The Harem Van sat in the driveway like a spacecraft that had taken a wrong turn on its way to a civilization three centuries ahead and decided suburban LA was as good a parking spot as any.
It was massive — a sweeping, aerodynamic beast of silver and chrome that flowed from nose to tail in one unbroken, impossible wave.
Polished panels of reflective alloy caught the evening light and threw it back in liquid ribbons across the pavement.
The body tapered sharply at the front into a cockpit-style windshield that wrapped nearly 180 degrees, tinted so dark it looked like a slit of black glass cut into a silver skull.
Six wheels — three per side — sat low and wide on turbine-style rims that hummed faintly even while stationary, each one looking less like a tire and more like a contained engine.
