To begin with I would like to point our that after, I crashed my almost paid off BMW into a fire hydrant and the subsequent 3 year abstinence from alcohol, I never really owned a normal mode of transportation... Well besides a 15 year old beater used to get to and from working on my other Frankenstein vehicles.
Back when I was determined to have my “beautiful death” fighting the empire during the the great collapse, I bought this beast. This along with my battle rifle, body armor and stock pile of supplies probably would have kept me going for a few months. I was performing the V8 conversion on this old Ford Bronco II but drama at the garage put that project on indefinite hold. It still sits for sale in NEPA (north eastern Pennsylvania) with the engine, transmission, and all other required parts sitting in the cab.... Oh and that's Rhino bed liner not flat black paint ;-)
I actually wanted to finish it and bring it but time constraints did not allow for such luxuries...
Even then I really didn't drive everyday. I walked 5+ miles to work every weekday. Even walked extra to get to the gym, clubs, bars, and coffee shops. I walked a whole hell of a lot.
After making it to Anarchapulco 2016 I devised the plan to evacuate the state and party my way out of the country. Then I had hoped that the Scranton original battle hippies were to be joining me one this daring adventure. I had pretty much secured financing and had an RV all picked out and was set to leave in style. Sadly as the departure date for the mission drew closer the number of people tagging along dropped to zero. I guess they got cold feet... This negated the need for an RV.
One day while looking up alternatives I saw this GMC 3500 (normally a big work van) built as a short bus and my mind began to churn with possibilities. Why not move into the short bus... It makes the whole thing I'm about to do even more insane.
I talked with the owner, Kim for a few days before her story had me even more determined to buy the bus. You see Kim had set out to turn her property into a bed and breakfast for disabled veterans, spending much time and money to do the conversion. The guberment of New York State had other plans and determined that because she didn't have the newest (her's being last years model) pricey sprinkler system, she would not be allowed to open her retreat. This cost her a sh*t load of money and was only selling the bus to pay the property taxes she was now behind on.
The journey to pick up the Bus with my Brother and his Girlfriend, wondering onto SUNY college to party the night before, and the drive back can probably be another story in itself.
Upon getting the bus back to Scranton I decided to take the bus to a few parties and smoke out the short bus. I even hosted a mini Halloween party on the bus...
While starting work on converting this short bus into my gypsy wagon I began to move out of my apartment and into my parents green house in the northern boonies of Pennsylvania. I would be using many of my fathers tools and much of his expertise to make this a success. I actually filled a bay in my dads garage and my moms greenhouse with what remained of all my earthly belongings. They were not the happiest with this decision.
On the first night of work, while cutting out the seats, and while cutting off the very last bolt (it was a funny angle being the bolt that was on the wheel well... I had to grind the entire head of the bolt off sideways), the grinder bound up and bounced out of the space and bit me on the finger. Not having the most responsive nerves and the fact that it was 9PM with only a work lamp providing my only light, I took a quick look and didn't think anything of it. I went back to work. After like 15 seconds I had to stop as I could no longer see the bolt I was trying to cut. Upon closer inspection I realized the reason I could not see the both was because it was now covered in dark blood... “Oh sh*t”
I followed a line of blood up and around the entire inside of the bus... Double sh*t. I then went into my parents house and yelled. “MA, ya got a band-aid?”
“What did you do?” She questioned.
“I cut my finger with the grinder!” I answered.
“You idiot, come here and let me look at it!” Ma demanded and upon seeing the finger gushing blood “Holy sh*t, you weren't screwing around this time!”
After some extensive cleaning of metal shards from the wound and seeing that it had just nicked the bone, she had me patched up and ready to got back to work. Mothers of country boys make better medics than most I have met in the army. My father and I then got that last bolt cut and I finished my first 12 hour day of work on the bus. I week later I did go to the emergency room at the Veterans Hospital, driving a short bus, to get it looked at as it started to look infected. I still do not have full range of motion and no feeling in that finger. I used it a few times to impress chicks by dipping my finger in strong drink and lighting it on a candle to light a cigarette... Was entertaining.
After completing the construction of the interior of the bus I then began to party it in and it was then dubbed the “BattleBus”. Everyone who partied aka hot boxed the battle bus has signed its interior. The inside roof of the bus is covered in signatures as there was copius amounts of marijuana consumed inside it's belly.
P.S. I am thinking of starting a Patreon to save the BattleBus as the salt air is now eating it away... :-(