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The Fiero's Revenge

Forward:

The Fiero's Revenge was the third Fiero Fiction Story in an ever expanding collection.  It remains one of the all time reader favorites - often being requested for reprints in Fiero Newsletters and Journals.  It also appeared in the Pontiac Fiero Connection magazine as one of my Fiero Fiction submissions.

The Fiero has always been the "underdog" in the competitive world of sports cars.  While it rightly deserves a higher place in the pseudo-hierarchy created by the giant automotive publishing mongols of the world, it admittedly lacked the necessary handling finesse until the introduction of the Formula and GT in 1988 to be considered a serious sports car.

For those that know the truth, the V-6 powered Fiero was, and still is, one of the faster production sports cars of the era.  While many readers may turn up their nose at disbelief in the following story, I
WILL tell one and all that this story is more fact than fiction.  In real life, as in this story, Cristi and the Z car did exist, and yes,  the Fiero was the victor!
-
Randy Agee


he Pontiac dealership did not have the motor mount I needed to replace the crumbled rubber pieces on my 88 Formula.  Curtis, the Parts Manager, was nice enough to check the area computer system and found the motor mount at Citty Chevrolet.  He scribbled the part number down on the back of his business card and said, "give this to the parts person at Citty, the mount lists for $27.80".

I thanked Curtis and headed up the road to Citty.

When I walked into the parts department I was greeted, rather solemnly, by a young woman with shoulder length brown hair.  She was more of a handsome person, rather than pretty, but still distinctly attractive.    The monogram on her shirt said "Cristie".  I smiled and handed her the card with the part number Curtis had given me and said, "I need this please.  I understand from Collins Pontiac/GMC that you have this motor mount in stock."

With a grunt Cristie walked back into the shelves, only to return moments later with a small box containing a transmission bearing.  Setting it on the counter, she said, "This doesn't look like a motor mount to me - Stupid Curtis wrote down the wrong part number.  He screws up all the time.  What's the year, make and model of your car?"

I silently wondered who had rained on her parade.

I replied, "it's a 1988 Pontiac Fiero Formula with the 2.8  engine and manual 5-speed transaxle."

With a sneer she responded, "Oh - one of those damn plastic marshmallows.  Don't have any way to look a part for one of them up."

I felt a hot flash run through me.  I had developed a sudden dislike for this woman.  Unfortunately, her impulsive attack on my car was so unexpected I wasn't really prepared for a comeback and all I could spit out was, "What did you call it?  A plastic marshmallow?  Where do you get off with that crap?"

Her tongue was quick.  Her eyes were cold.  She quickly countered.  "Pontiac had to recall every damn one of them for possible engine fires and a whole pile of them ended up making crispy critters of their driver's anyway.  Smartest thing GM ever did was to dump the little pile of junk.  They should have recalled every one of them to the shredder!"

By then I was livid.  You could see the steam coming off of my head.  "How in the world does a reputable GM dealer come to hire a rude, foul mouthed, insulting bitch like you?  You certainly aren't a champion for GM products, and it is obvious you have never heard of customer satisfaction."

She came back again.  "Yea, that's why I drive a 300Z.  It will out run and out last any piece of GM crap on the road."

I turned and walked out, forgetting the motor mount.  As I walked past three cars parked in front of the dealership, I noticed a white 300Z - the license plate spelled out "CHRISTI".  I wanted to stop and urinate all over it, but resisted the temptation and headed for Hamby Chevrolet to find the needed motor mount.

I was still fuming when I got home.  Nancy noticed it immediately.  When I told her what had happened, she smiled softly - as only she can do - and said, "Give her a break.  She probably had a fight with her boss or a falling out with her boyfriend and just happened to take her frustrations out on you."

All of this happened in Mid November.  Even though I quickly put the entire event out of my mind, I also vowed to never go back to that dealership again for anything.

****************************************************************


It was about one o'clock last Saturday.  I was driving the Formula down nine-mile road.  Just as I neared the side road connecting Citty Chevrolet to the main drag a white 300Z pulled out into traffic.  I didn't think anything of it until I rolled up behind the car at a stop light and noticed the license plate.  It said "CHRISTI".  There was a girl at the wheel.  I couldn't see her face, but she had long brown hair.  I knew exactly who it was and the entire episode from November came charging back into my mind.  I wasn't nearly as livid as I was then, but I quickly found myself really pissed again.

When the light changed I rolled out behind her, keeping several car lengths back.  I really didn't know what or why, but I decided to follow her for a while.  The Z Car glided off onto I-64, headed toward Norfolk.  I did likewise.

About 3 miles down 64 she must have realized I was tracking her and decided I wanted to play.  Suddenly, two puffs of black smoke ignited from the Z's twin tailpipes as Cristie tromped on the gas and abruptly pulled into the left lane, cutting off an older man in a Lexis.  The guy in the Lexis instinctively hit his brakes, leaving a Fiero size hole for me to squeeze into in pursuit of the Z.  By the time I had caught up with her my speed had risen to about 90 mph.  I came to within three car lengths of her back bumper when she unexpectedly crossed two lanes of traffic and dove onto the ramp leading to I-295.  I stuck to her like bubble gum does to a shoe sole on a hot summer day.

The I-295 entrance ramp is long and sweeps gently onto the new eight lane bypass.  When we hit the bottom of the ramp and merged onto 295 both of us were running well over a 100.  There were two 18 wheelers and a pick-up truck about a 1/4 mile in front of us.  Other than that, no other traffic was visible. 

She drifted into the far left hand lane running as fast and hard as the 300Z would go.  I was still right on her bumper, not loosing an inch.  As we shot by the two 18 wheelers I glanced down at the tach and speedometer.  The tach was straight up in the air, and the speedo was solid against the stop peg.  We were running well over 125.  I heard a crackle on the CB as one of the truckers exclaimed to his buddy, "What the hell was that?  Looks like we have the Indy 500 right in our picture window!  That dammed little red Fiero is about to eat that Z alive."  I smiled and stiffened my right leg even more as I held the pedal flat against the floor.

Slowly, but definitively, I gained on the 300Z.  Just as I came alongside I glanced over at the driver.  She was holding up her middle finger at me.  I smiled and waved at her.  Then I pointed down and carefully mouthed "Plastic Marshmallow" to her.  She scowled and jerked her middle finger even harder and more emphatically at me.  As I pulled on ahead I held up two fingers, in a V fashion, laughing my head off.

Then I began to hear a slow clicking sound from my Bel 615 radar detector.  Instinctively I raised my foot from the floor and began to ease on the brakes.  Just as I did, the 300Z shot by, still running flat out.  The crescendo from the Bel began to rise, eeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.  By then I had managed to pull back to about 75 mph.  As the storming 300Z broke over the crest of a small rise I saw two blue strobes lurch out from a maintenance cross-over in pursuit.  I continued to slow to 65 mph.

As I reached the bottom of the small rise the State Trooper was pulling the Z off onto the shoulder.  I waved to her as I glided on by, and cruised on down the road, still laughing my head off.

I wonder if she was as nice to the trooper as she was to me?


Randy T. Agee
Copyright December 1995
 

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