I hadn't had my '78 Scout Terra painted for more than a week when I found myself plodding along a crooked farm road in the dead of night amidst a howling thunderstorm. Rain threw itself at the flat-pane windshield in violent splashes, threatening to drown out the static cough of the one-speaker AM radio in the dash. Soft green light poured from the gauges as I flicked through the dial, curious to hear what the low clouds would drag across the airwaves from the farthest corners of the state. The needle slid to a talk radio show with host and guest locked mid-debate on the merits of extraterrestrial visitation and the federal government's continued efforts at an ongoing cover-up.
The headlights did their best to shove through the deluge with decreasing efficacy. I dialed back the speed as the old International rounded a corner into a long straight. The radio began to speak in low tones as the guest carefully detailed his own personal visitation experience. There was talk of paralysis. Operating tables. The guest began painting a vivid picture of the cold, vacant eyes of his captors when the signal dropped into pure static. I began to reach for the dial when the countryside exploded in brilliant white light, flicking down the strands of wet barbed-wire on either side of the road and splashing across the Death by Stereo skull and lightning bolts I had stenciled onto a black field on the hood in my parents' driveway a few nights prior. The deafening clap of thunder that ensued a half breath later felt like a boot to the chest, voicing itself even over the low grumble of the truck's lumbering V8 and producing in me a primal urge to bolt for cover.
The radio sparked back to life before the thunder had ceased making its rounds down the valley, leaving me with the afterimage of that white skull etched on the inside of my eyelids. I can't tell you why, but that was the moment that made the truck mine.
It didn't take long for word to get around that I was the kid in town with a rusty old Scout slathered in matte black Rustoleum enamel with a skull on the hood and DTH PRUF vanity plates at each bumper. Through the years, the truck has been my most loyal vehicle, proving to be shockingly reliable and nie-unstoppable off road. So when it came time for a new batch of sheetmetal to replace the corroded bits, I had to find a suitable way to honor the hood that had pointed me toward the life I now lead. Rather than stick it in a corner of the garage or send it off to scrap, I decided to take a shot at hanging it my office. Odds are, if you've spun enough wrenches, you may just have a body panel or two itching for a spot on your own wall. Here's how to make it happen.
Via: How to turn your hood into wall art
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