7~

The Crystal Cove Convention Center was nearly filled to capacity, graciously accepting gearheads, both local and out-of-town, for this year's well-timed auto show.

Killing time, Marcie and Jason wandered through the crowds that gathered around the open floor space of the center, wanting to see the latest car designs that dominated the area, showcased by the latest models available.

Amongst the concept cars shone was a full scale model, suspended by wire, of a rounded, experimental air vehicle, that featured a roomy interior and cockpit, protected by a wide bubble-domed canopy.

Marcie casually read the pamphlet given to her by a forgettable sales rep named Jessie? Jessup? Jetsen? from the recently founded automotive company Parsec Motors, that claimed that sometime in the future, this transport model, the similarly named Jetstar, would give the average citizen true, safe, personal flight within the city limits.

"It'll never get off the ground," she scoffed, putting the pamphlet on a nearby exhibit table, stealing one more quick glance at a comely model, and then signaling for Jason to follow her.

He grabbed his round package and trailed behind her, as she went to Ballroom Number Three where the Wacky Racers and their producer were having their panel.

The two teens slipped unobtrusively into the large room, that was surprising ornate for this venue, and stayed in the back by the double doors, overlooking the 260 fan-filled seats separated into individual, napkin-appointed tables.

Up front, production camera crews shot the Racers, minus Dick, the show's producer, and Dr. Maynard Spring sitting behind a long table on a stage, supplied with microphones, drinking glasses, water pitchers, and folded napkins to wipe with afterwards, laughing at, and with fans, and fielding questions.

"...Because each of them was saved from death at the time of their displacement," Doctor Spring said, answering a fan's question. "The Ant Hill Mob during a shoot out with police, the Red Max during a dogfight in WW I, and the Slag Brothers in the middle of a hunt gone bad. When Sundial accidentally rescued them, they were given a chance to test how displaced people can survive and cope in modern society via the race. They gratefully accepted."

A fan raised his hand to be called upon.

"Yes," said the producer.

"This is for all the Racers," he began. "What would you say was your favorite race?"

Answers from individual drivers ranged from courses in the Deep South, cross-country runs through the Midwest, to a fast and picturesque race along Route 66.

Another fan asked, "How do you all feel about Dick Dastardly's death?"

Peter leaned forward to his microphone.

"I think I speak for every Racer here, when I say that we do miss him. Was he a scoundrel? Yes. Was he a cheat? Absolutely. Was he a sneaky, reprehensible cad with no moral center, who would just as soon throw your mother into oncoming traffic, as look at you? Of course. Was he little more than a snake in human guise? A reptilian rapscallion in a racing car? Was he a-"

Penelope, sitting next to him, reached over and covered his mic, while answering into her own, for the fan, "We miss him very much, Sugah."

When the laughter died down some, another fan raised his hand and asked, "With the arrest of the Red Max and the death of Dastardly, will this be the last season of the show?"

The producer moved up to his mic, saying. "It's too early to tell at this point what will be definitive. Wacky Races has always been a winner-take-all, almost anything-goes affair. With all of these new developments coming in hard and fast, it's makes one wonder if we, as a show, have bitten off more than we could chew."

A giggling, blushing girl stood up with a question directed at Penelope.

"Miss Pitstop, I was wondering, do you consider you and Peter a couple?"

Amidst the knowing oohs and chuckles that such a question merited, Penelope leaned into her mic and said, "Well, Peter and I have always had a very nice relationship. But, I guess, as far as competition goes, he'll always have a nice view of my rear bumper." She gave a Peter a flirtatious look. "Isn't that right, dear heart?"

Peter chuckled good-naturedly at the risqu response. "Indeed, Pretty Penny. By the way, if your Pussycat is ever in the need for a tune-up, my toolbox is always at your disposal."

That was rewarded with a genuinely hot blush from the distaff Racer.

She leaned over to whisper, slyly, in his ear, "Hmm, now, who's the cad?"

"Just looking for an opening, my dear. All's fair in love and racing," he whispered back, then favored her a look of mock-concern. "You're not offended, are you?"

