Snake and I leave the motel. We make our way across the parking lot, looking at an assortment of possible forms of transportation. Snake is a connoisseur of engines. He seems to have a taste for fashion—small cars with big engines, muscley, sporty, imported. This seems to be where his head is at as we look at pros and cons of the latter. He seems to have a feeling that the Italians make the most classy of cars. I think the same thing about Detroit—nothing says love like an eight cylinder with a full steel frame in my eyes.
