Green eased the 1931 Cord sedan into gear and released the parking brake. The beautiful car glided down the hill, and Atlantic City and all of its pleasures spread out below him.

“Whata car.” Green sighed out to himself. The road began to slightly curve.

Green had just sold 24 pallets of surplus rubbing alcohol left over from the great war. Just took the labels off ’em and told the rubes it was a real special vodka from Estonia. It netted him a goddamn mint and he was gonna enjoy himself.

As the curve began to pull on the car, Green heard a rattle and a pop.

The front strut and bumper clanged to the pavement and both front wheels broke loose and skipped under the car.

The Cord skidded into the hillside, spun, and shot off into clear space.

Green swore. He also swore to God he’d turn it all around if he got him out of this one. God didn’t.

Colonel Mustard looked on from his ambuscade, pocketing his wrench. “That’ll teach the blighter not to misappropriate the Quartermaster’s goods!”