We caught up with Joe Boxster as he prepared for an evening on the town with his squeeze Cheri Chanteuse. Boxster stood in front of the mirror and ran a comb through his jet black hair, whispering, "I look hot."

As he strutted out to his car, the only thought on his mind was how much Cheri would dig his recent promotion from hero to superhero. "That 'super' will get me laid for sure," he thought as he jumped into his 1969 Galaxie 500 convertible.

It was an especially dark night, with only the reflection of the streetlamp on the corner giving off any light. Boxster turned the key and revved the engine a few times. "Listen to my baby pur-r-r-r-r," he said to his car. "You're my whore! You're my Gearwhore!" He popped in a CD and peeled his tires halfway down the block.

Unbeknownst to him, a black car was following him-- stealth- style. It was his arch- nemesis Dr. Camaro. Boxster thought Camaro had died at the bottom of the rock quarry the week before when his Chevy plummeted and exploded after being lured in by Boxster. That chase, in fact, was the reason Boxster got his promotion.

But Dr. Camaro had escaped with nary a scratch as he'd installed a fire- resistant balloon in the car's cockpit that kept him safe. When he left without making sure his enemy was really dead (as he often did), Camaro crawled out and hitchhiked home, where he had another car waiting for him. "Now comes the time when Joe Boxster dies, ha ha ha ha ha ha," Camaro sneered. What is it with these guys talking to themselves?

Boxster was driving wild, digging the new tunes Captain Viper had slipped him. The revving engine and rubbery samples of "Passion [Harley Mix]" were made for fast driving, and Boxster loved driving fast. It wasn't until near the end of the song that he glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of Dr. Camaro's glowing infrared eyes. Boxster flashed a cocky smile and said, "The chase is on."

Instantly, the jolty guitar- sample opening of "Accelerator" afterburned into a high-bpm frenzy. Boxster power- shifted the Gearwhore and took off up Malibu Canyon. He drove his convertible like he was playing a video game: his tires screamed through every turn, always nearing the cliff's edge, but never going over. He lived for moments like these.

Camaro did too, but lately he'd been coming closer to dying for them-- his car packed substantially more horsepower than the Gearwhore, but could have used some enhancing in the manueverability department. He sped on anyway, needing to outdo Boxster just once.

The disc flipped to track three. Quickly remembering something Viper had said, Boxster skipped the song. "We'll save that for later."

The chase stayed strong throughout "11:11," with more furious tribal percussion and a buddhist monk chant so cut up it was almost incoherent. "The Picture" sounded a bit too much like Pigface's "Chickasaw," but it reminded Boxster of the Gearwhore's industrial Chicago roots, which had since morphed into an L.A.-beat drive that ate octane like a fat guy eats pies at the fair.

Boxster and Camaro played cat and mouse for almost 70 minutes, through steady dancers like "Train," organic rhythm anthems like "Vector Tribe" and the bendy loop of "Brain Fusion." It was only when Boxster's driving tunes came full circle that he finally knew he had Dr. Camaro. The downhill curve would be wet and Boxster knew it-- this was Cheri Chanteuse's street. He gunned it, and once out of Camaro's sight, he slammed on the brakes and slowed down just in time to make it through the water and into Cheri's driveway.

Camaro came around the corner at full speed and his unwieldly car lost it. He was over the edge again. "Great," Camaro said to himself as he pulled the emergency button and watched his cockpit fill up with a protective balloon. "I'm really getting tired of this. Maybe I'll become a network administrator. I hear you can get one of those degrees at home and that they have 95 percent placement." Kablam!

Boxster, once again convinced that he'd seen the last of Dr. Camaro, picked up Cheri and headed out for a romantic evening. As he pulled out of the driveway and made his way down the canyon road he remembered track three and cued it up. "Love" was a downbeat smoothy with echoed piano samples and a bassline Boxster was sure would melt his woman like butter. He flashed a horny grin and slapped his hand on the inside of her thigh. Suddenly, Cheri turned to Boxster and slapped his face. She may have been a Chanteuse, but she wasn't his Gearwhore.

-Shan Fowler