Chapter 2: Salem
Cameras and microphones peppered the streets, which was completely foreign to the residents of Caribou. Reporters, journalists, everyone had congregated in the main street, awaiting for the arrival of the racers, who gradually began to trickle in.
A cluster of journalists were off by themselves, twittering wildly. The unsung South Dakota newspaper they wrote for, the Black Hills Pioneer, had sent them here in an attempt to gain at least a small amount of publicity. It would mean living out of a suitcase for months, but the return of the Wacky Racers was well worth the while.
Leading the discussion seemed to be a fair-haired woman, peering haughtily down her nose as if she stood a few feet above everyone else. "They're due here at 10 o'clock. So where are they?" She paced back and forth, nerves on edge. Her movements were catlike, the way a tiger moves when stalking, ready to pounce.
"Not here, I guess, Mrs. March." Jack Harris, a lanky boy about half her age grunted, with his hands in his pockets. He had put his notebook down and was leaning against a building with a broad grin spreading across his face. The woman seethed, and the boy jumped to correct himself. "Mrs. Mar-shaaaaaay." His exaggerated attempt at pronunciation set the rest of the group into fits of laughter.
The woman, Bonnie Marché, was a stickler about this simple thing, but this boy enjoyed nothing more than getting a rise out of her. "Mr. Harris, maybe once you have mastered my name, you can work on your writing skills. God knows you need to. Julia, what time do you have on your watch?"
Little colored lights flickered up across their faces. Julia Reingold was dressed to the nines, dripping with jewelry, rings on most of her fingers, her throat graced by multiple necklaces. "Six fourteen AM," she chirped.
"Pardon?" Bonnie was in no mood for joking, but Julia was the only one of the group she actually got along with. "My watch says eight seventeen."
Julia stood in silence for a moment with a confused expression. "Whoops! Forgot to change the time. We went across some time zones, didn't we?"
"That was brilliant," giggled a voice. Laurel Abbey, the girl who spoke this time was short , and rather plump. Red corkscrew curls fell to her round chin, and she glanced up at the taller girl standing next to her. This girl olive-skinned and hiding behind her glasses, grinned silently back, and laughed as well.
Although she looked impatient and irritable, Bonnie said nothing more than, "Did everyone else remember to set their watch forward two hours?" The heads nodded, and Laurel looked up to the taller girl again.
"This had better be a hell of a lot more interesting than that Rapid City flood thing we had to write about last time."
"It will be. I've always wanted to see the whole country."
"Colette DesCroix, why am I not surprised? Remember when you told me you were going to travel around the world once you got out of college?"
Colette smiled darkly, and she pushed a layer of brown hair out of her eyes. "I know. I would have done it if I had the money."
Not that Laurel wasn't interested in Colette's plans for travelling the world, she just had other things on her mind. "Hey, you will get to see America. And who knows, we might even get ourselves knocked up."
Leave it to Laurel to focus on the sexual. "Do you have to turn everything into something nasty?"
"It's a living."
"No, photography is your living!" Colette's efforts were having little effect on Laurel's one-track mind.
"Come on, when was the last time you were in a serious relationship?"
"Don't act like you don't remember." Colette seemed to be put on edge by the new direction the conversation was taking. "You don't miss a chance to remind me of it other times. Can we talk about something else now?"
"Seriously, we need to get out more. Meet some members of the opposite sex?" Laurel licked her lips, eyes widening with possibility.
"Members of the opposite sex? If I know you, you just want members!" Colette giggled again, and received a playful jab in the ribs from Laurel.
"Bitch!" By now, Laurel was laughing hysterically as well. With one look at Bonnie's sternly raised eyebrows, Laurel and Colette quieted down. They hoped Bonnie hadn't said anything terribly important while they were off in their own world, and from the sound of it, they hadn't missed much.
Just to be sure, Laurel tapped the girl next to her on the arm. "Hey- - Ashleigh. What's she been going on about?"
Slender Ashleigh Blackbyrne peered down at Laurel. In a wispy voice, the answer came, "Nothing, just how slow everything's moving and her husband is boring, but at least taxes are low and it isn't snowing." Ashleigh smiled shyly. She looked like a skeleton, pale skin stretched across bone. Straight black hair streamed down her back. Although she spoke little, she was somewhat of an ally to Laurel and Colette.
By 9 o'clock, more than half the racers had arrived, and were trying their best to avoid the microphones and flashing cameras. They had reached safety in the lobby of the Caribou Inn, where they were mingling around a long buffet table. The hotel manager sat at his desk, wondering how it was possible to get the entire group rounded up again.
It certainly wasn't an easy task, but each of them was finally tracked down. The Slag brothers seemed mesmerized by the amount of food in one place, and ran off with whatever they wanted, chanting all the while. Apart from them, every one else was buzzing with banter; where they had been, what they had done, and what brought them back.
