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 -

No. 10 Gordie Bonin vs. No. 2 Louis Force

NO. 10 QUALIFIER – "240" GORDIE BONIN
TO THIS POINT: (81.53) def. #7 Fred Miller (18.47)

WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – NEVER JOINED THE DON HO FAN CLUB

THE STORY OF: THAT LOVEABLE ED "ACE" McCULLOCH

Roland Leong might have taught me a few “tings” in my career, but one thing I learned quickly enough on my own was that you didn’t mess with Ed the “Ace” McCulloch. He was one tough hombre, who wasn’t afraid to let his fists do the talking.

Now I never really got whipped by McCulloch and maybe that’s because this “skinny kid from Canada” knew when to steer clear. Unfortunately for me, advice from others forced me to cross his path early in my career.

I’d say since I was 16, I had purchased every leading drag racing magazine and had developed what I believed to be a list of heroes when I started racing in 1972. It just wasn’t right to be an aspiring drag racing champion and not list Ace on your hero lineup; along with Snake, Beadle, McEwen, etc.

So, it’s 1972, and we are doing pretty good racing in the Northwest with that old ugly yellow Pacemaker Vega Funny Car. This was also the first year that McCulloch had the Revvvvolution deal.

So we ended up in the finals during an event in Portland, Ore., and we raced down through there, and my team owner/crew chief gets to me quick, and whispers, "if he asked did you see him out there, say no."

Not knowing any better I followed Gordon Jenner’s advice.

Sure enough, McCulloch finally gets out of his car, he takes his helmet off and has that big afro hair thing going on; you know, Like the Snake & Mongoose had back in the day. Bear in mind, I had never met the guy and didn’t know any more about him, only that he was a tough racer.

McCulloch walks over and asks, “You saw me out there, huh?”

I responded in my most serious voice, “No.”

He gives me the look, points his finger at me and offers, “I beat you! You didn’t see me out there?”

I held my ground and responded, “Didn’t see a thing.” I knew at this point I was too far to turn around.

Apparently there had been a win-light malfunction and my scoreboard lit up.

Trying to diffuse the situation a bit, I added, “I heard you, but didn’t see you.”

He points the finger again and threatens me, “You skinny little b******, you ever do that to me again, I’ll drive right over you.”

I walked away saying, “Oh s*** to myself.”

I met my first hero and now he wants to kick my a**. Nothing like a good first impression.

I ended up meeting him again in the finals at Indy. We brought a wounded car to the line and we are thrashing trying to get the car running. I just happen to look over and there he is staring at me.

He gives me a glare of hate and points at me.

I’m thinking at this point; please don’t let me win a controversial race. In fact, I wasn’t so sure after the last exchange that I really wanted to beat him. As it turned out, he ran a 6.60-something and won the race. We finished off a great first year by going to the semi-finals at the World Finals in Amarillo; won a couple rounds at the OCIR Manufacturers Championships; and went a couple rounds at the Last Drag Race at Lions.

Eventually the relationship between myself and McCulloch came around thanks to my association with my former crew chief and mentor, Jerry Verheul. Jerry was already a World Champion crew chief; taking Frank Hall in Jim Green's Green Elephant to the World Title. He knew a lot of these heros, Ed being one of them.He diffused the situation and eventually I became friends with one of my early heroes.

So, it’s 1976, and McCulloch and I end up in the WWCS finals again at Portland International Raceway. This time we are in the Bubble-Up Monza. And by this time, we have the car trucking.

That night we beat him fair and square. Since the animosity is gone from years past, I actually feel good about the win and reach for the parachute. About a second and a half later, my world gets rocked.

KABOOM!!

McCulloch had driven into my left side, ON FIRE!! Fully engulfed.

His car bounces off of me and gets stopped. I maintain control of the car and slide to a stop beside him.

I ran over to him and lifted the body up. I quickly help him get out of the car.

He takes his helmet off and looks at me.

If I ever learned one thing about McCulloch that day, it’s that in addition to being a great racer, and good fighter; he’s also able to hold a grudge better than the average bruiser.

“I told you I’d f****** run into you,” he said.

He smiled, hugs me with a big ole bear hug; and we've been good friends ever since. Jerry comes down and says "good job kid,"and we head for home.

