his fear, as he would likely perish there in twenty feet of hostile mud. But, in his fast-erupting rage he noticed that he'd started sliding, all he could do now at this stage, is sit and try to pray while riding into his doom, so soon ordained. When his keen ear heard a V-8, the sound was bag balm for the soul, he craned his neck in the direction above the crest, and there she stood: A silver Jeep, with chrome reflection of storm clouds. Dundee thought he could now jump to safety, hitch a ride, as his just cause was truly over. And when the driver did alight and rolled the cable to the Rover attached it to the left cross member, got back inside and gave the wave. It's steaming hot here in December, the heat just zaps from men so brave all latent energy so fast, that optimistic mind-set freezes, and now you know that least and last depressed capitulation seizes your mind and body. It's the end. But here was hope, this five point seven, a Chrysler Hemi, as your friend, orgastic sounds, all dipples revving, Dundee held on and prayed to God. But he forgot the heavy brake, on Rovers they hump the transmission, it is no easy piece of cake to move beyond your field of vision, with brake so locked and truck so mired. So Dundee's heart sank once again. Now that the Cherokee had fired into three thousand RPM, you'd HAVE to be there, only men can understand this power gem. He moved two vehicles with ease, four thousand kilos altogether, the engine drowning out the breeze that had replaced the stormy weather. And pulled him up the next incline and into town through sand so deep, then left the Rover at the sign: 'We Fix Things British - Prices STEEP '. The Yanks were helpful and they bought a couple cartons of the best, while Dundee still appeared distraught, and he was silent all the rest of the way back to get his friend. He thought perhaps the treasure chest, those eggs would build them, in the end could buy a vehicle, the best. And he was watching as they powered through unbelievable terrain, the monster truck simply devoured all obstacles, it seemed insane. With river crossings, where they swam well under water, windscreen under. This sporty ute from Uncle Sam, it sounded similar to thunder, when to the surface it returned. And all the while the stereo blasted the latest CD they had burned the night before, this was the fastest, and wildest, strongest, handsome beast, twohundredfifty kilowatts of power, yeah, to say the least, all others were just little mutts. But time had gone while they were busy. They found old Cecil on the ground, with half his arm attached, and dizzy from loss of blood, so he was found. He'd reached into the hollow nest up on the tree, and then it broke, the branch whose strength was not the best, at first he'd thought 'Oh, what a joke! ' It soon became apparent though that there was nothing he could do, the only way to get below was get his arm, it stuck like glue out of the hole, he'd tried for ages to get extracted from this mess. He gladly would have given wages of twenty years in his distress to anyone who could have helped. But all he saw was angry birds and dingoes that observed and yelped, when God came, whispered those few words and gave him courage to proceed. He'd brought from Zurich a Swiss knife and always carried it, indeed inside his pocket, now his life depended on what those Swiss crafters had built with stubborn, clever hands, to get out from this tree's tall rafters and kiss the lovely desert sands. He cut, left-handed, through his arm and clamped two arteries with tweezers, thus keeping down his mind's alarm, then sawed the bones and took some breathers. At last, when free, he shimmied down and landed hard, but still intact, with face smeared red, a tragic clown, he was alive, that was a fact! And Cecil and his Dundee mate decided in the desert heat, that they would never trust their fate to British vehicles, indeed........ EPILOG: The Yanks had meanwhile hooked the winch with one inch cable to the tree, just halfway up, and in a cinch they put the gear in low range-3 accelerated now a trifle, while snatchblock was attached below to slow things down, securely stifle rate of descent. BOY WHAT A SHOW! The tree came down, all eggs were sound, they earned much money, tipped the Yanks, went to the city where they found, a fivepointseven, many thanks! Note: There are many hollows in outback trees in Australia and the locals will gladly point out the one where 'it' happened. This bushlore does have a true origin as it happened not far from Alice Springs, although there was no VB beer involved and the Grand Cherokee 5.7 had not been conceived. HN