Penelope strode elegantly in through the glass doors, looking unachievably perfect. She didn't seem at all fazed by the clamor outside, simply running her fingers through her hair and beaming. "Hi thayer!" she called out. Every head in the lobby turned, all eyes on her, just the way she liked it.
From left to right and back again, she scanned the room and sure enough, she spotted Peter Perfect standing by the far end of the table, popping chocolate covered strawberries into his mouth. "Oh Peter!" she stood next to him, grinning.
A pair of burly hands grasped a buttered croissant. In three bites, Rufus Ruffcut was finished with it and looking for more. He was also looking for Sawtooth, who had gone missing shortly after they got inside. Rufus's plan had been to hide Sawtooth, who wasn't actually allowed in the Inn, but he had hidden Sawtooth too well. Then he heard the noise.
Casually bending down, he peeked under the tablecloth. The Ant Hill Mob was sitting in a circle with a pile of food in the middle. At the sight of Rufus, Clyde looked irritated. Before Clyde could say anything, Rufus grunted, "Sorry," and moved farther down the table.
"Sawtooth!" The beaver stopped his work, with one table leg chewed nearly in half. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you? Well if you stop now, maybe no one will notice." It was possible; the tablecloth did cover the damage, and nothing heavy was on that end of the table.
In the far corner, Dick Dastardly stood next to Sergeant Blast. Although they really weren't together, Blast was feeling affable, which wasn't something that happened terribly often. "Dastardly," he muttered in his emotionless, military fashion.
"Blast." They paused, and looked at each other. It was difficult to say whether they were smiling or frowning, but for a brief moment, something passed between them.
"Good luck to you," Sarge grunted, speaking more through his nose than his mouth. Before Dick could respond, not that Blast truly expected him to, Sarge set off in search of Meekly, who had disappeared somewhere. Dick was left leaning against the wall, thoughtful. In the way people often do when they concentrate on something to intensely for too long, even Dick had to wonder whether his ruthless efforts to win were worth the trouble. He remembered being told before that if he would just race, he would come out ahead of the pack for sure. That quickly, he forced the thought from his mind, not wanting to think about it anymore. It wasn't as if he would ever see her again, anyway.
Nine-thirty. The crowds were becoming increasingly anxious, and on the side of the street opposite the hotel, throngs of people were standing at the side of the street, counting down. The racers were anxious as well, ready for their departure except one. For at that moment, a few miles outside of Caribou, he awoke slowly, gradually regaining consciousness.
"Vhat time ees it?" The Red Max put a hand on his forehead, still feeling somewhat off center. When he saw the time for himself, he jumped up, quickly pulled on his boots again and grabbed his things, and hurriedly went on his way to check out.
By now, the racers were beginning to drift out of the reception at the Inn and out to their cars. Muttley was already out there, leaning up against the Mean Machine, pouting sourly at the Inn. That was where he wanted to go, but of course, he was not allowed. The fact that Sawtooth had gone in just added to it, but Blubber at least had to stay outside.
Peter and Penelope came out together, looking as though they had never been apart. They spoke in a whispered hush, sharing a chuckle every few moments. The Ant Hill Mob shuffled out from the hotel, looking over their shoulders as if they were being followed, and Sarge and Meekly came parading out to the Surplus Six in step.
The Black Hills Pioneer journalists still stood in the street several meters back from the starting line. They were quiet now, tired from the wait. They then glanced back in the opposite direction from that which the race would soon take when they heard a sort of droning sound followed by an occasional, but booming thud. In the distance, an incredible red spot was difficult to miss. Propeller whirring and all, the Red Max was on his way to the starting line in a hasty, but not exactly controlled, fashion.
Colette and Laurel were still absorbed by their conversation of men, college, and men in college, they shared a strange look when the other journalists scattered like pigeons. "Colette!" Laurel shrieked at the sight of the Crimson Haybailer coming from behind them.
The two made a dash for the edge of the street. When Max had passed them, Colette and Laurel scowled after him. "You'd think he could control that thing by now," Colette whispered, trying to catch her breath.
Clearly trying to slow down and stop before reaching the starting line, Max slammed on the brakes, and the Haybailer reared up. Airborne again, Max searched for a spot to land, which looked as if it might be on top of the Army Surplus Special. Sarge looked up seeing the shadow, and quickly pulled Meekly away, dragging him to the edge of the street. With a squealing of brakes and a final bang, the Crimson Haybailer came to a halt a few feet from the Surplus Six.
Beads of sweat ran down Max's temples as he tried to recover from the struggle. Secretly, Max wished he could go home; the airplanes he flew there were far more dependable. "Easy, the race hasn't started yet!" Max looked over to see Peter Perfect standing next to him, smiling warmly. Max smiled back, still regaining his composure. "Are you alright?"
