For the man who's been waiting for the right moment to stop working for somebody else.

DON'T BUY THIS VAN.
STEAL IT INSTEAD.

It's fourteen months old, worth $47,000, and it has to be gone by the 26th.

Two weeks ago I came off a fourteen hour job at six. Filthy. Beer in hand. Certified mail waiting on the kitchen table. I froze.

Letter 1058. Final Notice of Intent to Levy.

$94,318.16 in payroll taxes, plus the pound of flesh they've added on top since.

Thirty days from the date printed on it. That date is September 26.

Here's the part I'm embarrassed to share: I knew it was coming. I've known for two years.

For five quarters I took the money that comes out of my guys' checks and used it to make payroll and float materials on jobs that paid ninety days late. Every quarter I told myself I'd catch up. Every quarter I didn't.

Some of that money bought this van.

Now that I've got that off my chest, let me tell you why it matters to you.

The Cost of Eighteen Days

On September 2nd I took it to a dealer. They offered $33,750 on the spot, no argument, money in hand. I walked away.

That same week, three comparable Transits with similar miles were listed between $45,900 and $47,500. Call it $47,000. They all sold. That's what this van is worth to a man who has ninety days to wait for the right buyer.

Consignment takes six weeks. An auction takes a month and clips ten percent off the top. The dealer will hand me money this afternoon and keep thirteen thousand dollars for the privilege of being fast. What I need is fast and fair, and the automotive business isn't built to give you both.

So I'm asking $38,900.

That's not a discount and it's not desperation. I'm buying time, and $38,900 is what I'm paying for it — five thousand more than the dealer offered me, eight thousand less than the market says it's worth. You get paid for being able to settle by Friday. Most guys can't move that fast.

It's a fair deal. If you buy it, you might feel like you stole it. Do it anyway. I get what I need, you get what you want, and I can live with that.

Before you start revving your engine, one thing. If you're planning to turn up Saturday and put me through the meat grinder for another three grand because you think you smell blood — forget it. Not because it offends me. Because negotiating costs time, and time is the one thing I'm short of.

The price is the price. There's nothing left in it.

Read This Part Twice

You're not just buying a cheap van. Understand what's really on the table.

A dealer gives you recourse and a lot to walk back onto, and charges you eight thousand dollars for it. An auction gives you a starting price and nothing else — no history, no inspection, no man standing there to shake your hand, and a bidding war against mercenaries who do this for a living. A private seller with time on his hands takes retail, because he can.

Auction money with private seller disclosure only happens when the seller has a date on him. You found one.

Clean title isn't merely a feature of this van. It's a feature of this month. When the thirty days run out the IRS can file a Notice of Federal Tax Lien on everything I own — including what's sitting in my driveway.

After that I can't sell it to you like this. Not for this money, probably not at all.

On September 27 the deal doesn't get worse. It's gone.

The Van

2025 Ford Transit-250 Cargo. High roof, extended body, 148-inch wheelbase — the biggest one Ford builds before you get into duallys.

487 cubic feet, which is a one-bedroom apartment in one trip instead of three. Eighty-one inches of interior height, so you stand up in it instead of crawling. The rear doors hinge 253 degrees and sit flat against the body. That means nothing's swinging back at you while you've got one end of a sofa in your hands. Payload just over 3,500 pounds — more than you'll ever put in it moving houses.

GVWR is 9,070. No CDL, no medical card, no DOT number for local work. You drive it out of here Saturday on the license that's in your wallet right now.

14,180 miles, bought new July 2025. I'll hand you the window sticker. $56,140.

The factory warranty transfers to you — three years or 36,000 miles from new, so about 22 months and 21,800 left on it. Ford stands behind it, not me.

It isn't perfect, and I'll point the faults out myself since you'd find them anyway. A scrape on the rear passenger bumper where I kissed a dumpster. Stone chip in the windshield. The driver's seat is worn on the outside bolster from a year of climbing in and out.

None of it's priced in, because none of it needs fixing.

“What's The Catch? Nobody Sells A One-Year-Old Van For This.”

Fair question. They don't — unless they've got a reason. Don't take my word for it.

Molina Electric, ROC #341276, CR-11. Look me up before you come. Pull the records yourself. Run the VIN, I'll hand it to you. Call the dealer on Baseline who offered me $33,750 and ask him what he saw. Bring your own mechanic Saturday and put it on a lift — if he finds one thing I haven't already told you, I'll pay for the inspection.

The reason it's cheap isn't the van. It's the date.

On September 27 the IRS can start levying my accounts receivable. Plain English: my customers become their customers, and they get told to send my money to the Treasury instead. Word travels. Every general contractor I sub for finds out inside a week, and I'm finished in this town in a month.

This van alone doesn't clear the debt. The truck, the trailer and the Bobcat go too. Together they get me into a payment plan before the 27th.

The equity in it goes to the government whether I sell it or they take it. The only thing I still get to decide is whether it happens before the 26th.

It Pays For Itself

Two men, a three-hour apartment job, $450 to $700 around here. Furniture and appliance runs for the stores that don't want to own a truck. No license to sit, no certification, nobody to give you permission — men give that to themselves. You need commercial auto insurance and a guy who'll work Saturdays.

You'll also want a moving pad set and a hand truck. Don't buy them yet. Ask me about that on Saturday.

One job a week pays this van off in eighteen months and you'll own it outright. Two a week and it's nine months, and then you're deciding whether to buy the second one.

I'm not going to sit here blowing smoke up your ass about what you'll clear in a year. I don't know you and I'd be making it up. What I know is that the van is the thing most men never get past, and on Saturday it costs $8,000 less than it should.

If you're a weekend hobbyist, save your money and buy something older. This only makes sense to a man who's going to put it to work.

Saturday

$38,900

Cash or certified funds. First man who can settle takes it.

1847 E. Broadway Rd, Mesa.
Saturday, 8am to 4pm.

Bring a mechanic, bring a flashlight, bring anybody you like. I'll be ready for it.

Title's in my name, clean, and no payout owing. You buy it, you drive it away.

After the 26th this isn't my decision to make.

— Ray Molina, Molina Electric