A.N.: This story is based on the poem, A Boy Named Sue by Shel Silverstein. It's told in the point of view of Chick. I think the name "Chick" is a HORRIBLE name, which is where the idea for making this poem into a songfic came from.

My daddy left home when I was three

And he didn't leave much to Ma and me

Just this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.

Now, I don't blame him cause he run and hid

But the meanest thing that he ever did

Was before he left, he went and named me 'Sue.'

'You could say that my dad was my inspiration to start racing. No, he himself wasn't a racer. He was actually a rancher. He was your typical tractercar (A.N.: instead of cowboy). In fact, I never saw him when I was young, that I remember.

You see, he left my mother and me a few years after I was born. He didn't leave us anything, not even some child support for mother. Mother had to struggle to make ends meet. I went off to school, while she went to work one of her two jobs. She was seldom ever home when I got there. It would be up to me to find my own dinner, with what money she left on the counter; never very much.

I often used to ask where he went. Mother never said, no matter how often I asked. She probably thought it was safest, for everyone involved, if I didn't know. I think that's because she knew I resented him. She was right; I did resent him.

Now, contrary to what you might think, I didn't hate him because he left. Fathering just isn't for everyone. If that's why he left, it was probably best for everyone. But before he left, he did something cruel. Something I will hate to my dieing day. He named me "Chick."'

Well, he must o' thought that it was quite a joke

And it got a lot of laughs from a' lots of folk,

It seems I had to fight my whole life through.

Some gal would giggle and I'd get red

And some guy'd laugh and I'd bust his head,

I tell ya, life ain't easy for a boy named 'Sue.'

'He must have thought that it was quite funny. He wouldn't have been the only one. Everyone mocked the kid named "Chick." People would go out of their way to call me condescending names; "miss" and "ma'am" being the least of them. Heck, even teachers would laugh upon first hearing or reading my name.

Of course, this didn't sit too well with me. I would inevitably start a fight with whoever had called me a name. I started a fair number of fights; even, a couple of times, with teachers. This didn't leave me very popular with the principal. Or with other students, for that matter. It seemed that I was always in a fight, and therefore, always in trouble.

Of course, this only earned me the nickname "Cheeky Chick." That did nothing to relieve my anger. In fact, it made things worse. I was suspended more often or not. It's surprising that I actually passed High School. And the principal was rarely ever actually helpful. In fact, he was one of my worst teasers. But I knew better than to attack him, for fear of going to juvie.

All in all, my childhood wasn't the easiest childhood of all. Of course, most childhoods aren't; but mine was exceptionally hard, I think. It seems I was angry with someone more often than not. The only person I could count on for ANY sympathy was my mother. I was otherwise on my own.'

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,

My fist got hard and my wits got keen,

I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.

But I made me a vow to the moon and stars

That I'd search the honky-tonks and bars

And kill that man that gave me that awful name.

'All in all, my innocence didn't last long. I quickly learned how mean people could be, even young people. Even people who were supposed to be neutral. Even people who were supposedly mature. Actually, the most mature person I've ever met was "The King," Strip Weathers. He was one of the rare people, apart from my mother, who never even sniggered at my name. Of course, the fact that he was already smiling when he first heard it may have contributed to that. Maybe that's why I was obsessed with beating him in racing; I just couldn't quite believe it.

It didn't take me long to learn to be mean right back to people. I quickly figured out the best way to ram someone when sitting still, from front or behind. I even learned the best way to run them off the road without hurting them. I never tried to kill them, though. That's one thing I can say for myself. I also learned to detect even the barest of hints of a smile. I learned to hear even the quietest crunch of gravel beneath wheels.

After I graduated High School, I started wandering around the country. I wouldn't really call it traveling, because I wasn't going places to see them. Rather, I was leaving people I didn't like. I'd leave any given town before many people had a chance to get on my bad side, via my name. Maybe it was inevitable that I ended up a racecar. I ended up making my rootless tendencies and tough attitudes into a career. Now, of course, people usually don't dare to make fun of me.

It wasn't very long into my life that I swore to myself that I'd search the world over for the father who had condemned me when he named me "Chick." I made an oath by anything I held sacred that I would find him and make him pay for all the suffering that name had put me through. The name that HE'D so wittingly given to me. I relished in thinking up ways I could kill him. And I was absolutely convinced that I would get the chance someday, and I wouldn't turn it down.'

Well, it was Gatlinburg in mid-July

And I just hit town and my throat was dry,

I thought I'd stop and have myself a brew.