Max nodded shakily, softly answering, "Ja."
"Good luck to you, by the way," Peter added before heading back to Penelope. Max wanted to answer back, but he was still calming down from his frenetic arrival. It did provide him with a certain amount of comfort knowing that at least one person thought nothing of it.
Not that that had any effect on Sarge, who could no longer control his temper. He had never been fond of Max; they were always pitted against each other in races, of course, but on another level, it was personal.
"If we weren't starting a race in ten minutes" Sarge was ready to go off on a rant, but Meekly tried his best to hold him back.
"Sarge "
"War's over. And yet around you go, still trying to wipe all us damn Amerikaners off the face of the earth" Sarge spat the word Amerikaners' out menacingly, and stormed off, leaving Max with a confused expression on his face.
"Sorry about that. He reads these World War II comics, and he'll get over it." Meekly's short notice apology got a hint of a smile out of Max.
"Goot luck to you," Max wanted to extend the olive branch, and Meekly seemed pleased to accept it. With a tip of his hat, Meekly turned and strode back to the Surplus Six where Sarge was waiting. By now, Max's heartbeat had returned to normal, and he was looking around to see if all the others had shown up.
Asleep on the rocking chair that was the Arkansas Chug-a-bug's seat, Luke didn't seem bothered by the fact that he would need to be at least conscious to drive. His large breakfast had left him full to bursting, and Blubber knew better than to try to wake him.
The Gruesome Twosome were very much awake, and so were the Slag brothers. Kneeling behind the Convert-a-Car, Pat Pending adjusted his new license plate, marked "I N VENT." Once satisfied, he rose to his feet and got into the car. He looked at his watch, which also functioned as a compass, as well as his key to the Convert-a-Car. "Six minutes left" Pat whispered to himself.
At the end of the line, Dick Dastardly was sitting bolt upright, hands resting on the steering wheel, ignoring the racket that Muttley was making as long as he could. "Muttley! What the hell is wrong with you?" Muttley whined, dragging some chain out of the back seat. Dick thought for a moment, then understood. "Ahh, I see. You want to chain the racers to something, hmmm?"
"Yeah yeah yeah." Muttley growled appreciatively, feeling as though he had finally done something right.
"Muttley, remember just how much that didn't help us? For God's sake, we tried it enough times, and just see all the good it did us. Give it a rest." The growls of agreement stopped. What had happened? Muttley was dumbfounded, wondering what had come over his master. He let the chains fall, and then let himself fall into the backseat. "Stop sniveling. All we need to do is think outside the box." Dick wasn't entirely certain what that meant, but he assured himself that it would come to him.
"I better go back to my car," Penelope whispered to Peter, knowing that time was short.
"All right, good luck, my dear. I will see you in Salem, then?"
Penelope had been staring straight ahead, but turned to Peter and smiled, gently pushing some strands of blonde hair out of her eyes. "Guess you will," she answered, placing a hand on his shoulder. She leaned close to him, as if she were planning to steal a kiss from him but slowly, she pulled back, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and pranced off to the Compact Pussycat. Peter looked slightly disappointed, but shrugged it off gracefully. The race hadn't even started yet. There was plenty of time for her.
The chatter of the spectators on the sidelines seemed to die down, and a man with a microphone motioned with his arms for silence. No one knew who he was just by looking at him; no one knew his name. These pieces of knowledge were trivial. He was known for his voice. "And now, here they are!" He began, introducing the racers with the same penchant as he always had.
By the time he reached the Creepy Coupe, anyone there scarcely breathed. This was it. "and away they go, on the way out Wacky Races!" With that, he raised a small handgun into the air and fired. Feet sank on gas pedals, and the racers went blasting off down the road to the echoes of the cheering crowd. Well, ten of them did.
Still sitting at the starting line was the Arkansas Chug-a-bug, where Blubber had had enough of Luke's unwillingness to wake up. If a gunshot didn't wake him, was he even still alive? The thought of that was too much for Blubber, who dumped Luke out of the rocking chair and onto the road.
That worked. In a moment, Luke was on his feet, giving Blubber an ornery glare. "If'n you try that one mo' again, I'ma gon' slap you so hard, your clothes will be outta style!" Blubber turned away from Luke, not out of shame as much as out of needing to get the laughter out. When Luke was angry, a colorful southern spiel of insults would be hurled from his mouth, which would spice up any situation. By now, Luke and Blubber were both situated on the rocker, and although a fair bit behind, they were in the running.
Meanwhile, Bonnie Marché was in the process of hurriedly rounding up her journalists into her spotless black van. Jack, who was leaning against the van, protested. "Mrs. Marsh Marché, um they'll still beat us to Salem."
