In the early 1970's, a vehicle was manufactured by hardworking, honest Americans in Lansing, Michigan. It rolled down the assembly line, collecting its parts in silence. It relished the power of the rumbling V8 bolted into its engine bay. It reveled in the masculine grace of its nearly 20-foot long body rich with broad shanks and an aggressive stance. When its ignition turned over for the first time, it roared to life with the fury of a wild beast preparing for the hunt.

It was rolled on to the back of a truck and delivered to a dealership in Texas, where it anxiously awaited its owner. It envisioned torquey climbs on highway hills, its exhaust bellowing forth as it dominantly passed Fords and Dodges with ease.

And then Nick's grandmother bought it.

He languished in her garage, occasionally escaping to putter along Main Street at 15 mph. Sadness and despair overcame him. He resigned himself to a sad and lonely life of hauling groceries and knitted handbags. But his rage grew within him.

And then he was passed on to Nick, who found him ugly. A thing of the past. So Nick left him on the street, in the wind and rain and hot desert sun. And his rage grew within him.

And then Josh grew weary of the 30-year old land yacht collecting dust and detritus on the curb in front of his house. So he called Nick.

Josh: Nick, get rid of that car or let me chop it up.
Nick: Do whatever you want. I'm at work.

And Josh did whatever he wanted. Armed with a Sawzall and a grinder, he liberated the rumbling, angry soul of the aging Oldsmobile and the Bone Crusher was born. Windshieldless, roofless, seatbeltless, and merciless, it rampages through the streets of southern New Mexico. And it is awesome to behold.

Behold the Bone Crusher.