But wait, there's more ... Jerry and Ed, both die hard racers, also shared a passion for boats; fast ones, slower day cruisers, Unlimited Hydro's, etc. Since we were leasing a shop from Bernie Little's Miss Budweiser Unlimited Hydroplane team at Boeing Field in Seattle; we had tons of room for visiting racers to service their hot rods; McCulloch and Snake to name a few. We also got to befriend the crews and pilots of the Blue Angels; who headquartered there every year for Seafair.

After one of Doner's "STEAK & POTATOES, NO VEGETABLES" kick a** NITRO only events at SIR on an August Saturday night; we'd always get up early and take Jerry's 21 ft. day cruiser down to the log booms on Lake Union and watch the Seafair Hydro races; and watch the "Blues" open the event with their patented  precision flybys. 10 G's, no pressure suits, damn!

This year, McCulloch and crew joined us. It gets a little fuzzy here (too many Buds maybe?) but as we're leaving the lake Jerry gets the crew cab and boat trailer a "little" off the road.  While he's lighting cigarettes and popping more Buds; the "Ace" springs in to action. He notices an industrial size fork lift a ways off, and hot foots it down there. Within literally seconds, it springs to life; the Ace brings it back with a shit eating grin on his face. He's definitely more than just a pretty face...moments later, we're on the road back to the house. Ed's reciprocated a ton; letting us stay with Him, Linda, Chip, and Jason at their ranch in Sanger CA. on the way to Bakersfield every year.

Somewhere in this time frame, the infamous shot of the Ace holding the "other" Gordon (Mineo) by the throat, fist raised, surfaces ... ALL I could, and still think about; is that could have been me!

Ace, we all love you up here in the Northwest; and our wish for you is to win the Full Throttle World Championship before you retire.    

NO. 2 QUALIFIER – “DIESEL” LOUIS FORCE
TO THIS POINT: (65.28) def. #15 Don Gillespie (34.72)

WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – NEVER MET A STEAK HE DIDN'T LIKE

THE STORY OF: THE DAY A TORNADO HIT THE STARTING LINE AND THE STEAK HOUSE

It was 1967. Gene Beaver, Steve and Dave Condit, myself and this goofy friend of ours Gary Inkman who was from Downey, started our ill fated trek down to Texas to race the annual extravaganza at Amarillo Dragway. We would all meet there and race the guys from the East Coast.

There was a lot of huffin and puffin going on in the pits. Everyone was pounding their chests, making a lot of noise, waking up the dead, trying to let everyone in Texas know that we were in town.

There we are lined up at Amarillo Raceway ready to do our thing. The stands are packed with all type of race fans, mostly inebriated. Fists are wrapped around betting money and beer bottles. A lot of Chicago people were there; those who like to bet a lot and spread it around the grandstands.

The East Coast was there to battle the West Coast gladiators. The staging lights flicker. The cars are ready on the starting line, both cars are staged, both lights are equal; it's now. Now this is a non pro tree and is it came down the sound of a thousand locomotives rained out in the air until to everybody's total surprise a GD tornado struck down right on the starting line.

Line up out there was Bruce Larson and Dave Condit in the LA Hooker. Bodies down, cackling and thunder and as the tornado came down it jerked the car off Beaver's car and slung it into the air. The other guy, Larson, hit the throttle and drove away.

Now, people are running in every direction. It's total panic. The staging lights are gone. The starting line is gone. The tornado crossed the starting line at a 45-degree angle, slinging stuff everywhere. There were people all over and the racers are their laying on the ground, some of them under the grandstand wounded.

And then, there was the sound of no sound at all. Just like that – total quiet. All gone. No one is saying anything. We are all trying to figure out what could have possibly just happened. But, it was over. Car gone, motor gone, fans gone. After it hit we all talked about why were even there. There was no race to be had.

But, that still isn't the story I wanted to tell you. The story I want to tell you about what happened immediately after. Seems there was nothing left to do. Somebody said Billy Meyer used to tell them about this great place that had the best steak in all of Texas, called the Big Texan. So off we went.

Now you have to understand, I am a kid fresh back from Vietnam, never had a steak in my life. That is not an exaggeration. I had never had a steak before in my life. It was just something not to be had for people that were poor.

So, off we go to this place. We go inside and it's huge and very busy. The East Coast and the West Coast guys were all there. They had this steak in there called the “72-ounce Dinner”. If you could eat this five and a half pound steak, along with a medium size baked potato, a shrimp salad and a small dinner salad and two small dinner rolls. You had to eat this whole thing in an hour.

Beaver comes over and says Diesel, do you think you could eat that steak? I'll buy that for you. I said, “I've never had a steak but I sure like to try one.”