At an old saloon on a street of mud,

There at a table, dealing stud,

Sat the dirty, mangy dog that named me 'Sue.'

'Well, long story made short, that chance came on me unexpectedly one day. I'd just left one town (one state, actually) for another, and I was just getting set up. I had gotten a hotel room for the night. It was getting late, and I figured I might as well go get dinner. I went to the nearest diner I could find. It was quite a shock to see him sitting there, chatting amiably with several other older cars.

You see, this wasn't the largest of towns. That's why I chose it. They didn't even have paved roads. I was somewhat surprised that they even had a hotel. I had always hoped to run into my father, but I thought that I'd find him after tracking him down. I didn't think that I would find him out of the blue, with no warning at all.

I had had nothing on my mind except getting some cold oil, and a little fuel. I rolled through the door, and there HE was, the man that I had always born a deep loathing for. There was the dirt-bag that named me "Chick." He was parked at a small table, playing cards with a bunch of other cars around his age.'

Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad

From a worn-out picture that my mother'd had,

And I knew that scar on his cheek and his evil eye.

He was big and bent and gray and old,

And I looked at him and my blood ran cold

And I said: My name is 'Sue!' how do you do! Now you gonna die!

'There was no doubt in my mind that that was my father. I knew what he looked like; my mother had had more than one picture of him. Besides, I had scoured the records, and had found some fairly recent and fairly good pictures of him. It seemed that I had his image permanently imprinted onto my mind. What was even more surprising to me was how accurate and detailed my mental picture of him had been. Of course, that was how I had recognized him; that, and by hearing his friends call him by name.

He was a big, sturdy stock car, rather like me. We had the same grill and color. But his color was slightly washed out and rusted, like it had been a while since his last coat of paint. I even recognized the scratch going down the length of his side. His age showed, but not in the infirm way of a lot of old cars.

After I got over the shock of seeing him for the first time since I was a toddler, anger ran through my system. My oil probably turned to ice in that moment. For a moment, I was too furious to move or even utter a peep. But the will to kill him was strong, and burned that away. I rolled across the room and bumped his side. He turned to glare at me, wondering who was so rude as to bump into him. I said in a very calm voice, "Hello. My name is Chick. And I'm gonna kill you now." His eyes bloomed with sudden understanding.'

Well, I hit him hard right between the eyes

And he went down but, to my surprise,

He come up with a knife and cut off a piece of my ear.

But I busted a chair right across his teeth

And we crashed through the wall and into the street

Kicking and a' gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.

'I rammed his engine hard before he had a chance to recover. Not that it took him very long. He had barely finished spinning across the room when he came back at me with a sharp piece of something and gave me a matching scratch on my own side. Soon, it was a full-out brawl, and all the other cars in the whole place had made a ring around us two to watch. We were ramming each other, throwing gas and oil cans at each other, and anything we could think of at a moment's notice. I even remember a table somewhere in the brawl.

We threw each other all over that diner. The owner wasn't pleased, I'm sure, but he was smart enough not to try and interfere. Everyone was voting for their favorite car (mostly my father), and shouting encouragements and insults. Not that we paid that close attention to anyone else. We were mostly interested in killing each other. We hardly noticed the injuries we received.

Eventually, my father ended up sending me careening right through the front wall of the place. The fight ended up out on the street, where it attracted a lot more attention. The audience inside the diner came out, and all the commotion attracted a new audience from the street. As for us; we just kept ramming and rolling each other, each trying to get an advantage over the other one.'

I tell ya, I've fought tougher men

But I really can't remember when,

He kicked like a mule and he bit like a crocodile.

I heard him laugh and then I heard him cuss,

He went for his gun and I pulled mine first,

He stood there lookin' at me and I saw him smile.

'Now, he wasn't the strongest car I've ever fought. But that probably had a lot to do with his age. If I had caught him when he was younger, he probably could have kicked my bumper, even as strong as I was then. As it was, he kind of did. He rammed me like a bulldozer and flipped me like a forklift. I guess his experience made up for any loss of strength he may have had.

Of course, he did his best to distract me with insults. I just insulted him right back, or yelled profanity at him. That just made him laugh. He'd demand to know if I'd had enough yet, and I always said I wouldn't have enough until he was dead. That only made him laugh more. He told me he had to commend my determination. I really was Hell-bent on killing him.