Penelope gave a playfully mock appearance of thinking the incident over, then said, "I'll let you know."

Before the amorous banter could continue, however, a roaring wind from an unseen source suddenly blew over and across the stage, alerting the Racers and others by the table.

Dick's apparition flew out from backstage and stopped, hovering over the guests and laughing cruelly.

"You should have asked them the most important question," Dick howled at the terrified crowds of fans, getting up from their seats in a panic. "How long does any of the Wacky Racers have to live?"

The Racers instinctively ducked as Dick jetted out over the ballroom and circled the grand chandelier, like a moth to a lamp.

Marcie and Jason jumped to either side of the double doors to avoid the stampede of fans running towards them. As soon as one parted the doors, frightened humanity poured out in a clumsy, screaming, chaotic rush.

"Wacky Racers, you will race against me, for eternity!" Dick screeched from above.

The producer hid his head and cowered into the table cloth.

"It's his ghost again! He's gonna shut down this production for sure!" he blubbered, even worse than Blubber Bear, who hid under the table. "I can't go back to doing cat food commercials!"

"Don't run! Don't be afraid, people! That ghost is a fake!" Marcie called out firmly while she walked towards the stage, holding her hand up to assuage the guests and camera crew.

"Fake?" The Wacky Racers and their producer said in stunned unison.

Marcie reached the foot of the stage, then turned to Jason, who waddled past the tables, carrying the cloaked object.

"It's time to put the air brakes on this ghost, once and for all," she said. "Jason, if you please?"

Jason sat at one of the tables closest to the stage, put the object on the table, and unveiled it. It was Jason's Drone.

Rufus peered at the weapon, in surprise. "Eet eez won uv Deek's Turbo Terror Drones," he said to the boy. "Why doo you 'ave zese zing? Eez zat wat keeled heem?"

Jason spoke up. "No. This is what's been scaring the heck outta Marcie and me," he said, then added, "Especially me. This Drone isn't like the ones Dick had in Nevada. This one's remote controlled, and modified with a built-in projector to create the image of a ghostly Dick Dastardly around it, so when the Drone flew, all we saw was Dick's ghost flying around."

"I don't understand," Penelope admitted. "Why are his Drones even here? Wouldn't they have been destroyed with the Mean Machine?"

"Not if the Mean Machine was a fake," said Marcie.

Whadya mean? asked Clyde. How do ya know it s fake?

"Jason and I found pieces of an FM radio receiver, some servos, and a small camera across the street from where the Mean Machine was destroyed. After analyzing and putting the pieces together, we discovered that they were part of a RC rig that came from the Double Zero," she explained to them.

"Someone was driving a copy of the car by remote control, that day," said Jason. "Someone who wanted to make sure that the fake Mean Machine was blown up in front of a lot of witnesses."

"Who?" Professor Pending asked.

"The same someone who's controlling the ghost that's above us, now," Marcie said, pointing up at the ghost hovering by the chandelier.

"Dick?" Lazy Luke guessed.

"He's...still alive, somewhere?" Private Meekly gasped.

"What are you saying, kid? He faked his death?" the producer asked incredulously. "A bit clich d, don't you think? If he just wanted to throw a monkey wrench into the show, why didn't he just blow up one of the Racers?" Seeing how tactless that sounded, despite being a reasonable question, he quickly said to them, "No offense. I mean, he tries to, all the time, doesn't he?"

Marcie shrugged. "Well, I admit that, for a little while, we did think that Dick was responsible, when we discovered that the ghosts were just projections from his Drones. But, I believe, we have the answers, now. Dick Dastardly is, indeed, still alive, and no, people, he did not fake his own death. He was kidnapped."

"By who?" Private Meekly asked.

"By the same guy who's about to be caught red-handed by his own equipment," Jason chimed in. "I did a little modification to this Drone, myself. I put in a homemade signal tracker. All I have to do is turn it on, and it'll sniff out the radio signal that controlling the other ghost Drone."

