From Sea to Shining Sea
By La Petite Rouge
Chapter 1: The Race at Caribou
Ever so slowly, the delicious warmth of summer began to slip away. Nothing was left behind but a trail of blazoned red and gold autumn. But in a small town on the edge of Maine, another trail began. This trail was destined to lead a steadfast eleven across the nation from hollow to hill, from gully to glade, from sea to shining sea. All coming from a cozy town where not much else was going on
The time is near, and approaching in what seems to only be moments. The eleven teams will battle for the gold in this race across the states, and only one will leave with the winning title. In a matter of days, they will be here in Caribou, Maine, standing at the starting line, hands on the wheel, preparing to embark on the racing circuit once more.
A lull of several years had come to pass since this outlandish group had presumably left the races for good. Most of them certainly believed that it was for good, and that they would never again dash for the checkered flag. That they would never again experience the feeling of being in the winner's circle. Those years in the late sixties were filled with one race after another, and they really knew little else. That was what bought them back so quickly. Racing was such a part of their lives, it was an addiction they couldn't relinquish.
The year was 1972. Not much time had actually gone by, but it was enough for their liking. In a sense, this race would be something of a reunion, getting the band back together. But this would put them in for the long haul. Rather than just a helter skelter slew of various ventures, this race would lead them from Caribou, Maine to Gazelle, California, an expedition of nearly two months. Of course, it would not be straight from start to finish. Nothing is ever that simple.
The race would be run in legs, 47 all together. The first would take them from Caribou, Maine to Salem, New Hampshire. From there, they would set off for Burlington, Vermont, and so on through every state. So rather than count it as only one race, it would be 47. For each race, the winner would receive ten points, second place would be awarded six, third place would win four points, and every runner-up would receive one.
As they quickly bundled their things together in preparation for the "reunion," each racer remembered the glorious days that would soon come again
"And now, here they are! The most daredevil group of daffy drivers to ever whirl their wheels in the Wacky Races, competing for the title of the world's wackiest racer. The cars are approaching the starting line
First is the Turbo Terrific driven by Peter Perfect"
He stood at the front door of his comfortable suburban home. Light flickered through the glass panes splashing across Peter's face in a rainbow. With a suitcase in one hand, he reached for the doorknob with the other, ready to step back into his racing days.
Before he could, something held him back. When he turned, everything was in order, right down to the last detail. As he surveyed the foyer, his gaze came to rest on the front table, where a plant rested next to a small photo in a picture frame. Of course! Peter picked up the picture, beaming. "My Southern Belle how could I ever leave you behind?" Tucking the picture gently into his coat pocket, Peter made his way out the door.
The Turbo Terrific's chrome gleamed. Not that that was any sort of surprise; even when the car was in a thousand pieces, it sparkled. Casually checking his equally brilliant grin in the rearview mirror, Peter exhaled, pleased with a job well done.
He then began the process of arranging his various belongings on the seat while still leaving himself as much room as possible. Another deep breath, and he climbed in. There wasn't much occupying his mind at the moment, as he had done little in his free years. Racing was his life, and departing from it was putting his life on pause. Not to mention that he needed the recreation provided by his love interest.
With the steering wheel in a tight grip, Peter started the engine. "Let's be off. We have a race to win!" He whispered to the car. And with that, he was on his way.
"Next, Rufus Ruffcut and Sawtooth in the Buzz Wagon"
Updown. The beaver's cocoa pelt was glossy, reflecting back the pale, early morning sunlight as he dozed contentedly. His ear twitched back as if it were alive, but the rest of him lay nearly motionless. Curled up on the large brown stump, his favorite spot, Sawtooth rested with no intention of moving.
Rufus, however, had other plans. "Sawtooth." He called in a gruff but amiable voice. Sawtooth didn't budge. Coming nearer to the sleeping animal, Rufus tried again to wake him. "Sawtooth!" No response. Sighing heavily, Rufus scooped up the beaver, carrying him in the direction of the jumble of wood and metal that was the Buzz Wagon. Sensing motion, Sawtooth opened one eye halfway, secretly pleased with himself for getting a free ride to the car. He wasn't as young as he used to be, so one less trek across the stump-filled lawn wasn't anything to be upset over.
