Murphy Let’s take a moment to talk about the guy who brought the meanest, rustiest, and downright coolest rat rod in town to life—a beast everyone around here just calls “Tetnus.” If you’ve seen it rumbling down Main Street, you know it’s not just a car; it’s a statement. Jagged edges, a patina that tells a thousand stories, and an engine growl that could wake the dead—it’s the kind of ride that stops you in your tracks. But behind the grit and grease, there’s a story that hits you right in the chest, and the creator of Tetanus was kind enough to share it with me at a small car show in Shadow Lake shopping center (Papillion, NE).
Building this rat rod wasn’t just some hobby to kill time. “Tetnus” was for his dad, who passed before the project was more than just an idea. “Dad was a car guy through and through,” He told me, leaning against the hood with a far-off look in his eyes. The build started slow. There were setbacks. A busted transmission that set him back six months. A fire in the garage that nearly torched the whole project. But Jimmy kept going. “Quitting wasn’t an option,” he said. “This was his. Had to finish it.”
Seeing “Tetnus” in person, you get it. It’s not pretty in the conventional sense—rust streaks down the fenders like war paint, and the seats are solid metal. It’s got character that a pristine muscle car could only dream of. Jimmy drives it everywhere now, and when folks ask about it, he just says, “It’s my old man’s ride. I’m just the one holding the wheel.”
Sitting there listening to Jimmy, I couldn’t help but think about my own dad. Cars aren’t just machines, are they? They’re time capsules, bridges between generations, rolling monuments to the people who shape us. My love for cars comes straight from my father—he’s the one who’d make me watch card & driver, or spend hours at his warehouse garage, teaching me how to gap a spark plug just right. Every rev of an engine, every whiff of gasoline, it’s him. And I know I’m not alone in that.
There’s something sacred about that, something that gets lost in a world obsessed with new and shiny. Cars like “Tetnus” aren’t just metal and rubber—they’re heirlooms, forged in garages and backyards, handed down not through wills but through stories and sweat. They’re the roar of a V8 that says, “We were here.” They’re the dents and dings that whisper, “We mattered.” They carry our fathers, our grandfathers, hell, maybe even us one day, down roads we’ll never see. And damn it, that’s beautiful. That’s why I’ll never stop chasing that next exhaust note, that next turn of the key—because it’s not just about the car.
— Murphy
