You’ve slipped into the forbidden garage at the edge of town. In the center of the room sits a massive shape covered in a heavy, moth-eaten canvas. You pull the corner back, and the moonlight hits a grill of chrome and a coat of deep, midnight-blue paint. The letters on the side are faded but unmistakable: The Fabulous Hudson Hornet. "That car died in '54," a voice rumbles from the doorway. You turn to see the Judge, but he looks different—smaller, older, and deeply tired. "And the man who drove it died right along with it. Put the tarp back, rookie. Some legends are better left as scrap metal."