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ONE DAY, AL PALLONE SLAPPED A DECAL ON HIS CAR. THE REST IS HYSTERIA.

"Maybe Le Bakery Sensual could use me," he muses. "Or I could go down to Gate 12 and see if they could use me as the official--or hey," he decides, taking a sip of iced tea, "I should write to Snapple. I could be the Snapple car. I could be David Letterman's company car. I could engage that LoDo chicken car in a terrible battle. I should call up about that."

Chances are he won't. What Pallone really likes to do is drive around, and there are no official sponsorship deals for that. In the next hour, he hits the entrance of Neiman Marcus ("Rich people love this car"), the Denver Country Club (where he tries the Princess Di shtick again and gets a frosty reception) and the skateboard pit at the corner of Arapahoe Street and the 16th Street Mall.

"Step right up," he tells the crowd of aimless teenagers that materializes. "Take it in. Look inside. Help yourself."

"This is fresh," breathes a fifteen-year-old with wide eyes and no shirt. "This is the freshest fucking ride, I..." He trails off, at a loss for words.

"Psych," argues another bystander. "This is an ugly goddamn piece of shit car. Y'all be standing there looking at it. Psych." He walks away in disgust.

Pallone loves it. "Zabeast is controversial," he says proudly. "Zabeast smacks of controversy."

"Can I tape a green condom to your car, man?" someone asks.
"Can we hear your CD player?"
"Where's Nirvana? Where's Goofy? Where's Bugs? Oh, Depeche Mode!"

"Step right up," Pallone says from behind Zabeast's trunk, trying to find a White Zombie CD and bumping into a meter reader instead.

"You," the meter man says to Pallone, "cannot park here. You must move. Now."
"Okay, okay," Pallone says, hopping into the driver's seat, grabbing one of six metal-flake suicide knobs on his steering wheel and preparing for departure.

"Oh, if I had that ride," sighs a boy with a skateboard. "All day I'd give people rides. All day I'd drive around. All day I'd cruise."

"I do," Pallone says, as he peels from the curb. "I do.

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