After placing Sawtooth in the Buzz Wagon, Rufus brushed off his plaid shirt. He jumped into the car as well, waiting a moment to get back to the feel of it. Neither of them had left their home here since their racing days. Taking a parting look at Manitoba, Rufus grinned. "Well, Sawtooth, whether you're awake or not, we're goin'."
"Maneuvering for position is the Army Surplus Special"
Sitting idly amidst mountains of Beetle Bailey comic books, Meekly reclined, thankful for recent turns of events. This was the most relaxed he, and Sergeant Blast as well, had been in ages. Slowly but surely, the American troops were being drawn out of the war in Vietnam, and it was fortunate that he and Blast had been among the first. They returned early, each in one piece.
Now that racing had resurfaced, the two would be looking at a lengthy break from the army. Whether or not they would admit to it, the break was very much appreciated. Meekly especially enjoyed his time off.
Then again, this time off really wasn't "time off." Although far from being in the army, the race would certainly have trials of its own. Sarge was in it for the hard times. To him, all it took to win was enough grit, but as the Surplus Six rarely placed in the past
Lowest or not, Sarge's morale was high. Raising a hand to his eyes, he looked around, scanning the area for Meekly, who of course was still indoors, leafing through comics. But he was on his way. Just before Sarge could toss his head back and holler for Meekly, there Meekly was, standing right in front of him with about a half dozen comics tucked under his arm.
Sarge glanced at the comics and frowned. "Don't get how you read those. Why can't you read something with an actual story?"
"Like those Weird War' comics you read?" Meekly chuckled mischievously.
Had it been any other private, Sarge would certainly have bitten his head off. But Meekly was different. "Those are graphic novels, Meekly," was all he had to say. Meekly got into the front of the Surplus Special, dumping his comics on the seat beside him, while Sarge piled the rest of their belongings into the tank. "Let's goooo!" Sarge blared, trying to regain the feel of it. Sure enough, it returned quite naturally.
"right behind is the Ant Hill Mob in their Bullet-Proof Bomb"
Ring-a-Ding stood as high as he could, which wasn't very high, and peered through the wooden boards that shielded the window. "Nnnnnnf!" He was also standing on Mac's head. Willy, Kurby, Danny, and Rug-Bug-Benny stood in a cluster nearby, waiting anxiously to see what was going to happen next.
Masked in shadow, a pair of steely eyes glared out from under the brim of a charcoal gray hat. It was Clyde, enthroned on a cardboard box, with its red up-arrow pointing toward the wall. "Well?" Clyde demanded between puffs of a cigar. The smoke rings wafted into the light and disappeared.
Climbing down from Mac's head, Ring-a-Ding looked off in the direction of the voice. "I didn't see nobody, Clyde."
Quite satisfied, Clyde slid down from the cardboard box and began his direction in the usual way. "All right, youse mugs, out that door and into the car. We'z due in Caribou in two days." Light streamed in from every crack and hole in the wall. Except for Clyde, every one of them automatically looked to the cracks. It had become habit. When no one moved, Clyde crossed his arms and cleared his throat in impatience.
One of them spoke up. "But we'z on the lam. Is this race woith it?"
Without hesitation, Clyde silenced the doubt. "Yeah yeah. There's no way anybody even remembuhs." But even he showed a twinge of nervousness.
The mob moved like a herd of sheep, in a solid mass, in the direction of the door. Their "hideout" was an old, abandoned duplex in a vacant lot, and the Bullet-Proof Bomb was resting comfortably under a tree behind the building. Out they went, piling into their dependable vehicle.
Before Clyde could set off, he heard a voice from behind him. Mac was looking nervously out the back window, fiddling with the cord on the blind. "Euh how much time do yuh spend in the joint for that? Those East End guys got months for smoking in front of the theater."
