A car in the wrong hands is a weapon, just like a weapon in the right hands is a car. My first “car” was a hand-me-down. My family couldn’t afford new wheels for me when I turned sixteen, so they gave me my grandpa’s old Howitzer artillery cannon. I was a little surprised at first, all my other friends had Hondas and Volvos. I had a Howitzer. The first day I took my artillery cannon to school, I was afraid everyone would laugh at me. Instead, they were terrified! It was then that I realized that having a artillery cannon for a car might actually be pretty cool. I bought a leather jacket and some big sunglasses. And I mean BIG sunglasses. I had to use an industrial adhesive putty to keep them on my face. Life was radical. It was a pretty steep learning curve trying to operate an artillery cannon as a car, but once I got the hang of it… man! There’s no better feeling than having a two-ton barrel of steel between your legs, spitting hot death out behind you and propelling you down the interstate. The wind in your hair. The smell of sulfur. The shrieks and screams of the hapless, mangled traffic behind you. That’s true freedom. Just you, the road, and your grandpa’s artillery cannon that you’re using as a car.