So, we had a big circle in the center with all this meat on it and everyone gathered around. There's a 150 racers in there. Now the betting is back on. These guys from the East are all betting on who's going to eat this thing.

Lined up around that table to pick steaks are Big John Bateman, Mike Burkhart and me and I am half the size of these others guys. Beaver says, 'you can eat her Diesel.' That is how he always got me into doing stuff.

I figured to myself, if I pick a steak that has lots of fat on it, because they say we don't have to eat the fat; that will cut down on the size of this deal. All the time I am articulating how to eat this thing. Beaver came up behind me and said 'Diesel, if you eat the thing I'll give you $50 bucks. Right behind him McEwen says, “s*** he'll give me a hundred.” Now they are taking side bets in the crowd. This thing turns into a gala. The whole center of this huge steak house has become the focus point of three guys who are going to try to eat this steak in one hour.

I tell the guy I want mine cooked well done thinking it would minimize the size and make it easier it eat.

We sat down and gathered up our weapons of destruction. We put our place napkins into our shirt and we wait. I picked mine. They picked theirs. The food arrived at the table. Those steaks were beautiful. Never had a shrimp until then either. I told you we were poor, didn't I?

Anyhow, the steak that I ordered didn't seem to be any smaller. In fact, Beaver leaned over my shoulder and said, ‘Geez, that thing looks like a go kart tire. What did you order?’

I said, 'that's my steak, Beaver.'

He said, 'I thought you said you ordered it well done?'

I said, 'It is well done.'

What they had done is cut away all the fat and then added meat so it still added up to five and a half pounds.

Now, I got this well done steak to eat, which didn't make no difference because I hadn't had one before. I started in on this thing. I started kinda easy. I started with a bite of the best thing I had ever put in my mouth, at that time and I was ruined. However, after the first couple of bites I started to lose the roof of my mouth. This well done steak was ripping away the ceiling of my face, because it was well done. The surface of this thing was like sand paper because it was well done.

Well, it was onward into the valley of the shadow of no diet road old Diesel the Magnificent of Carnivores. We all ate and it was never quiet enough to hear me fart or belch as I was closing in on being fairly taught in the tub department. I mean my skin was already stretching out.

Big John Batemen was the first one to fall. He fell; wounded on the wood floor, as I am sure others have done before. Still, there was Mike Burkhart, rounding out near 400 pound himself. I was about to give in when McEwen whispers in my ear, 'Diesel, have you ever had strawberry shortcake with whip cream?' I'd seen it on TV, seen it in magazines but never ate it.

So I pedaled one time just long enough to take a drink from that Worcestershire bottle on the table. My foot went down on the bell housing and all the mental throttle I had went into eating this steak. Twelve minutes before the hour, Burkhart went up in smoke and slowly pulled off and into the marbles so not to hinder me as I passed him by.

It was frightening as the clock ticked, with just nine minutes left. The steak came to the table in the beginning looking like a burnt go kart tire but now it had dwindled down in size, as did my hunger; as well as the inside of my mouth. I finally downed the steak and the garnish of potato. The skin I swallowed after was just to show off. I took the crown of the 72-ounce steak.

Today, if you venture to Texas you can find a plaque that reads, “We have seen it eaten before, but never with such ease.” The Texas Steakhouse – LA Hooker Funny Car – Diesel Louie.

Post Race – Louis “Diesel” Force enjoyed five...count them...five strawberry shortcakes for dessert and took a bite out of McEwen just to show he wasn't done eating yet.

One tornado hit the track and another, a true Force to be reckoned with hit the Texas Steakhouse.

WHO HAD THE BETTER STORY?

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No. 3 Pat Musi vs. No. 6 Gary Densham

NO.  3 QUALIFIER – PAT MUSI
TO THIS POINT: (61.68) def. #14 Jim Rockstad (38.32)

WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – ONE OF JERSEY’S HOLLYWOOD KNIGHTS

THE STORY OF: JIMMY THE SHOE ON THE WRONG SIDE OF TOWN WITH A SANDWICH

I’m here to tell you that Jimmy “The Shoe” Harrington got his nickname honestly. This story I am about to tell is both a tribute and a factual account to a man who was capable of driving and winning with any kind of  car whether it was a four-cylinder Yugo [if he could fit in it] or a death-trap Nova, which he did fit in one night.

So let me tell you about this car we built purposely for grudge racing on some of the back streets around here in Jersey.