Jason opened the back hatch of the weapon and pressed a repurposed button. The Drone's top propeller whirred into life and lifted the machine's bulk into the air.

It flew around the room in a tight circular search pattern, slowed when it detected a strong radio pulse, and then zoomed off, behind the stage.

Hidden in a supply closet, deep backstage, a man dressed in a dark sweater, ski mask, and slacks, was watching the proceedings going on below the chandelier, from a small close-circuit monitor built into a large, double-joysticked transmitter, with growing concern.

From outside the closed door, he heard the approaching whine of a hard working, motor-driven prop. As soon as his body tensed in alertness to the sound, it began to recede. The Drone was starting to fly away.

The man began to relax, somewhat. However, before he could breath easy again, the door suddenly collapsed pathetically from the hinges, and the massive hand of Big Gruesome reached down and plucked the startled man out of the closet, like a favorite toy.

Big dragged the struggling man and tossed him, easily, onto the center of the table, as the Racers and the producer stood and moved away from their seats to see this figure from a safe distance, the bulky transmitter unit falling from his hand, unto the stage.

"Wha-What's going on? What did I do?" the man yelled, attempting to get up and leave. Big reached over and pressed the man still against the table top with one wide hand, nearly squeezing the breath from him.

Jason left his table, went to the stage, and picked up the transmitter, bringing ghostly "Dick" down to the floor, before turning the Drone and its projector off.

Marcie climbed on stage and walked over to the table. "I don't know? You tell us." She reached over and yanked the ski mask from his head.

Wacky Racers, producer, and camera crew alike, gasped in confusion. Except for a slight difference in the nose, it was him, in the uncanny, villainous flesh.

"Dick Dastardly?" they said in incredulous unison.

In spite of seeing the old villain, Peter couldn't help grinning in relief. "Dick! We thought that you snuffed it, old bean!"

"I didn't snuff anything, Peter Imperfect," the man snarled with a wheeze.

"Wait!" Little, the vampire, said to Marcie. "I thought you said that he was kidnapped, that he didn't fake his own death."

"That's not Dick Dastardly," Marcie and Jason said, together.

"What?" the producer said, then turned back to the man. "Then, who the heck are you?"

"Yes! That is the question, isn't it?" the man hissed, amusedly, at him. "Who am I?" Soon the whole world will know that answer, when my colleagues and I tear you Wacky Racers down, and we rise as the next greatest celebrities on television!"

He angled his head towards Marcie, who was the closest to him. "I'm surprised that you survived our little trap for you, four-eyes, and you're right, the both of you. I'm not your precious Dick Dastardly, I am far greater! I'm his twin brother, the Dread Baron!"

"The Dread Baron?" the Racers, Marcie and Jason said, surprised.

The producer shrugged. "Never heard of him."

"If you think my brother was bad, I'm ten times worse," said Dread. "That's why my brother never mentioned me. I'm so mysterious, I'm obscure! That's why none of you ever heard of me."

Marcie crossed her arms, sternly. "Well, we're hearing you, now. Why did you frame the Red Max?"

Dread sneered at her indignation. "Ha! You'll have to do better than that to convince me of saying anything."

"Perhaps," Marcie reasoned. "I may not know why you framed him, but I do know how. You and Max dress in similar military outfits, but with different colors. Somehow, you must have known that the parking lot cameras shot everything in black and white. Wearing your outfit and staying in the shadows, you were counting on the footage capturing enough of your outfit's details, so that no one could tell you from him."

"And it almost worked," she continued. "except for that big helmet you wear. You didn't take it off in time, and it cast a shadow. Because of that shadow, we were able to identify you as the one who was standing next to the Mean Machine in the hotel parking lot, the night before the parade, so when the ghost appeared and incriminated Max with the security footage, the police would have, what they thought was evidence, to the fact."

"Drat. I knew I should have left my Dragoon back at the motel," Dread muttered. "But it's all circumstantial evidence, at best. At least, that's what the lawyers'll say." He countered with a grin, finishing his rebuttal with a blown raspberry in her direction.

