Cruising around in a decomissioned Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor is likely to be the closest most of us ever get to slipping behind enemy lines. Fortunately, there's a cheap way for all of us to do so, and we don't have to sit in the back of the car with taser probes in our chests.

Regular readers will recognize owner Todd Osborn as the man behind the Audi R10 Lego art that made our cover for June's Issue 10.0. When we learned that the former Mitsubishi 3000GT owner had bought this ex–New York City fire chief's car for the princely sum of $1400 and was actually having a ball with it, we had to drive it.

Admittedly, she's not much to look at. Stripped by legal necessity of her light bar, strobes, and most official graphics, we're left with wallflower white paint and a bit of vestigial red striping on a Blue Oval whose Panther-platform underpinnings carbon-date from the Jurassic period. Hardly the stuff of wheelman's legend. But hang on a sec.

Beating under a long and flat hood, the 4.6-liter V-8 is the same basic engine that saw duty in Mustangs of the era. It is rated at just 210 horsepower, but it's got gobs of torque, as well as all the great heavy-duty stuff specifically for police use—tightened suspension, engine-oil cooler, power-steering cooler, uprated disc brakes, and so on.

Amazingly, even after nine years of service, Osborn's cruiser has only 98,000 miles on its clock. That's something of a surprise, as most liveried cars end up running up their odometers on double shifts. But given that the car belonged to an NYC fire chief and not a beat-covering cop or a taxi driver, it makes sense. Perhaps it isn’t so tired after all.

The interior is familiar fodder for tens of thousands of policemen, hacks, and fleet owners and, to be blunt, it makes absolutely no attempt to wow with style or features. The dashboard is a characterless plank from which all major controls sprout (the one on our tester still bears usage scars showing where the CB radio resided). Flat bucket seats do little to ease lateral g in fast corners, but they're just the thing for easing repeat ingress and egress. Carpeting gives way to a hard-wearing, knurled, and vulcanized flooring—ideal for avoiding boot scuffs and the occasional blood stain. In Osborn's case, both the Check Engine and Air Bag lamps are lit, the latter of which may or may not point to the fact that the SRS system has been deactivated (officers can't risk ramming cars while in hot pursuit only to be taken out of the chase by a latent explosive bag). Never mind; drivers are just as likely to be distracted at the possibilities offered by the high-wattage spotlight, which juts out from the driver's side A-pillar. Other changes are limited to things like the deletion of the door-lock pulls ("You'll get out when I say so!"), and a speedometer that bears the hallowed script, "Certified Calibration." Favorite feature? The reinforced stab-resistant seatbacks, perfect for that friend who’s an angry, shiv-carrying drunk on nights when you're the designated driver.

Floorboard the throttle and the big V-8 wastes little time cutting to the chase. Tip-in is aggressive yet progressive, most likely to allow for quick highway merging from a dead stop. The CV accelerates on a wave of torque quite nicely, though in fact it isn't as quick as one might think. Blame falls to the 3800-plus pounds (before additional police equipment) and its ability to sap power that ultimately quashes hopes of an impressive 0-60.

Even with the augmented heavy duty suspension, the Crown Vic will float. Body roll can be provoked quite easily and predictably, engendering its own brand of ill-advised satisfaction.

Admittedly, the recirculating-ball steering is vague and over-boosted. Attention at the wheel is the key to keeping her on the straight and narrow. The big Vic is nevertheless credibly nimble, offering a turning circle that belies its considerable bulk. And while the brake pedal isn't firm, the business end is connected to a set of power discs that will stop the car with some conviction. At the same time, the tiller and binders are just the things for posting smoky Uturns on a dime when duty calls.

Ultimately, however, the best thing about owning a "decommish" isn't driving it at all—it's watching surrounding motorists react to your presence.

Take to the highway and traffic parts like Moses' own hands are shepherding away at the wheel. Adjacent commuters nervously steal glances into their rear-views, attempting to assess your threat level. Better still, motorists move out of the hammer lane religiously, with many actually dusting off their turn signals in the process. Honest. Harboring ethical questions about such behavior? Just think of it as passive traffic-law enforcement, wherein the CV's presence reminds everyone to drive more conscientiously. Even those who cotton on to the fact that you lack any real authority generally afford the Vic wide berth. Perhaps they figure that whoever would drive an ex-cop car is likely to be a real nutter regardless.

They may have a point. As if to drive home the notion, Osborn has fitted his Interceptor with a nicely antisocial stereo system. With a Kenwood KDC-219 in-dash CD player hooked up to an amp and subwoofer in the back, there's something gloriously incongruous about boompah'ing down the boulevard in the very car that could've issued dozens of "Crank It and Yank It" tickets in a prior life.

In the end, driving an ex-cop car delivers the consummate Yank Tank experience at a cut-rate price and single-handedly creates the not-inconsiderable benefit of deferential traffic. Besides, it's the closest most will ever get to donning a nightstick and a blue uniform.