A nervous Kurby jumped in. "And they wuz just smokin' cigarettes. We wuz smokin' cigahs!" The rest of the mob nodded their heads in unison, and they resembled a group of bobble-head dolls.
Clyde considered, then gave a flat answer. "I dunno. But I'm not stickin' around to find out!" And with a splutter, the Bullet-Proof Bomb was off and running.
"and there's ingenious inventor, Pat Pending, in his Convert-a-Car"
The ingenious inventor was scurrying around in search of various odds and ends, in hopes of creating some gadget to render the scurrying obsolete. Then, once he remembered what the significance of the day was, Pat Pending stopped in his tracks, considering. When he set off again, it was to gather his things. It was a habit that wouldn't die, for every task he found himself working on, he felt compelled to create some gadget to make it easier. Then again, that was more or less how the Convert-a-Car came to be.
"Here we go again!" he chuckled to himself, placing a few more things into the bag. Out he went, where the Convert-a-Car had rested comfortably for the past few years. He tucked the bag safely away, and got into his seat. With the push of a button, the garage door opened, and the professor shifted gears and out he went into the sunlight.
A sliver of the light was pouring down across his hands, and he tossed a quick glance upward to see where it was coming from. "Oh, that tear!" he scoffed accusingly at the canopy over his head. "I meant to stitch that. Never mind." Ignoring it, he continued.
For Pat, this was a long awaited venture. He stayed more or less alone in his home, locked away in the sanctity of his basement. "How I lasted that long, I'll never know!" All in all, he was ready to be back.
"Oh, and here's the lovely Penelope Pitstop, the glamour gal of the gas pedal"
With each brush of her long, golden mane, Penelope became increasingly pleased with herself. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she saw everything she thought of as good and right with the world. In her racing years she had become more than just the token female. She had power and knew it.
During her hiatus, Penelope had returned to her hometown in Tennessee. Only months after her return, she inherited a vast estate, and she now lived in a fine manor just outside of Memphis. The two years or so were spent lavishly, comfortably.
Satisfied with her appearance, she tucked her brush into her travel bag. She wouldn't be seen by anyone unless she was primped and polished to perfection, touched with the freshest tints. For her, this was more than an expression of herself; it was her strategy, a useful reinforcement. Would any of her competitors, all being male, pass up the chance to help a damsel in distress?
"Thayer. Ready to go!" she chirped, cheerily tossing a few more things into her bag. Gracefully, she descended the curving marble staircase and headed to the door, looking forward to going back the excitement of the races. Before she could, something held her back.
A small framed picture caught her eye! "Oh, Peter, I just can't wait to see ya'll again!" It was true; she had missed his genteel chivalry. Only years earlier, she had harbored deep feelings for him, and still did. But since then, others, quite a few others, had left more permanent marks on her heart, lips, and elsewhere.
Giving the photo a wink, Penelope turned and pranced out the door and off to the garage where the Compact Pussycat was waiting for her.
"Next, we have the Bouldermobile with the Slag brothers, Rock and Gravel"
A hairy creature emerged from a rocky structure. He stood impatiently, waiting. While he waited, he brushed himself off, sending a whirlwind of dust off into the wind. A low growling noise rumbled in his throat; he had waited long enough.
Gravel was used to this. While he was always energetic and looking ahead for what would happen next, his twin, Rock, was dragging his feet, just wanting to drift along. Gravel lumbered back over to the mouth of the cave and peered in. The light from outside the cave trickled in a few feet, then was eaten up by the cave. Still, a distant light was visible. Fire.
Rock hadn't moved! Gravel roared into the cave, once twice "Raaarg!" At last, Rock roared back. The light of the fire dimmed and went out, and rhythmic grunts could be heard in the darkness. Finally, Rock stood in the mouth of the cave, dragging two large wooden clubs. Rock held one out to Gravel, who took it eagerly.
For brothers, they were typical. They were also the type who never really passed beyond childhood. Always living and working together, Rock and Gravel Slag functioned as one unit. One thing was certain, they were two sides of the same coin; for all their differences, they complemented each other.