Marcie thought for a moment. Dread was actually right. The footage was damning in one way, and circumstantial, in another, but there was a risky trick to get around that.

She left the stage, walked over to Jason, and whispered in his ear. Understanding, Jason slid into a smile and nodded. Then, they both calmly walked back to the ballroom's entrance and open the doors.

Suspicious and not understanding what was transpiring, Dread, followed their movements, feeling his namesake with each foot they closed with the entrance.

Under Big's mighty hand, he asked, aloud, "Where are you two going?"

Marcie called out from the threshold. "You're right, Dread. We can't convince you to say anything."

Jason chimed in. "But, I bet they can!"

The Wacky Racers now understanding the role they were to play in this, gathered menacingly around the table where Dread was still pinned. He looked very nervous.

"We're going to leave, now, and let these fine people ask you why you kidnapped and impersonated Dick, and then, had their friend framed for his apparent death," Marcie said simply.

"Yeah, they look a lot more persuasive that we are," said Jason. "Catch ya later."

The Racers gathered tightly around Dread, and Big Gruesome finally lifted his slab of a hand off of Dread's tortured chest, only to have Little Gruesome hop up on the table, walk over to Dread, and then, stand on his aching torso, giving the trapped human a lethal, hungry grin.

"You Racers sssoften him up," hissed Little, his golden eyes glinting in anticipation. "Then, I'll feeeed!"

The double doors begin to close behind the two teens, as the vengeful crowd prepared to go to town on him.

Then Dread's nerve broke, and he screamed.

"Wait! Wait! It was the doctor!" The mighty Dread howled in fear. "The doctor, blast you! He set it up!"

The doors opened, and the duo entered again. Jason not believing his ears.

"Doctor...Spring?" he asked, almost to himself.

"Yes! Yes!" Dread said, hearing him. "It was all his idea! He approached us with a plan to bring us into the limelight! Take over the Wacky Races! It was brilliant!

"And he didn't ask for any compensation?" Marcie asked, arriving back at the foot of the stage.

"Not at all," said Dread. "Normally, I'd be wary of such foolish altruism, but Mother always said, "Never look a gifted sucker in the mouth.""

"Words to live by," Marcie said dryly. She then turned to see Doctor Spring still sitting in his spot at the table. He hadn't stirred throughout the entire faux-haunting and subsequent capture of Dread.

"You're pretty quiet for someone who's hearing all this," She said to him. "Aren't you going to tell us that Dread is lying through his teeth?"

"Dread is a fool. A fact that everyone here will attest is incontrovertible. Would anything he said matter to me, Miss Fleach?" the doctor asked, simply.

"I suppose not," Marcie answered in kind, before directing her deductions to everyone present. "The Red Max told me that, before he left for Crystal Cove, he was installing what he thought was radio equipment in his car. He also said that, at the parade, someone tried to call him on his car's radio, and when he tried to reply, that was when the Mean Machine exploded."

"And that incriminates me, how, Miss Fleach?" he asked, unperturbed.

"I took the liberty of examining the so-called transmitter Max installed in his car, for myself," Marcie explained. "The color on the top of the device looked slightly different than the rest, and there was a dried substance that came out of the seam that ran along the top. When I analyzed this substance, it turned out to be super glue."

"Super glue?" asked Sergeant Blast. "Are you sure, civilian?"

"Completely," she continued. "The top and bottom of the transmitter were not machined together, because they didn't go together. Someone cut the tops off the real transmitter and detonator, and then glued the transmitter's top on the detonator's bottom, disguising it."

"It still doesn't prove that I had anything to do with what your saying," the doctor said. "I am entertained by this farce, however."

"Then, you're gonna love this," Marcie quipped. "I'm going to prove that you did have everything to do with this, and all with just one word."

"And that word is?"

"Access," she said. "If Dread is telling the truth, and you came to him, you wouldn't be able to offer him help, unless you had the wherewithal to do so, ahead of time. Because you're an employee of Sundial, you secretly used your access to their resources to help build a mock Mean Machine for Dread to pilot."

