For the next four weeks, CompetitionPlus.com will conduct its third annual War Stories Showdown. The veterans of yarn spinning are paired for what promises to be a series destined to produce the finest behind-the-scenes stories.

Here are the rules –

The field was seeded by reader vote. The participants are paired on the standard NHRA professional eliminations ladder. Each story represents an elimination run for the participant. The readers will judge each war story on the merits of (A) believability and (B) entertainment value. Please do not vote based on popularity. You are the judge and jury, so vote accordingly. Multiple votes from the same computer IP address will not be counted.

Voting lasts for three days per elimination match. Once a driver advances to the next round, they must submit a new war story.

This is an event based on fun and entertainment value, and the rules are simple. The stories cannot describe any felonious acts (unprosecuted, that is) and you can't use a story about your opponent, against them. There is a one event win rule.

This is drag racing with no red-lights, disqualifications and plenty of oil downs minus the clean-ups. Please enjoy as each of our competitors tell their own stories.

Let the competition begin -

RACE COMPLETED: WINNER: "DIESEL" LOUIS FORCE (65.28) DEF. DON GILLESPIE (34.72)

No. 2 Louis Force vs. No. 15 Don Gillespie

NO.  2 QUALIFIER – "DIESEL" LOUIS FORCE
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – Once Landed His Brother A Bank of America Sponsorship

THE STORY OF: THE DAY MY BROTHER BS’ED US OUT OF MEXICAN PRISON

Let me tell you a story about John Force.

In the beginning we would drive all the way to Gainesville, blow our car up and come home broke. Starving as usual. We rode on our father's credit card.

On this particular trip, it was Bob Fisher, Roy Mayhew, myself and John. We had a Dooley that we had gotten from Don Steves Chevrolet. We had our own trailer but the truck started out as a loner. We ended up doing well enough; he stayed with us and gave us the truck later on.

I did 90 percent of the driving in the old days, because my brother knew I wouldn't fall asleep. I was a cross country oriented kind of guy, so staying awake long haul was okay with me. On this particular trip I drove all the way from Gainesville, Fla., to El Paso. And, this was right after we had raced the whole day. I drove all the way to El Paso. The other two guys, having worked real hard, were crashed out and asleep. I had to get back to work.

This is when John comes into play. I had stopped for fuel and leaned over the steering wheel to sleep 15 minutes in the truck stop. Suddenly, John woke up and he was, 'We got to get going. We got to get going. I got to find a way to get money to fix our car. Blah blah blah' So I crawled over into the passenger seat and John starts driving.

Now, John is a world class race car driver. But, in a car, it's not that he's dangerous but he has these little idiosyncrasies. He rolls on an off the throttle. You feel like you are one of those little wind-up dolls or one of those bobble head dolls in the back window, football or baseball player with the head wobbling all around. Me, I can't sleep like that.

I said, “D*** John, can't you do something?”

Pretty soon, out of sheer exhaustion, I fall asleep. I wake up and it's pitch black and the other two guys are still asleep in the back and John is gone. The door is open, the headlights are on, and I don't see anything. It's pitch black in the middle of nowhere and it's obvious we are on a dirt road. I am thinking, what the hell?

I go to get out of the truck and this guy sticks a pistol in my face. It's a Mexican guy and he is wearing a military, all khaki uniform, with what they call a Sam Brown belt, the one that goes across the shoulder at an angle. He's wearing a police officer's hat and he's got a badge that looks like he got it out of a candy machine, but he's a cop.

He tells me to stay in the truck. He handcuffs me to the steering wheel and takes the keys out of the truck. Then I hear this Jeep start up. I was military, so I instantly recognize it's an old jeep. The jeep pulls around. They got John in handcuffs; handcuffed to the dash. Jeeps have a bar for the second hand rider to hold onto. John is chained to that. I look over at him and he doesn't say a word. His face was white as a ghost. And, they drive off. Never said a word. They left.

We sat there probably four or five hours. Fisher woke up and asked, 'What's going on?' I said I don't know yet, but Force is gone. Now he panics. I had already taken off my handcuffs with a key, my brother Walker had given me. We get out and start looking around and there are some adobe houses but nothing we recognize. Roy, who is our whiner, he says, 'Well, you know you are in Mexico and we are all going to jail and we are going to live here the rest of our lives. And, they are going to make love to us. We are all just ruined. You'll never see your brother again. They've hijacked him.”