Gravel was thrilled with the idea of going somewhere, but felt somehow that something was wrong. "Urrrgh Uggg!" He shouted, realizing the problem. It would be difficult to get where they were going without a vehicle. They didn't have one anymore, not since Rock had decided to use the Bouldermobile for a fireplace.
Although Gravel considered giving Rock a thump on the head with his club, he thought better of it. Neither of them knew they would race again. And Rock had gone to the trouble to make the clubs. The problem was fixable. Gravel motioned at a pile of large stones lying against the cave. It would certainly take some time, but a new Bouldermobile could be born right beside their cave.
"lurching along is the Creepy Coupe with the Gruesome Twosome"
Green candles burned in the Creepy Coupe's headlights. Little Gruesome lifted one from its lantern, sprinkled it with nutmeg, chanting, "With my power, I empower you" His voice was low, not much more than a whisper. Once he had done the same with the other candle, Little Gruesome stared up at the Creepy Coupe's tower. "Well, the spell was just for luck. That's not necessarily going to wake a dragon. Hey!"
Big Gruesome was stretched out across the seat of the car, reaching for the candles. "You remember last time you tried to do this spell yourself. It was weeks before we could get rid of that demon."
Sheepishly drawing his hand back away from the candles, Big Gruesome answered in a dismal voice, "He made a hair-raising hood ornament when he was in a good mood." Little Gruesome didn't seem to care about that; he just wanted to wake the dragon up.
"We can't go until the dragon's awake," he explained to Big Gruesome, who seemed to be wondering why nothing was happening.
Standing up, Big Gruesome reached into the tower. "Dragonnnn" He pulled back his hand just in time; an incredibly colored fireball came spewing out of the window, accompanied by a roar that would have made Morticia Adams shudder. The fireball continued for several feet and incinerated a cluster of trees.
That was not enough to intimidate Little Gruesome. "He's just like that because he hasn't worked in years. Dragon, we're going to Caribou. Now! Get up!"
The groggy head of a dragon appeared out the front window of the tower. With a finger pressed to thoughtful lips, Big Gruesome had an idea. "Anyone you see on the way is fair game." That was enough for the ornery dragon, who stretched his wings luxuriously.
"Blessed be," Little Gruesome sighed, jumping into the Creepy Coupe next to Big Gruesome. The candles burned still brighter, and a handful of bats scuttered out of the tower and fell into orbit. The Creepy Coupe was back to normal. Well
"and right on their tail is the Red Max"
Finally, the journey was complete. The Red Max collapsed onto the bed in his hotel room, boots still on his feet. The trip to Caribou had been long and tedious, but he felt a certain amount of pride in his ability to go the distance. Although the Crimson Haybailer had seen better days, it did pull through for him now.
He sat propped up on the bed, gazing dreamily out the window, a hollow homesickness eating away at him. Not once had he left since his last races in America, and although he was eager to race again, leaving homeland was difficult. "Blühe deutsches Vaterland," he whispered, the national anthem playing in his head. When the song ended, he tried to think about something else, but couldn't wrench his mind away. Wrestling with rusty English, Max added, "Mein body ees here boot mein heart ees in Germany."
In the time he had spent away, Max had joined the air force in West Germany, training neophyte pilots. He eventually reached the rank of captain, which was an incredible honor in his eyes. Ever since he was a child, Max had held onto a passion for flying, and idolized Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron. The glories of World War I inspired his childhood spirit during Germany's darkest hour: World War II.
Flying was a part of him, whether it was done on the race circuit or not. Coming back to racing would be a nice change, he assured himself, and so will seeing all the other racers again. The time he spent in the air force were golden; he knew he was living out his dream. But somehow, he felt something was missing. What it was, he was unsure, but he assumed now that it was the reason he returned to America.
"Nossing vill shtop me now," he assured himself, peacefully. Leaning up, he removed his boots and stood them up beside his bed. Max was prepared to step back into what his days were once full of, racing. Satisfied with the thought that he would soon recover what he felt his new life was lacking, Max let his eyes close, and fell asleep upon the instant.