"Also," she continued. "because the Red Max, the Slag Brothers, and the Ant Hill Mob are all sponsored by Sundial, their cars get special parts from them, and, again, since you work for Sundial, it wouldn't be hard for you to intercept Max's radio parts and tamper with them."

"Plus, when Dread was controlling the Mean Machine that day, he must've been in the crowd, in disguise," Jason reasoned. "If he was, then he could have also made that call to Max, so Max would reply and arm the bomb. And since Dread couldn't possibly do that, unless he knew the Haybaler's frequency, you had to have had access to give him that, too."

"With all of that sabotage," said Marcie. "I suppose it wouldn't have been long before you had all the headlines and publicity you wanted, huh?"

"Hey, when it comes to getting your own TV show, there's no such thing as bad press," Dread opined.

"Is that also when the Drones first came upon the scene?" she added.

"Not really," Dread admitted. "The first time Dick's ghost was seen was at the parade, and we actually used honest-to-goodness magic, then."

"What?" asked Marcie, unbelieving what she heard. "Please."

"On my dishonor as a villain, 'tis true. We have a magician in our ranks who can conjure the most powerful of illusions. He cast such a spell to create our ghost, used to incriminate Red Max, and convince you small-town sheep of Dastardly's destruction."

Marcie put the notion of actual magic, however far-fetched it sounded, aside, and said, "I take it after Doctor Spring found out that Jason and I found those RC parts, he had two of Dick's Turbo Terror Drones modified to disguise themselves as Dastardly's ghost to scare us into giving the parts back and staying out of your way."

"Precisely."

"And your magician couldn't conjure up the ghost at the parade again, because..." Marcie skeptically asked.

"He's could only remember half of the spell, that day. We may have a magician, but I never said he was a good one." Dread said ruefully. "For that, I used my faithful dog, Mumbly, to carry that task out. He was there at SmartyMart, and he was there, the next day, tailing you by bicycle, my dear, during your driving exam, although he admittedly lost you, afterwards."

"I suppose, it wasn't hard to figure out that Doctor Spring had gotten our itineraries from Jason." said Marcie, glancing accusingly at Jason.

"How...How do you know?" Jason sputtered, nervously.

"How could I not?" she said. "You said that you corresponded with Dr. Spring often, and you were the only person who knew where I'd be that day."

Jason, realizing his blunder, bowed his head, thoroughly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Marcie. I didn't know he was a bad guy, then."

"Humph," an annoyed Marcie muttered. "You're just lucky my instructor said that I passed, Jellyfish."

Dread ignored the scene. "Anyway, when scaring didn't work, we decided to use the Drones as red herrings to steer you in the wrong direction. When Mumbly was at SmartyMart, that night, he make sure that Butterball, there, found the Drone."

"Hey!" the boy bristled.

"But, what Jumbo didn't know was that the Drone had a hidden microphone and homing device built in, so, we were able to keep tabs on him. When it looked like he wasn't coming to the conclusion that we wanted, fast enough, we sent Mumbly to his house, so he could activate the Drone in his workshop, replaying the exact same thing he said to him at SmartyMart."

"Yeah," said Jason. "Because of that, I was able to figure out that the ghost was a fake, and since it came from the Drone, we were beginning to think that Dick was alive, somewhere, and siccing his Drones on Marcie and me to cover up his apparently fake death."

"Thus, drawing attention away from us," Dread said, self-satisfied.

"That's true," Marcie concurred. "But, if that was the case, then why attack me that night? I thought that the ghost I saw by the van was fake. Isn't that's what you wanted?"

"Blame it on dear Daisy Mayhem's enthusiasm," Doctor Spring admitted, at last, with a sigh.

He then shifted attention to Dread for a moment, sneering in frustration. "I should have known that you and you crew would bungle everything, given time." He then turned back to Marcie.

"I have to say that I'm quite impressed with your excellent detective work. You managed to successfully force a confession out of that dimwit, over there, and deduce my role in our deception of everyone involved, despite getting side-tracked by our ruse with the Drones. Congratulations, Miss Fleach and Mr. Wyatt. Everything you figured out was true, and we are guilty as charged."