John was kind of a kid then. This goes way back to '76 or '77. We sat there. There is no such thing as a cell phone. There is no telephone anywhere and not a single light. I start walking up this road and I come to a wheel sitting in the street and there is a little yellow sign on it, maybe six by eight (inches) that says SLOW DOWN. Well, evidently John didn't slow down.

I come back and say if this guy catches me without the handcuffs he might just come over and shoot me. So, I hooked myself back up to the steering wheel again, with the handcuffs. I'm sitting there with the window down, it's the middle of summer, it's probably 90 degrees, no wind, no nothing. We're just sitting there dying. No water. No nothing. And, then I hear John shout.

I am just thinking the worst thing in the world is happening. Around the corner, going up the road I see this set of headlights four feet off the ground, then two feet off the ground, then four feet off the ground and I see gunshots. This Jeep drives right straight up to the front of my Dooley, slams on the brakes and slides to a stop. These Mexicans jump out. One of them has no shirt on, neither one has belts on, one is wearing a big sombrero, John is wearing a sombrero and they are drunker than Hooter Jones. John's got this guy’s WWII British pistol in his hands – on old 11mm Webley. Actually, it was a 455, I found out later, but it was huge.

They are all screaming and singing and just carrying on and being crazy. John jumps up on the hood of this jeep and starts dancing with his hat on, doing the cucaracha and all that kind of s%#!. Finally, he gets down and they unlock him. We're handing out pictures and t-shirts. Even our own t-shirts we were giving them.

John slides in the truck and says, 'don't say a word.' I said where are the keys? The Mexicans are about to drive off, John jumps out of the truck chasing these guys saying he needs his keys. The Jeep is half full of beer cans. Anyway, they go off down the road and we get into the truck and make a u-turn. As we are making a u-turn I see brake lights come on. John just says, 'haul a**.'

We're pulling a Chapparal trailer and go right past that sign again doing over a hundred. We get back into El Paso.

John had driven off into Mexico. He was speeding. So, they took him down to the local calaboose, where, however he did it, he never said, he ended up talking them out of putting him in jail; instead he wrote them a check. I am sure that the check didn't have any money in the bank because it never cleared. Maybe they never tried to cash it.

To this day I never go anywhere close to Mexico when I let John drive.

That's a true story with no embellishment.

Here's the real kicker. John was stone sober. I just thought he was drunk. He was just having a good time and they understood free stuff. Evidently, he bullsh***** his way out of it. Hey, he got us home again.

NO.  15 QUALIFIER – DON GILLESPIE
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – A TENDENCY TO BE IN THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME

THE STORY OF: MY TRIP TO HELL

The year was 1973, a rough one on my racing soul. My local track, Lions Drag Strip, had been closed nearly a year. There was some good news. Months prior I was granted a driver’s permit. Early trips evolved from going around the block to more slightly dangerous jaunts to the grocery store. All too often, mom was a constant passenger. Solo trips to high school finally followed.

I was christened captain of my own ship in the form of a white 1965 Ford Galaxie 500. This occurred on graduation day from high school in Long Beach, California. The motorized umbilical cord was cut. I was now able to traverse my neighborhood – and everywhere else on a Rand McNally map. Including any drag strip, USA.

That first epic journey away from home came at the end of August. Don Garlits was holding an epic P.R.O. AHRA/National Challenge in Tulsa. I traveled with a friend the previous inaugural year, and the thought of another three-day weekend with 32 top fuel, funny car and pro stock fields kept me in a perpetual dream state for weeks. This was going to be a trip to remember. Boy, was it ever.

The big day finally came. The four-door sedan’s trunk was loaded with way too much luggage, a photo enlarger and a dozen containers of liquid photochemistry. Joining me was photographer, Barry Wiggins. A jaunt to Barry’s home found the car getting a bit heavier than planned. More luggage, camera cases, and photochemistry. As we left his driveway the frame rails nearly drug the ground. Eastward we went - with nary a care in the world.

Barry hatched a plan. Gillespie, you drive first. When you get too tired, we’ll switch. That way, we’ll never shut the engine off, he reasoned. He swiftly disappeared under a blanket in the back seat. There I was right foot firmly planted, the wind in my face, and hand sawing the wheel of an aged car with way too many spins on the odometer. Boring drive mostly. Yet, the man-made, mini-meteor shower was entertaining whenever the frame hit a low spot.

