When we last left them, Carl had just headed for an All-Chevy Swap Meet in Toonerville, Colorado, professing “the need for speed”. Yes, Carl had been bitten by the horsepower bug, and bitten bad!
   
The Toonerville Swap Meet turned out to be a fantastic affair, loaded to the hilt with all sorts of new and used goodies, for cars, trucks and 4x4s.

 And fate struck! Carl ran across a display with a sign that read:
“RED-LINE FRED, THE BIG-BLOCK SPEED KING. TWO HORSEPOWER PER CUBIC INCH IS EASY!”
   
Red-Line Fred turned out to be a short, red-haired guy with big arms like Popeye. And he was very blunt in his speaking habits, as he made fun of the fact that Carl had a mere 500 horsepower in The Whale. Carl then mentioned that he had a nitrous injection system that would give him a burst close to 800 horsepower.

This caused Red-Line Freds’ upper lip to twitch like Elvis used to do: “Hey, Fatboy. You braggin’ about 800 horsepower with nitrous? I got trucks runnin’ on the streets around here with that much power at idle, with carbs! Maybe your problem is that you’re runnin’a midget motor. What kinda cubic inches ya got under the hood, Lumpy?”
   
Carl bristled. “The name is Carl, and I got me a full-sized 454.”
   
Red-Line Fred leaned back and let out a bellow one would not expect from a five foot four inch man. “Haw! You call THAT a big-block? I know a meter maid in Denver with more than that in her ticket-mobile. Listen, Sowbelly, you gotta git some cubic inches if you want to make some serious horsepower. And I don’t mean little jolts from a bottle... I mean real ponies. Say, Beergut, what kinda drivin’ do ya do?”
    
“Like I said, you obnoxious little midget, the name is Carl. And I do a lot of off-roading, but I hafta drive down the regular roads to get to the area, so I …

Red-Line Fred butted in: “ ... so you compromise with your weeny engine, right? Now pay attention, Beergut, and maybe you’ll learn a thing or three. First off, you gotta make bigger holes in the block.”
  
Carl leaned back and smiled. “Well, I was thinkin’ about gettin’ some of those .125 over pistons. That’ll take a 454 all the way up to 481 inches. I read about that in a magazine once. Now THAT should do the trick, right?”
  
Fred guffawed. “Sure, Lardbutt. That would be about right for a medium-sized window fan in my shop, or maybe for an old lady with a bad heart to drive around for shopping, but for big horsepower, you gotta go big inches.”
   
Carl bunched his eyebrows together. “Which means...?”
  
Fred pointed a stubby finger in the air. “Which means strokin’ it, Butterball!”
   
Carl beamed. “Yeah! I read where you can get 510 inches if you stroke the 454. I see your drift.”
   
Fred shook his head sadly. “No you don’t, Pudgy. When you talk big inch motors, you hafta start thinkin’ in terms of 700 cubic inches, plus! And I even got a special aluminum cast block available for some heroes who  want to run 850 cubic inches. But if you insist on usin’ the basic 454 block as a starter point, then 700 inches is the way to go... and I can guarantee you a clean 1000 plus horsepower  with carbs. No blowers, no turbos... just regular old carbs. Well, Roundface? Interested?”
  
Emma raised her hand timidly. “Mr. Red-Line? I can understand how you race-engine builders can do wonderful things, but what happens if you build some kind of monster motor that makes our poor little Suburban un-drivable? I mean, sometimes I have to take the wheel, while Carl sleeps off ten or 12 beers, and I need something that’s easy to drive. So?”
   
Fred smiled. “Good question, little lady. I can assure you that even though I make super-duper motors with tons of power, these motors make good torque right off the bottom and it’s smoother than a baby’s butt all the way up to the red-line. In fact, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll build you and your chubby hubby a genuine Red-Line Fred big-inch motor, and you two go do some off-road driving, and if you don’t like it, I’ll buy the motor back, no questions asked. Can’t beat that for a deal. Well?”
   
Carl stuck out his hand. “You got a deal, midget. How long will this take?”
   
Fred scratched his chin. “Well, I got all the parts in stock back at the shop. It’ll take me a half day to yank your motor, a full day to build mine, then another whole day to stick it back in and set up the plumbing and the exhaust. If you folks want to check in to a nice motel, I’ll make sure you have a loaner 4x4 while I’m working on your ‘Burb.”
  
Carl held up a hand. “Wait a minute, Fred. What’s this gonna cost me?”
   
Red-Line Fred got a shocked look on his face. “I am embarrassed! Most of the people that I deal with are not concerned with petty things like how much horsepower costs. However, I will write the cost down on the back of my business card here, and you can give me a yes or a no,  Tubby.” 
    
Fred whipped out a card, scrawled on the back of it, then handed it  to Carl. Carl looked at the card and blanched. A large blue vein throbbed in his temple. He gulped, and said, “It’s a deal.”
  
Emma poked him in the ribs and hissed. “Carl! Carl!  How much is that stupid motor going to cost us?”
   
Carls’ jaw went slack for a moment, then he mumbled a reply. “Enough, Emma. Enough.”

***
      
For the next three days, Carl and Emma had a grand old time. They drove all over Southern Colorado in the loaner Chevy S-10 that Red-Line Fred had supplied, and explored some great areas. They took in the Great Sand Dunes National Monument, Mineral Hot Springs, drove along the banks of the Arkansas River, climbed over the Continental Divide, visited Black Canyon in the Gunnison National Monument area, drove over to the famed Pikes Peak hillclimb site, then finally headed south - quite exhausted and elated - to Toonerville.

