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I’ve been buried. I’ve been forgotten. I’ve sat in fields where the only thing visiting me was the slow, rhythmic creep of oxidation. But you? You see the chrome. You hear the phantom rumble of a small-block V8 in your sleep. You want your own "Baby." I’m Morton. I’m a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, and I’m currently being resurrected by a crew of humans who spend more time covered in grease than they do sleeping. They think they’re the ones in charge. Let them think that. If you’re