As the sun came up over Arizona, I was weary as a punch drunk fighter. At a gas station we filled ‘er up and I switched seats with Barry. I was about to comment on his high rate of acceleration, and hints of road rage, but passed out from exhaustion.

A distinctive knocking sound under the hood caught my attention somewhere in New Mexico. As I inquisitively arose, Barry ripped into me about what a piece of crap my car was. Unsealing my eyelids, the sound became louder, like a drummer during a swift cowbell solo. Then, it happened. Kablooey! The engine kicked a rod. Smoke poured into the cockpit. The car fishtailed from spewing oil. Actual parts bounced on the highway. Steve Reyes (famous drag racing crash photographer) would have been proud.

We smoldered to a stop near Santa Rosa. With heavy heart - and thumb out (and Barry displaying another finger) I went for help. Soon, I got a lift to a Stuckey’s gas station. A call to my parents resulted in stern orders to board a bus, and come home at once. I argued my case. And incredibly, they relayed that a half-aunt and uncle lived in Santa Rosa. Within hours my car was on a hook, and during a quick meal at their home, plan B was devised.

Better luck still, as my half-uncle, an insurance salesman, had an old Indian at the gas station that owed him money. For $200 bucks I could have his Corvair van. It was awful looking (the car, that is), yet with money wired, Barry and I loaded the van, waved goodbye to my distant relatives, a grinning Indian, and away we went.

The Corvair only had to get us to Tulsa, then home, and if it was shoved off a cliff after that, I didn’t care. Well, Barry and I exchanged nervous smiles for most of the next day, as the scenery through Texas became a dull blur. Just when things seemed to have settled down, I noticed this awful, acrid smell through the floorboards, accompanied by the sensation of the van slowing down – with the engine still at full revs. Near Shamrock, the Corvair fried a clutch.

I didn’t even want to look at Barry. He was spewing cuss words like the Energizer Bunny on crack. I actually welcomed the role of hitchhiker – the second time in less than a day. Sadly, because of my long hair, and the fact that I was in Texas, no one picked me up. For the next few hours, in sweltering summer heat, I walked all the way to Shamrock – about ten miles. A church pastor actually picked me up at the off-ramp, and gave me a ride to a gas station, the length of several football fields. This gave aid to my feet, which had worn clear through the soles of my tennis shoes.

You’re coming home now, right now, yelled my dad from a pay phone. I listened, head in hands, and hung up a defeated human. Just then, I heard a familiar voice. It was Barry, yelping and hanging out the window of a U-Haul truck that came flying off the highway. Seems Barry was able to flag down a good samaritan. He struck a deal with the truck’s driver, which included his young family, who were relocating to Oklahoma City. They would drive us that far.

I wasn’t about to complain, although it was hard forcing my face to smile. I was worn out, sunburned, my lips were cracked from the desert heat, plus my hamburger feet were well done. Yet there we were, luggage safely in the truck box, and six of us on a single truck bench seat, including Barry, me, the husband, his wife, and two very young, drooling, diaper-filling kids. A slithery film of Stuckey’s date malt shakes, and pecan logs (I think they were pecan logs), were everywhere.

Late into the night we arrived outside of Oklahoma City. They were to drop us off at the airport, where we’d rent a car. That went well, until discovering that both Barry and I were too young to rent a car! Well, everyone was tired, and we all agreed to rent some rooms at the first place we found. A funeral home would have sufficed.

On an airport back road, I remember the truck driver inquiring, “Is this the same road we came in on?” This was quickly followed by rapid-fire cuss words, and the truck slamming downward - then upward with a mighty crunch. Stepping away, it was clear what happened. He’d driven through a construction zone, and into a ditch, bending the U-Haul truck’s rear end. It was pitch dark, so I couldn’t see Barry’s face, which was a good thing.

The driver, who nervously puffed on a cigarette, said all was not lost, because he was towing a small car behind the truck. Barry immediately volunteered to go, while I stayed behind with the wife and two kids.