Usually around here if I built a car, and people find out about it, I cannot get a race.

So I really wanted to find a race really bad, so I went out and found a rusted-out, s***-bomb Nova. It was a six-cylinder Nova that I bought from an old lady here in town, rotted out quarters and everything. It was a real beauty.

We put a 406 in there with steel heads and painted it Chevrolet orange. We did our best to make it look stock and if you opened the hood, it was the biggest piece of s*** you’d ever seen. The only dead giveaway was that there was nitrous oxide all over this thing.

You could only get a nine-and-a-half inch tire under it with an old flapper bar. It was very important that we kept this car looking as non-threatening as possible. The roll bar was essentially pop-riveted to the floorboard with silicone made to look like a welding bead.

There were three nitrous systems on the car because you couldn’t always leave the big one on all the time. You had to leave on a little one, shut that one off and get on another one. We had three switches and we duct-taped them to the bench seat of the car. There were so many switches and wires that it would have made an electrician suffer a heart attack at first glance.

There ain’t no way I’m going to drive this piece of crap death mobile. We tried a driver or two but no one could handle it.

Like a knight in shining armor, our driver just happened to walk through the door one day. It was Jimmy Harrington and he accepted the challenge without hesitation.

I gave him the rigged up driving instructions, if the tires break loose, you have to flip this switch. If that happens, you have to turn this knob. I think you get the picture here. But in that mess of wires and switch, Jimmy was like a fine tuned musician picking a guitar working those switches.

It’s been said before, there are drivers and there are passengers, and he was certainly a driver.

As it turned out, he was the only one capable of driving this piece of crap the entire track. He had it figured out in a few runs and bear in mind, while this is going on, he’s gotta shift this thing and steer. You had to give him credit, he drove it.

We went to test in E-town and they wouldn’t even pass it through tech. They had a tech guy there we called “Meatball”. Meatball didn’t like our car. We went to Vinny Napp who told us, “As long as you are bringing people in here to watch it, I’ll get you through. Just be careful.”

Meatball wasn’t having any of that.

He took his argument to Vinny who told him, “Leave those guys alone because you will end up in a trunk and dumped somewhere you don’t want to be.”

The car wasn’t supposed to even go ten seconds and ran a 9.40. This was back in 1988.

So we took the car over on Long Island and hung out at a hot dog joint. We can’t find a race until this Brian Prins guy comes along.

He brings a race car that ran 9.80 and agrees to run us. He trailered the car I would like to add.

So we shut the highway down, so the cops couldn’t get to us and there were about 500 spectators there to watch Jimmy the Shoe race Brian.

Harrington, or Harry for short, wins the race big time just as the cops descend upon us.

Harry takes off down the road and ends up in a neighborhood where he’s the minority. So we have the flatbed riding around trying to find him and he’s nowhere to be found in the pitch dark. Cops are everywhere.

Come to find out Harry had pulled the car down into the older lady’s driveway and she wasn’t keen on seeing a rather large white boy running around behind her bushes. He had jumped out of the car and ran, figuring as ugly as that Nova was, it would never be mistaken for a street racing car.

Well, the lady comes out of the house with a shotgun to investigate.

And I swear to you, only Harrington could pull this one off.

Within ten minutes of that meeting the gun-toting grandma had Harrington in the house, and even made him a sandwich. Are you kidding me? We’re out there trying to find him and that car and he’s in the house, laughing it up and eating a sandwich.

He had convinced her that he wasn’t feeling well and had to park for a little while and needed something to eat.

I don’t care what you say; Harry is the only one who could have pulled that off. The rest of us would have been shot at hello.

Police sirens all around, we’re searching frantically and he’s eating a ham sandwich.

When he finally walks out of the house WE SPOTTED HIM.

Here comes Harrington out of the bushes, can’t miss him … armed with a half a sandwich, waving at us. The lady is out there just a smiling.

We got the flatbed in there and loaded the car and got the heck out of Dodge.

When I tell you that no one else could have pulled that off but Harry, that’s no BS. He was that kind of  special person and never met a person that he didn’t consider a long lost friend. He was honest and genuine. That’s why when we won the last round of the War Stories, I knew a dedication to Harry was in order.

And, I’m sure when we go down there and match race Christian later this year, just as I am about to stage, I’ll look up and I’ll see ole Harry up there on a cloud, waving with one hand, with a ham sandwich in the other.