Marcie gave a slight bow to the doctor. "Thank you, Doctor. However, I'm assuming that the only reason you're saying all of this is because you have a way out."

Doctor Spring smiled graciously. "Still the detective, Miss Fleach. Yes, I have a quite a way out, if you will. Besides, even with all of these witnesses hearing what we've just said, in court, it would just be your word against mine. However, before I undo all of this mess, please allow me to finish the tale."

"Mumbly sent the second ghost Drone after you at the impound lot. We knew you were there, because we rigged a silent alarm in the Haybaler if anyone opened its hood. We had thought that our problems were over, when the guard dogs caught you, but you outsmarted them and escaped, so, we trailed you to your home."

"Unfortunately, Daisy's pet pig, Sooey, ran loose and tried to dig up your backyard. I suppose that's what had you running out to find us. When Daisy saw you snooping by the van, she forgot that you was supposed to see Dread, disguised as Dick's ghost, and believe that what you were seeing an illusion, to help cement the idea in your mind that Dick was involved."

"But, unfortunately, because you saw Daisy, we had shown our hand, and had to get rid of you, hence, the deathtrap in the lab, which, clever girl, you managed to escape from."

"I had some help," Marcie admitted smugly.

"How awesome for you," Dread muttered from the table, then turned his attention back to the doctor. "But now that I'm caught, you could, at least, tell me how you knew about what happened with Daisy, Doctor."

"I suggest that you periodically test the loyalty of your people, Dread Baron," said the doctor. "Especially, the four-legged kind."

Dread thought, and then it hit him like a fatal shot. "Mumbly?"

"He was an excellent spy," Spring admitted. "but I do believe his talents are wasted on you."

While Dread lay on the table, more devastated than ever, Doctor Spring glanced Marcie and Jason.

"However, one thing has me concerned," he said. "How did you ever figure out that Dastardly was kidnapped?"

"A hunch, actually," Marcie told him. "If someone seriously wanted to do Dick in, all someone would have to do is put Dick in the car, and then blow the car up. Although the police found DNA evidence from the crime scene, identifying Dick, they didn't find anything larger, like his body parts."

Jason tried to stifle his rising sick at the thought of that.

"That tells me that someone grabbed Dastardly," Marcie continued. "and then collected enough of his DNA from his old racing clothes, hair, skin, and perhaps, even blood, to place inside the Mean Machine, hidden behind newly installed tinted windows, to fool the police into thinking he was killed. But, if you want to know what clinched it for me, Doctor, then I suggest that you periodically test the loyalty of your people. Especially, the four-legged kind." Marcie then said, "Jason?"

Jason went back to the table where his Drone sat. He depressed a button in its rear, and then the lenses, positioned all around its body, lit up.

An image flickered into view of a shaggy, unkempt-looking dog, standing upright in an orange trench coat, looking out at the audience. Through a series of hastily drawn pictures, he provided, followed by raucous-sounding barking and growling play-by-play, this canine told off his discovery of Dastardly's kidnapping.

He communicated that he didn't know where they had kept him, but he knew where their canine group member was, showing a picture of what looked like himself. So, after kidnapping him, the pictures showed, he asked, but got no answers concerning Dick's whereabouts, so he simply impersonated the dog.

Doctor Spring and Dread Baron stared in helpless shock at Mumbly taking off the trench coat, rubbing the fur colored make-up off of his short round ears, and then fluffing them up into their naturally longer, black ones.

That was how the kids knew to ignore the red herring, the thought resonated in the doctor, like a final chord of a dirge. Dastardly's dog was the unseen variable. A hidden soldier in a Trojan Horse of their own making.

Muttley managed to enunciate the word, "Switcheroo," before snickering triumphantly.

"He was an excellent spy, but I do believe his talents are wasted on you," Marcie said, smugly.

Then she walked over to Spring's side of the table, lifted a folded napkin, to uncover her cell phone, and picked it up.