Bad news for Barry, and the driver. The Renault they would drive into town had no working headlights and something else they had to put up with. For three days their pets, consisting of two giant dogs and two cats, had ridden as passengers. Apparently without potty breaks, they managed to splatter their bladder’s contents, ceiling to floor. It was a sight – and smell indeed, seeing the two of them riding off in the moonlight, both heads hanging out the window, the only light being the driver’s cigarette glow. I laughed so hard a bit of pee came out.

A taxi soon came, and I don’t know how we got all of our stuff loaded. We slept at a hotel, and early the next morning said goodbye to the young family, then boarded a Greyhound bus for Tulsa. Once in town, we were picked up by someone, who took Barry and I all the way to the track’s front gate. Event promoter C.J. Hart took one look at us, and didn’t know whether to laugh, or cry.

For the rest of the weekend, we had to catch a ride to the track. And on Sunday, it took so long to get a ride that we were in fear of missing the first round of top fuel. Somehow we got there, and as the first pair of dragsters had fired I ran behind the starting line tower. I was able to sprint all the way to half-track, just as the two cars pulled into the staging beams. Damn, I wanted to be at the top end, but midway was as far as I got.

The cars roared off, but a huge crash ensued. John Weibe’s car shook just off the line, sending him straight into Jeb Allen’s lane. The two of them continued down track in a grinding, slow motion horror show, blowers, wheels flying, and fire everywhere.

And who was standing there, mere feet from where they came to rest, with camera in hand, for the perfect photo sequence? Finally, luck was on my side, and those photos have long been regarded as some of the more dramatic taken in my 40-year career as a motor sports photographer.

They say a photo is worth a thousand words. I have to agree. Every time I see one of those crash photos from Tulsa, all I can think about are the circumstances that led to my being at half-track. I also think of Barry from time to time. I don’t believe we ever spoke to each other since.

I made it home thanks to a ride from photographer Doug Heuton, plus another Greyhound bus from Bakersfield. The day after I got home my parents ordered my brother and I to retrieve the Ford, and Corvair from Texas and New Mexico.

I was still exhausted, burned out, burned up, and not in any mood to draw attention. And I’d like to say that everything went smoothly back to the house, but that’s not the case. In fact, that ol’ Indian’s Corvair curse went a step further this time – with a captive audience, no less. At one of those huge roadside diners, the kind where there’s half a dozen tour buses parked alongside, the van’s starter motor decided to give up. I remember parking the car, then decided to re-park closer to my brother, who was driving a station wagon towing the Ford Galaxie. I turned the key, but the starter motor didn’t quit. It was stuck in the ‘on’ position, and the car would not shut off… cause the starter motor kept starting the engine.

The starter motor got so hot that smoke began pouring from it. I guess I got my brother’s attention – and probably a hundred or so confused patrons - who stared, forks in hand, at those huge picture windows during half a dozen “circle-the-wagons” maneuvers around the restaurant. My brother finally jumped on the back bumper and hung onto the Corvair like Captain Ahab on the whale “Moby Dick”. He somehow opened the van’s rear doors and pulled the battery cables.

For the rest of the trip, we had no starter motor, and because the just-installed replacement clutch was rather suspect, the car was difficult to get rolling from a standing start. In a nutshell, at literally every stop light between New Mexico and California, I had to get out and push start the car (with help from my brother), jump in and pop the clutch. And pray that it ran. My feet now resembled Greek gyros – you know, beef on a stick.

If there was one more bit of good news to this story, it’s the way in which we came home. Instead of a straight shot to southern California, I convinced my brother to make a slight detour southward to Tucson. Seems the drag strip out there was having a certain “big” race on Labor Day. And what better way to drown your sorrows than with a solid bout of nitro and smoke. So instead of continuing from Tulsa on to Indy for the U.S. Nationals, as originally planned, I ended my trip to Hell by watching the inaugural Fuel Altered Nationals.

At least with my matted hair, unshaven face, leg-dragging state and dual beer-clenched fists, I fit right in with that crowd. Ah, it was great to be home. Sort of.

WHO HAD THE BETTER STORY?

Voting Completed

 

RACE COMPLETED: WINNER: “240” GORDIE BONIN (81.53) DEF. "WATERBED" FRED MILLER (18.47)

No. 7 Fred Miller vs. No. 10 Gordie Bonin

NO. 7 QUALIFIER – "WATERBED" FRED MILLER
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – ONCE ROLLED DOWN THE ROAD WITH RAYMOND BEADLE

THE STORY OF: REEFER MADNESS

This story is from a time when everyone traveled together.

