“Can you swim?” you ask, nonchalantly, as you hurtle towards the end of Vespucci Pier. A moment of airtime later, the cool waters of the Pacific are washing the pedestrian spatter from your windshield, the rudder and thrusters are engaged, and your pursuers have lost you forever. You turn to the passenger seat, where your once-beautiful date is vomiting uncontrollably in abject terror. Yep, this is why you drive a Stromberg.
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