Of course, then I sent him crashing into the outer wall of a building across the street, and then he started cussing, too. I raced over to him, to see a gun coming out. I whipped out mine faster, and took careful aim. He just looked up at me for a moment. I don't think anyone dared to even breathe for a moment. Then, right before I was going to pull the trigger, his face broke into a wide grin. He was laying there, in the dirt and oil, grinning up at me like a madman. He even barked out a laugh.'

And he said: 'Son, this world is rough

And if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough

And I know I wouldn't be there to help ya along.

So I give ya that name and I said good-bye

I knew you'd have to get tough or die

And it's that name that helped to make you strong.'

'And then he started talking to me. "Son, you're just as tough as I am, ain't 'cha?" The people surrounding us looked shock to learn that this young hotshot who had come and started ramming the tar out of one of their citizens was that citizen's son. Whispers started rolling around us. Cars looked around at each other. I kept my eyes on him.

He continued, "This is a very cut-engine world, and a car's gotta be tough to make it. I don't know if yer momma ever told ya why I left, but I didn't have a choice. I knew yer momma wouldn't know how to help ya along like that, and I knew I couldn't be there for ya.

That name I gave ya was my legacy for ya. I gave it to ya and I left, and I knew ya'd hate me for it. I also knew that I'd set ya up for a hard life. I knew lotsa folk would make fun of ya with that name, and I knew that ya'd spend half yer life fighting them. But I knew it would make ya tough. So, really, having that name made ya strong."'

He said: 'Now you just fought one hell of a fight

And I know you hate me, and you got the right

To kill me now, and I wouldn't blame you if you do.

But ya ought to thank me, before I die,

For the gravel in ya guts and the spit in ya eye

Cause I'm the son-of-a-bitch that named you 'Sue'.'

'I didn't say anything to that. After a moment of tense silence, he went on, "Now, ya fought one mighty fight, boy. Yer perty good, if I say so me self. Ya've gotta be as good as I was at yer age. I gotta say, boy, I almost lost this fight, and that doesn't happen too often. I've really gotta hand it to ya, boy. Ya've got one hell of a stubborn streak in ya.

And I know ya hate me, and I don't blame ya one bit. If I was in yer position, I probably would, too. In fact, I can't think of a single boy who wouldn't resent the one who gave him a girl's name. Ya've got the right to kill me, what with all that I'm sure ya've been through. And I don't blame ya if ya go ahead and do it. There ain't one person in this country that would.

But before ya do, ya ought to thank me. Ya ought to thank me for how tough you are now. Ya ought to thank me for yer keen wit and hard fighting skill. Ya aught to thank me for all ya've accomplished. Ya aught to thank me for all ya have.

Ya aught to thank me, because of that name I gave ya. I'm the son of a gun that named ya 'Chick.' If not for me, ya wouldn't be the tough man ya are today."'

I got all choked up and I threw down my gun

And I called him my pa, and he called me his son,

And I come away with a different point of view.

And I think about him, now and then,

Every time I try and every time I win,

And if I ever have a son, I think I'm gonna name him

Bill or George! Anything but sue! I still hate that name!

'Well, there wasn't much I could say to that. I found that I didn't have the heart to kill him anymore. I slowly put away my gun, and he did likewise. We flipped ourselves over. Seeing that the fight was over, the crowd began to disperse. There was a moment of awkward silence between us. Then he said, "It's nice to meet ya, son."

I answered, "Likewise, dad." Actually, we ended up having a quick drink after that. But we went to a different diner. I didn't stay there for very long. I had already begun to get into racing, you see. I wasn't very well known, but I was looking for my next race, and maybe a sponsor. But we parted seeing eye to eye.'

"Do you still see him?" One reporter shouted out, shoving his black camera as close as possible to Chick's face.

"No, I actually haven't seen him since. It was many years ago; he might be dead by now," Chick answered. He looked away, to the next reporter who started shouting.

"Do you think about him at all?"

"Oh, sure. I think about him every time I race. I really thought about him when I won that Piston Cup," Chick replied with a shrug.

"I think there's one thing we all want to know," Doc Hudson interrupted.

"And what's that?" Chick inquired, brow rising.

"If you had a son, what would you name him?" Dock asked, humor in his voice.

"Any damn thing but Chick. I still HATE that name. I'll NEVER do that to my son," Chick exclaimed with a smile.

"Well, Chick, thanks for coming to the opening of the new wing of our museum. You're welcome back any time, as long as you don't start trouble," Doc answered after the laughter had died down.

"Thanks for letting me speak, Dr. Hudson," Chick said. He left the podium.