Bonnie looked irritated. "No, we'll overtake them in the home stretch," she snarled sarcastically.
Jack looked interested. "Your van can go that fast? Could I put on roller blades and tie a rope to the back of the car and"
Absentmindedly, Julie laughed sending flashes of jewelry into Jack's eyes. Without bothering to listen to all of Jack's idea, Bonnie stepped in. "We're going on a shorter road, you smartass!" The remark slid off Jack easily, and the idea was now even more appealing to him. He decided to try asking again some other time when Bonnie was feeling slightly less anal.
To Luke and Blubber, the trailing racers ahead of them could be seen as tiny flecks on the horizon, and were easy to spot amidst the trees and rocky rural landscape. They moved at a good clip, late start and all, especially considering what the Chug-a-bug's boiler had been used for in its retreat from racing. Luke's feet rested on the steering wheel, and he didn't seem to be at all bothered by the fact that the Chug-a-bug was hitting every bit of debris in the road, which made for a very bumpy ride.
Even when the Chug-a-bug came to a fork in the road, it was no problem choosing the right way. Two thin parallel grooves dug into the road were left behind by the Buzz Wagon. Rufus and Sawtooth sat contentedly in the second place, as everyone desperately trying to catch them followed the grooves in the road.
As usual, Dick Dastardly and Muttley took an early lead, and were now sailing to Salem. Muttley stared glumly out the window and sighed, leaving a misty ring on the glass. Dick picked up on Muttley's frustrated boredom. "What's the matter now?" Muttley whined again, staring pathetically at the chains he had dropped in the backseat and left there before.
Dick looked into the rearview mirror carefully to keep the afternoon sun out of his eyes, and was unable to see hide nor hair of the other racers. Slowing to a stop, he turned and looked at Muttley. "All right, you want to make yourself useful?" Muttley's droopy ears pricked up a bit. Dick raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's a nice change." Silently looking around, Dick waited for inspiration to strike him. Sure enough, it did.
He jumped out of the Double-Zero and Muttley followed, which was odd: the dog had shown more obedience in the past ten minutes than he had shown his entire life. A bridge passed over the road the racers were taking, and it went on and on in both directions. It was held up by bare steel girders on the sides of the road, and these were so close together that driving between them would be impossible. "There is no way the racers could get past a pile of rocks in the road under the bridge. They'll sit here all day trying to figure out a way to get through!"
Quickly, the two piled up the rocks as high as they could, and held back a moment to admire their work. Their structure wasn't very tall, only about four and a half feet or so, but it was strong. They didn't have much time to rest, as a grinding sound could be heard from behind them. "Here they come! Muttley hold on. Where did we leave the car?"
Muttley yelped nervously, seeing the problem. He looked back, and the Mean Machine was still sitting on the shoulder of the road where they had left it. Dick slapped a hand to his forehead. "I can't believe it! Every time!" The two dashed back to the car hoping they could at least find a way around before the Buzz Wagon gained too much ground on them.
No such luck. The two cars reached the blockade at more or less the same time, and hustled off in opposite directions trying to find a way around. A thundering sound shattered the short-lived quiet around the bridge. Sarge was perched at the top of the Surplus Six, and noticed the rocks. "Let's gooo!" Sarge barked down at Meekly, who sped up accordingly, and rolled right over the rocks, knocking many between the girders and out of the way. The other racers trailing them blasted through the opening like a leak in a bottle, but the Surplus Six had gained considerable ground.
Nothing would stop Sarge and Meekly now. They were on a roll, so to speak, and even the hardened Ant Hill Mob edged off to the side of the road so the determined Surplus Six could pass them, with the Convert-a-Car close behind. Pat Pending wanted to be the first to leave his mark on the circuit, so he gave it all he had. Deciding that flying would be faster than driving, in addition to giving him room to pass the Surplus Six, Pat morphed the Convert-a-Car into its outlandish aircraft form, and took to the air.
As he took off, one of the Convert-a-Car's wheels knocked against the roof of the Bullet-Proof Bomb in an attempt to pass it, and the Convert-a-Car swerved downward to the road again, lurching forward unsteadily. That easily, victory belonged to the Surplus Six, who crossed the line first, abruptly, but awkwardly followed by the Convert-a-Car, and the Bullet-Proof Bomb roared in third. The rest of the cars poured in after them, and the race to Salem was over.
The Army Surplus Special: 10
The Convert-a-Car: 6
The Bullet-Proof Bomb: 4
The Mean Machine: 1
The Bouldermobile: 1
The Creepy Coupe: 1
The Crimson Haybailer: 1
The Compact Pussycat: 1
The Arkansas Chug-a-bug: 1
The Turbo Terrific: 1
The Buzz Wagon: 1