Carl stood alongside the familiar shape of The Whale, nervous as a teenage kid picking up his first date. Fred grinned from ear to ear. “Well, Butterball, get in and fire it up.”
  
Carl clambered up into the plush captain’s chair. “What’s the drill?”
   
Fred pointed at the dash. “Turn on the eight switches on the dash first.  Those operate the fuel pumps.”
   
A puzzled look appeared on Carl’s face. “Eight switches? How many fuel pumps do I have?”
   
“Eight. One for each carb. Now quit babbling, Porky, and fire it up.  Just pump the pedal once, hold it at 1/4 throttle and hit the key.”

Carl clicked all the fuel pump switches, tapped the throttle once, assumed the 1/4 position, and cranked the key to the right.
   
The engine ripped to life with a throaty roar that would have brought a smile to Don Garlits’ face. Carl rapped the throttle a few times, and the engine responded with a bark that screamed BAD!!! A glance at the oil pressure gauge showed 125 p.s..i.; the engine loped at a ragged 1250 rpm idle. Carl blipped the throttle once more and ran it up to 5000 rpm. The engine howled and sent an awesome wave of vibration through the chassis until the sheet metal reverberated.
   
Carl then shut the key off and the engine stopped instantly, as only a fresh, high-compression, high-performance engine will. A slight smell of hot oil and paint penetrated the air. The engine made ticking sounds as it cooled off.
  
Carl opened the door, climbed out, and said, “Wow! How much horsepower, Fred?”
 Fred smiled. “A little bit over 1280 horsepower on the dyno. Of course, you should be able to wind ‘er out a bit more once everything gets seated. Not too bad,  eh Tubby?”
  
Carl shook his head from side to side. “How in the plu-perfect hell did you manage to drag that much horsepower out of this engine?”
  
Fred beamed. “Pop the hood, Sowbelly, and take a look.”
  
Carl thumbed the release and the massive hood of The Whale rose to a near vertical angle. He took one look and gasped. There, under the huge hood, rested eight 650 CFM Holley double-pumper carburetors. Giant braided lines led to each carb, and neat K & N filters were clamped to the top of  all those breathers. Carl turned to Fred. “I ain’t never seen this many  carbs, this big, on a motor ever before in my life! I AM IMPRESSED!!!”    
     
Red-Line Fred developed another Elvis-lip. “Take ‘er for a ride,  Fatboy.”

***

Carl and Emma decided to take an off-road ride with The Whale. They had found a great 60 mile loop near Pueblo that took them way back into a remote area. Down the road, it was hard to restrain The Whale. Every time Carl blipped the throttle, the rear wheels would let out a sharp squeal and the stench of burning rubber filled the air.
  
When they got near the start of the loop, Carl took a look at his gas gauges, and decided to fill up at least one of the three tanks. All of them were on “E”. Carl decided to fill up the big 60 gallon tank with high-test gas, as recommended by Red-Line Fred. After topping up, Carl zeroed out the odometer and headed out on the neat 60 mile loop.
  
The Whale was astonishing! There was power everywhere!  A tiny blip  on the throttle let The Whale literally leap up steep hills.  A muddy  section of two-track trail didn’t even require a downshift.  Carl turned to  Emma. “Well, woman. Whattaya think? This here motor is pretty much outrageous, bitchen, rad and gnarly, to use the language of the now generation. I think we got us a keeper here.

Forty five minutes later, Carl glanced at the odometer and saw that they had just reached the halfway mark of the 60 mile loop. It was at this point that The Whale stuttered, stumbled, then finally stalled to a grinding halt.
  
Carl emitted a choice selection of vile Navy curses, then proceeded to do the normal trouble shooting checklist. Eventually, he was forced to realize that The Whale was, indeed, out of gas.    
   
How could he have used 60  gallons of gas in 30 miles?
   
Then, Carl considered the fact that he had enough carbs under the hood to run a small fleet of earth-moving equipment, and sighed. He had to face the reality that he had just averaged about 1/2 mile per gallon, not exactly an EPA ideal citizen. Carl flipped through the remaining gas gauges and calculated that he had enough to go another five miles at best.
   
Carl did the best he could under the circumstances: he let out a pathetic moan, and informed Emma of the situation. “Dear, here’s what it boils down to. We’ve got about ten gallons of gas left in the other two tanks. If we drive, that’ll take us maybe five miles, tops. Which will put us up into the worst part of the hills, and out of gas. Or we can just camp here, use the gas for our generator, watch the TV, use the lights, and enjoy ourselves until someone comes along to rescue us. Whaddaya think, Emma?”
  
Emma scrunched her eyebrows up, and thought. “You know, Carl. The Hulkster is going to defend his title tonight against Sergeant Slaughter. Let’s set up camp, flip up the satellite dish, and enjoy some wrestling. And I’ve got some Polish sausage in the fridge and plenty of popcorn and beer. Why don’t we enjoy an off-road night and think about our problems in the morning?”

Carl smiled, and the die was cast.

***

Good Lord! Here are Carl and Emma, stranded in the wilderness, with just enough gas left to enjoy wrestling on the TV. Will they survive? Can they ever get The Whale out with 1/2 per mpg gas mileage? Stay tuned. It can only get stranger.