On this particular occasion, we were all staying at who knows where. It was McEwen and Jungle and us and who knows, everybody else was there. In those days, you parked the rigs in the hotel parking lot, got a good night's sleep and then worked on your car in the lot the next morning.

On this occasion, we came out the next morning and there was a car parked right behind our trailer.

We had to get to work – get the cars out, like we always did at the hotel. It was what everybody did. You got  your car out and went to work. In order for us to get our car out, we had to move this car that was blocking our way.

So, we get the floor jack out and roll her out-of-the-way. We roll it out-of-the-way, and there is a set of keys there that somebody left under the front tire. 'Well, look at this,' I said.

We had the car out-of-the-way, but we are thinking something is fishy here. So, we took the keys and popped the trunk on this thing and it is completely filled up, level full, with WEED. I mean garbage bags, the whole trunk is full of weed.

I remember thinking, 'Holy Sh^t!'

I just know someone has to be watching us. Whether it's some drug dealer or the feds, somebody is watching us. We've moved the car and I am thinking, 'geez we are going to get shot.' We slammed the trunk and tried to go about our business.

Truth is we were nervous wrecks. We rolled our car out and worked on it all day long, but man were we nervous. We had moved that car and it was full of weed. All day long we just knew somebody was going to come get the car.

 To start with, I knew one thing; somebody was waiting to pick this car up. It was like, we better stay as far away from this car as possible. Back in those days, they heard about this stuff, it just made us nervous. This deal had hair all over it. Something wasn't right. It was more like a setup than anything.

Well, no one did. We worked all day and the car just sat there. No one claimed it. We turned in for the night and the next morning, the car was gone. What a relief.

Later on, I found out one of McEwen's guys and one of Jungle's guys, they get this hair-brained idea. They call up a buddy. He shows up. It was weird. He takes the frickin car, and the weed and takes off.

It was so weird. This guy took off and we never heard from him again, so I don't know what happened to him.  He not only stole the weed, he took the car! That was pretty ballsy to say the least.

That's a simple story, but it's the truth.

NO.  10 QUALIFIER – “240” GORDIE BONIN
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – NEVER JOINED THE DON HO FAN CLUB

THE STORY OF: HEY BOY ... WANNA DRIVE MY HOT ROD?

My nitro driving career started in the fast lane. It all began with a great showing, I was told;  behind the wheel of a junior fuel dragster. The next thing I knew it was 1972 and I was behind the wheel of a Funny Car and getting my license at Lions in only my third pass.

After that I had my first booked-in match race thanks to Bill Doner.

Long before I earned the nickname “240 Gordie”, I was just an aspiring drag racer looking for his big break. And, when you’re starting out, you take what you can get hoping that someday they lead to something big.

Big was the word that I used to describe the two car owners who I rode with in a duallie truck traveling to that first match race in Seattle. Gordon Jenner, who had called me to license in the Funny Car, and Mike Lykar, two big heavy f******, and me were all in a half-ton Chevy pick-up driving across the country. There wasn’t even a camper on the truck.

What did we get paid? We got four free tickets. It’s paying your dues I told myself.

We’re going through the mountains in April, not the warmest time of the year for this region, and I finally put on my firesuit and laid down in the bed of the truck with the car in tow.

I was suited up with gloves, helmet and boots. We got to Seattle and ended up finishing runner-up to Jerry Ruth.

That one showing was enough to inspire the owners to go to Indy where we finished runner-up in 1972.

I’m still looking for my big break and I didn’t know that it would come right after that race. After Indy, and the World Finals in Amarillo; Roland asked us to stay with him while we  built a new Don Long car while he was also building a new one.

We got the new car finished and were headed to Englishtown, and on the way stopped in Cincinnati to run a match race. Meanwhile Roland was in Gary, Ind., running a race with his brand new Revell Hawaiian; and I’m not going to say Freddie Denane stole the car, but Roland’s new Buttera car ended up missing from the Holiday Inn in Gary, IN.

Roland went back to Los Angeles and bought Ray Alley’s old Charger Funny Car operation, the one that Kenny Bernstein drove.

Roland calls me after I have two races with this new Don Long car and says, “Hey Boy, wanna drive my hot rod?”

I knew I had to pay my dues, but one year into the game and he’s calling me to drive? Holy Crap!

