I’m not saying Kevin Dunnebacke’s ever robbed a bank nor held up the evening train. I’m not saying he just sprung his posse from the local jail. I’m not saying Kevin Dunnebacke’s an outlaw, but I’ll be go to hell: it’s a warm evening on the dump road, wildfire wind in our hair, and the fellow beside me just slammed into third, his fist clenched to the butt of a double-barreled shotgun. But it’s easy to get confused: I’m in the passenger seat of Sally-Anne Apocalypsa, the KTown roadster that will run on moonshine, gasoline, and a stove full of burning wood. I’m not saying we just robbed the 8:15 Wells Fargo, but I just slapped Kevin Dunnebake on the back, leaped from my seat, and yelled Yee-haw! I don’t know what we’re fleeing from under this star-sloshed sky, but we’re fleeing from something, and I’m in no hurry to get wherever the hell it is we’re going. I’m just fine taking our sweetass time.

I’m hanging with Kimberley’s Kevin Dunnebacke, the mechanic, fabricator, and owner of KTown Custom Auto. “One night, I was scrolling through Kijiji and stumbled onto a ‘27 Ford frame, a ‘55 Chevy Bel Air motor, and a pile of parts,” the soft-spoken, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Fred Flintstone forearm-tattooed Dunnebacke says. “I visited the guy and said, ‘I have no money, but I’ll extend my line of credit.’ The next day I gave him five hundred bucks and said, ‘If I can’t pay for the rest, you keep it and I’ll buy ya a coffee. We’ll still be friends.’ I loaded a flatbed, took it home, and fell in love.”

For the past two summers, Dunnebacke’s been cruising Sally-Anne Apocalypsa through Kimberley’s streets. “It’s mostly made of crap people give me,” he says. Skateboard decks for seats, an exhaust from the Wasa dump, a fire extinguisher that will be stuffed with straw to filter wood gas, a Kootenay beer can for an exhaust cap, bumper brackets from a Canfor conveyor chain, a tailgate cable from old dirt bike chains--”You wanna be able to sit on your tailgate and drink beer,” he says--house soffit for underbody, highway signs for the box, antique license plates to patch holes, and adorned with clawfoot tub feet, Buzz Lightyear as co-pilot, a water valve handle for the steering wheel,  and a 1914 12-gauge shotgun for the shifter.

“If you’re gonna buy something,” Dunnebacke’s dad told him as a kid, “ya better be able to fix it.” This winter, Sally-Anne Apocalypsa sits outside covered in snow. Dunnebacke tinkers with the wood gas system that will power the engine. “That’s why I call it Sally-Anne Apocalypsa,” he says. “It’s bombproof. I’ll be the only one driving up the road during the apocalypse.”