"It's a good thing that I talked to the event coordinator before you came here. She knew where you were going to sit," Marcie said to a genuinely numb Spring. Then she put the phone to her ear. "Did you get all of that, Sheriff?"

Stone's voice begrudgingly came out. "Yeah, I did. Okay, the Red guy's free to go. We're coming over with a cool pair of handcuffs for the Doc and this Dredge guy."

Jason waddled up to the foot of the stage, looking up at a man he once admired.

"Why, Doctor Spring?" he asked, sadly. "You were the leading man in the field of temporal physics. Why lower yourself to this?"

Spring glanced at him. "Why? Why do you think I came here? To check out some idiotic car race, or baby-sit some stupid anachronisms? No! I came here because my people found something huge happening in this town. Something that rewrites the book on what we know about space/time, and it's gonna blow the roof off of the scientific community, when I sell it to my client!"

"Client?" Marcie asked, taken aback. "You mean, you're a datamonger?"

"A what?" asked Peter.

"A datamonger," she explained, with a touch of disgust on her tongue. "Someone who secretly looks for unexplained scientific phenomena, takes their readings, analyzes their data, and then sells it on the scientific black market to the highest bidder, from research firms to mad scientists. The fresher the data, the bigger the payoff."

"Quite so, my dear," Spring said, casually. "In fact, I have a big buyer set up for the information I stole from Sundial. Information and sensory data concerning a possible temporal anomaly developing right here in Crystal Cove. My big score, at last, and none of you are going to ruin it for me!"

Quickly, Spring tapped at his watch, and a sustained, torturously loud beep issued forth, forcing everyone to clap hands over ears to shield from the piercing sound.

He tore from the table, bounded from the stage, and ran, pell-mell towards the double doors.

Turning off the sound generator in his watch, he then grabbed both doorknobs and swung the doors open. What the recovering party on stage saw, surprised them most of all.

A group of people moved past Spring and walked into the ballroom with malicious intent in their eyes.

A sly looking stage magician, his red cape flowing, stately, took point, accompanied by a large, white, big nosed, upright walking rabbit, wearing a suit tailored to his size.

They were followed by what looked to be a small, pale strange-looking family consisting of a fanged, squat, short-statured patriarch with a mop of blond hair obscuring his eyes, along with his wife, a taller, more spindly specimen, clad in a black, form-fitting dress, and sporting an exuberant nose and long, black hair that grew well passed her shoulders, and their son, a smaller version of the father, who had, in tow, with spiked collar and leash, a large, spotted, purple octopus with a disturbingly human-like face, who shuffled past tables, upright, on six of his eight strong tentacles, the last two, twisting eagerly for a deadly embrace, serving as his arms.

Following the family was someone Marcie, frowning, was well acquainted with. Led by the immense, spotted, eye-patched boar, Sooey, his mistress, Daisy Mayhem cockily strutted herself forward.

Bringing up the rear, Spring watched the Dalton Brothers swagger through the parted doors. First, the diminutive brothers, dark-haired Dirty, and blond-haired and similarly named Dastardly Dalton, and closing the roster, the massively built and ironically named Dinky, who stopped in the just accommodating threshold.

The doctor gave a furious sneer at the Racers, Marcie and Jason, and then gave the visitors their only command via Dinky.

"No witnesses," Spring said, then he left the ballroom and future charnel house.

Dinky Dalton gave a dimwitted, murderous giggle in compliance, as his huge hands slowly closed, and gently locked, the doors. He turned his too-huge-for-his-Stetsoned head towards the stage, his eyes, hidden under the pulled-down brim, locking on to his victims.

Stomping past tables and jingling silverware with every step, he reached his comrades and cracked his knuckles, making a sound reminiscent of bricks being crushed under a steamroller.

"Who are you guys?" the producer spoke up.

Dread, catching Little off-guard and pushing him aside, slipped down off the stage before Big could catch him again, and stood in the center of his crew, announcing with dark pride, "We're the Really Rottens, and we're going to stomp a mudhole in you."