I have a fantasy going here. It starts with a Mercury Marauder, a cop car in Saturday-night duds, all black, wearing just a touch of jewelry around the side windows. This thing moves like a fullback earning fun money as a bouncer at Hooters. Leg into the four-cam V-8, and a happy howl comes out, I remember the days when big Detroit could outrun and out swagger anything the foreigners could throw at us, and this 4300-pound jock takes me back to them. I’m thoroughly amused. Even the driver seat works for me, something I haven’t said about a Ford in this millennium.
All the Marauder needs to pass for “authorized” is a few wardrobe items. Black is good, but the hey-look it-me glittering five-spokes have to go. This is a job for steeliest and dog-dish caps. An authorized vehicle looks prickly, black wires poking out; short ones, kind of like the Russian trawlers of the Cold War. Just don’t go too far on this overt stuff. Don’t seem to be “telling.” The look can’t cross the line into impersonating an officer. Think of the overall effect as having both feet right to the edge of the “don’t ask” line. Ask at your own risk.
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