"Alright. That'll be two tickets. Two hundred, please."
Gilbert Beilschmidt was stuck. He was driven into a deep sand trap and bogged down by the glop of mud draining the blood of his life. Ever since he moved to Daytona Beach, he had been an outcast from the start. Apparently, he was too boisterous and aggressive. At least that's what his co-workers at the Speedway told him. The only reason he had any people he could stretch to call friends was because he frequented The Lighthouse Bar and Grill practically every other night. It used to be every night, until he found his calling.
At the speedway, workers report everyday, not just during race days. After all, events were happening every other week, and maintenance of the large track was almost 24/7. When he wasn't at the ticket counter, he was painting, cooking, or washing down the steel benches were fans sat down and engorged overpriced hit dogs and chicken wings.
A couple of weeks ago, he finally found his catharsis.
Gilbert walked into the large office. Large pictures of race cars with accompanying signatures painted the white walls. A pool table stood in the middle of the office, and a plasma television donned on the right side of the room. Beyond the mahogany desk and plush leather seats, a giant bay window showcased the wide expanse of the Speedway. The track spread beyond the window, and the infield lake shimmered in the cloudless summer day.
"Hey, Mister Manager, I need to ask y-."
"Gilbert. Don't you knock?" The balding man with grey hair and thick-rimmed glasses asked. He clicked on his computer, and a loud crashing noise from it ceased, making the room stand still in silence.
"I need to ask something. Are you busy?" Gilbert asked.
"I was...fixing the budget before the new quarter."
"Sounded like a loud budget fix. Where you killing some people with a drone or something."
"I don't kill, I heal. I mean, I-I try to...repair the connection between us and Charlotte. Apparently, the speedway workers are trying to unionize."
"That's what I came to talk about. So, me and a couple of people meet for drinks the other day. We want to unionize."
The manager slammed his fists on the desk, causing a Jeff Gorden bobble head to fall onto the carpeted floor. "Fuck me. Gilbert, do you want a raise?"
"More than minimum wage, that's for sure." Gilbert said.
"Fine. Expect your new checks on Friday. Can I work, please?"
"Your not working, are you?" Gilbert asked as he walked towards the desk.
"What else would I be doing?" The manager asked.
"Playing games. I see the reflection on the window." Gilbert said as he cackled in laughter.
The manager whipped his head around and saw the lit reflection on the window. He jumped in his seat and shut off the screen.
"Was that World of Warcraft, Carl?" Gilbert said. He clutched his stomach as he started to laugh.
"It's Mister Jasper, thank you. And yes, you found out my secret. I'm a nerd. Can you leave please?"
"Secret? So you're not gay?" Gilbert asked.
"What? No, what made y-. Forget it. And it's not WoW. It's this new game. It's about these countries from World War Two. Bye." Carl said, waving his small hands at Gilbert.
Gilbert's grin fell. He walked closer to the desk. "That actually sounds kind of awesome. Are you like a country or something?"
Carl sighed. "Troops from one. I play for Prussia because they're more powerful."
Gilbert gaped at Carl. He then rounded the desk and turned on the screen. "Holy shit. I'm from Prussia."
"Don't touch my screen. Anyway, How are you from Prussia? It stopped being a place after World War Two."
"Prussia is very much alive, your eminence. So, how do you play?"
And Gilbert was hooked.
After rushing home after cleaning the stalls in the bathroom, he took his red Vespa and motored past the busy roads filled with bikers and tourists. He drove down the beach lined streets, shielding his eyes from the retiring sun setting behind the horizon like an orange dropping off his modest fold out table on the patio. He came to his one floor White House with blue shutters and a vintage Prussian flag waving in the quiet tropical wind. He ran inside and rushed to his living room where his laptop rested on his black coffee table. He slid onto his leather couch and flung open the screen. After searching for the game online, he saw the download link.
"Shit. I have to pay for it?" Gilbert cursed to himself.
After finagling with his fledging bank account, Gilbert was set. Before he knew it, slaying and battling took it's toll on him, and he passed out on his sofa at 4 A.M, the game paused and an untouched beer sweating frosty rings on the table.
That was three weeks ago. Gilbert barely got any sun since then.