"and here's the Arkansas Chug-a-bug with Luke and Blubber Bear"
The steady hum of the bees was nothing short of soporific. Luke was propped up contentedly against a tree, his straw hat tipped slightly forward to shield his eyes from the red summer sun. After stroking his untrimmed whiskers, Luke took a sip from the jug that sat next to him, and folded his hands in his lap again.
Luke lived in an nondescript old shack, paint chipping off every wall, just up the street from some relatives. Some? That might not be a strong enough word. The town was small, made up almost entirely of his family. After spending a few minutes trying to remember all his brothers' and sisters' names, he chortled, "Fergeddit," without even making an attempt on his cousins. Not that it mattered. Names were rarely used, as they all simply accepted that there were too many. Everyone was addressed by, "Hay you!" or just plain, "You." Or "Ya'll" in the case of twins.
Sometimes Luke sat on the porch, but now he just felt like being completely alone. Once he had finished trying to sort out the mess of his family tree, Luke felt that there was something else that he needed to remember, but was unsure as to what. Brushing it off as unimportant, Luke went right back to enjoying the peace and quiet. The tree he leaned against, he knew as, "ma saycrit tray." It lay at the far edge of the cornfield, and no one had ever been able to find him hiding there before.
Lifting his head, Luke glared irritably in the direction of his house. He thought he had heard a crunching noise, but now it sounded like something crashing through the cornfield. When he saw the stalks of corn start to shake and felt the earth move beneath him, Luke jumped to his feet, about ready to scramble up the tree.
Just then, some grunting noises could be heard, and a hairy brown head appeared. Luke had grabbed hold of a branch above his head and was getting ready to pull himself up into the tree, but the sight of the shaggy bear stopped him. "Dag-blame it, Blubber, my saycrit tray hain't a saycrit no mo'!"
Blubber looked apologetic, but had other problems at hand. Grunting at Luke didn't seem to be getting the right kind of attention. "Tawk, tawk, tawk, that's all you do is bump yo' gums." Luke looked impatient. The two were an odd couple of sorts. Luke's only interest at the time was getting back to his nap, and consciousness was little more than the annoying gap between naps.
In his paw, Blubber grasped his blue and green racing helmet. It was full of dust as it had been hanging on the back wall for so long. With the coordination of a six-year-old, Blubber managed to get the helmet on his head. Luke watched this whole process. That was it! "Great day, we best get the ol' Chug-a-Bug runnin'."
"Sneaking along last is that Mean Machine with those double-dealing do-badders, Dick Dastardly and his sidekick, Muttley"
Muttley sat defiantly in the driver's seat of the Mean Machine, refusing to budge. He knew he wasn't really supposed to sit there, but he wasn't bothered. Not bothered, that is, until a suitcase came hurtling through the air, nearly knocking Muttley's head off. It landed behind him with a thud, and Muttley felt his heart stop, then pound voraciously. "Razzer-frazzer-razzer!" he growled under his breath.
"Get out and help before I give you something to swear about!" All the hair on Muttley's neck bristled. The voice of his "master" was like nails on a chalkboard. Even so, rather than incur whatever wrath the loathsome human had planned, Muttley decided it would just be easier to do what he was told.
Dick Dastardly smirked, watching Muttley hoist himself out of the car and back to where the pile of suitcases was stacked. "Think of it, Muttley. This is our chance to do what we never could before!"
"Yeah yeah yeah yeah!" Muttley seemed to like the idea as well, as his pout had disappeared. Now that Muttley was transporting the suitcases, it was Dastardly's turn to regain his position in the driver's seat.
With one gloved hand, he brushed several stray dog hairs off the seat, and settled himself in the car. At last, Muttley's work was ended, and he jumped in as well. "Of course, we have enough *equipment* packed to deal with the competition" Dick reminded Muttley with a faraway look in his eye.
"Hsss-ss-ssss-ssss!" was the only response he got from Muttley. With a roar, the Mean Machine was ready to go, and on its way to the starting line in Caribou, Maine.
"and away they go! On the way out Wacky Races!"