I accepted, paid my own way back to his shop and we worked on the replacement car to get it ready for action.

The first race was in Minnesota, “Minninapolis”, as Roland called it.

We made it to the final and Tom Hoover beat us, and here comes Roland, first words he speaks, “Boy… you were late.”

I figured, here we go.

The next race I met Tommy Ivo and all of the other hotshot drivers. I ended up meeting Ivo in the third round, and I’m wrestling this car, tire shake and one wheel on the track and the other off. I’m pedaling the car and it ends up going on the roof.

I went to the hospital for eight hours and they tell me I have a pulled muscle. They didn’t even x-ray me and it turns out I should have been in a body cast, but I will get to that later in the story.

So I’m two races into the gig, I’ve gotten beat on the tree and crashed the car another time and he still hasn’t fired me.

We missed Indy but built another car and were back onto the match race scene. Our first match race is against Dale Pulde, a racer who would guard his match race money with a sawed off shotgun. He drove for Mickey Thompson.

Now we head down into the Carolinas to match race for this guy who owns three tracks, one eighth-mile, one 1,000-foot and another quarter. Now you want to talk treacherous, one of those tracks we had to back off at 1,000 feet because the track went into a one-lane bridge at the 1320 foot mark.

The promoter warned us that whoever was behind at half track; had might as well give up.

So I’m running strong, trucking on down there and thinking I had the race won and all of a sudden, just before the bridge, this yellow blur thunders by me going 250. That would have been Pulde and no he didn’t listen to the promoter.

I was just glad I didn’t crash another car and so was Roland, who informs me, “Boy … we gotta go back to “Minninapolis”. So we’re driving and I can’t remember whether I was trying to sleep or get laid, but there he is up there driving through the Smokey Mountains and listening to tape after tape of Don Ho. That f****** Don Ho. He played them all the time.

He finally called for me to drive. And I did, and waited for him to fall asleep, and my first major action as driver was to toss every one of those Don Ho tapes out the window.

Eventually he woke up and when he noticed his Don Ho tapes were gone, he nearly killed me. I almost got fired over that.

“Boy … there's TWO tings, you can crash my cars; but you don’t throw my f****** Don Ho tapes out of the car.”

I remember him saying. “You understand that boy?”

It was a silent trip until we got to “Minninapolis”. Then we headed up to Winnipeg to do a match race. Outside of listening to his Don Ho tapes, Roland loved to raid the hotels of pillow cases and towels.

“Boy … we need them to clean up after we work on the car,” he always said.

That came back to haunt us after we were in a hotel in Winnipeg and were sitting in the restaurant eating out breakfast. We had already checked out. Over the hotel PA system came the announcement, “Would Mr. Bonin and Mr. Leong please return to the front desk and return the pillow cases and towels from the room?” So we took those we stole from the last hotel, neatly laundered and folded.

So our next stop is in Carson City, Nev., and we are going to do a display and burnout for the folks at Mallory Ignition. On the way, I made a stop at home and ended up visiting the doctor who told me my early racing injury was a compression fracture of my C-5 and I needed to be in a body cast.

Well, since you can’t race in a body cast, I passed on the doctor’s advice and headed down to Carson City. So we get there and do the parade.

Then Roland comes over and asks for a little more.

“Boy … uh, uh, can you do a burnout down the road beside the Mallory shop?”

I figured how tough can it be. Well, pretty tough for me, because the f***** hooked up pretty good. We did one of those Bonzaii – Chi-Town Hustler type burnouts and then I realized, the car was going a lot faster than it should have been. I’m on the brakes, this thing is bouncing and I even pull the parachutes.

I almost put the car in the fence when I got it stopped.

Leong gets down there to me, “Boy … you don’t f*** around when it comes to tearing up my s***; do you?” Again - he's got his foot on the front tire, cigarette in one hand and says "Boy, there's two tings...blah, blah, blah. I find over the next 20 years from a multitude of his drivers, Johnny West being the most vocal." He ALWAYS would do the Boy, there's two tings routine, and NEVER get to the second ting.

That’s just a few of the war stories associated with a man I have come to love dearly. I’m the only one he’s ever asked to come back and drive one of his cars.

And I promise, I never threw away any Don Ho tapes the second time around.


WHO HAD THE BETTER STORY?

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