NO. 6 QUALIFIER – GARY DENSHAM
TO THIS POINT: (61.38) def. #11 Billy Meyer (38.37)

WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – MEAN 'OLE SON OF A GUN

THE STORY OF: AND THEY CALLED HIM CRAZY ...

The saga continues.

We are off to Sydney – Warren Park Raceway.

Just like all the other tracks in Australia this also is a straightaway on a circuit course. We had made enough friends at Surfer's Paradise that everybody said you really gotta be careful. Warren Park is really short. They only run a 1000'.

See, you think everything is new, it's not. We ran 1000' back in 1975.

They told us you really have to be careful because the shut off is so short and there is a fence down at the end with a great big tree. They got us pretty much paranoid about what could happen.

So, we show up down in Sydney. Now, don't forget, we still have to build another motor for John Force and there is no other 426 Chrysler in the entire country of Australia, except for one that came out of Bill Shrewsberry's wheel-stander from the year before. So we get the engine and spend the entire week at All-American Auto Parts Store down in Sydney making this stock street hemi fit in John's car. We had to have a camshaft flown in from Waterman. We had to get valves repaired, heads repaired. But, we got it all together. We're happy. We started it up and we're ready to run.

We show up to Warren Park and the guy is so proud of himself because he took the wall down and the tree down to make it so much safer for us. The trouble was, as we went down to the end to look at the conditions, we realized if you kept going straight you went down this embankment into a rock quarry.

It didn't seem a whole lot safer at the time. But, we are here to put on a show and that's what we are going to do.

We're ready to race and put on a good show. The place is packed. Everybody is happy. We pull up to the starting line and the starter is dressed in Indian head gear and tomahawk. He is the one giving us the sign to start the cars. The tomahawk falls and it's time to go racing.

We did the burnouts, back up, stage, hit the gas and, being the coward I am, I run down about 800 feet, pulled the chutes, made the turn and everything was fine. Unfortunately, John had blown the rear end out of his car.

Of course, we didn't have a spare one of those. John is once again out of commission.

What are we going to do for the next two runs?

The promoters came over and ask if I minded racing some Australian. I said, 'well, not a problem.' We have to put a show on best we can. I don't want these people to kill us and send us home after two weeks. So, they said you have to race this guy named Crazy Man Taylor.

I thought to myself, 'why do they call him Crazy Man Taylor?' I was going to find out, real quick.

I was assured Crazy had some good stuff. He has just bought a brand new Waterman engine from the States. I said to myself, we gotta do what we gotta do. He wasn't pitted around us, but over on the other side of the pits I hear this car start up and boy it sounds good. He has the tune-up to run national events over there. Maybe, just maybe, this won't be so crazy after all.

Okay, it's time to run second round. I pull up to the starting line. I am waiting and we've got the starter hooked up. I get the sign to start the car and I think, 'okay, Crazy couldn't make it and we are going to run a single.' Just before I start the car I hear wbrapp wbrapp wbrapp. Here comes Crazy Man Taylor with the body up on his car, push starting it because they didn't have a starter.

So, we start the car. I do a pretty long burnout. Stopped. Put it in reverse, started to back up and he comes blazing by me doing a burnout that anybody would be proud of. I think, 'this is going to be tough.' I'm backing up and I realize he pulls off the track down into the infield of this circuit course. Now, I am thinking he must have broken something.

I didn't realize he didn't have a reverser. Suddenly, here comes Crazy Man Taylor driving his car back up the grass. You ought of seen him trying to come up that hill with slicks on the grass....vrooom vroom vrooom...to get up the hill to stage the car.

Inside the car I am just in awe. I'm shaking my head and thinking I just need to do my thing and not worry about the other lane.  

We get the thing staged, hit the gas, I run it out about 900 feet, open the parachutes and win the race. Crazy Man Taylor comes thundering by me, shoveling the parachute out the window. Parachute pack on the back of the car. Just about the time the thing blossomed he went over the bank, down into the rock quarry.

Now, I at least know why they call him Crazy.

I figured I would have a single the next round, but he somehow showed up. He pulled the thing up there. Same program, he did the burnout, down onto the grass, back to the starting line, we run through the lights, I pull the chutes and here he comes by me again shoveling the parachute out the window trying to stop. He goes back into the rock quarry.

Crazy Man Taylor, at least on that day, made John Force look sane by today's standards. If I am around next week, we'll head back to Surfer's Paradise for another round of “drag racing down under”.

WHO HAD THE BETTER STORY?

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