Chapter 4: Waterloo
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The hotel in Burlington was far grander than the one in Salem. All the extra space allowed the racers to have their dinner inside instead of out. Pat Pending was beaming, still pleased with himself over his victories so far. Equally pleased with themselves were Peter Perfect, the second place winner, and Rufus Ruffcut, who came in third.
Peter was especially proud; Penelope seemed to be his biggest enthusiast. She was sitting with him at a table for two, as usual. As they made their way to the hotel, cameras had flashed on them at least as often as Pat Pending; possibly more. The on and off romance between them had been on the lips of every devotee of the races, and it looked as if that would be the case this time around as well.
Sitting alone at a table in the corner was Dick Dastardly, unsure of exactly what his reaction to the race was. "I wasn't last," kept running through his head. That was a small victory, but it was something. This would be a shock to everyone — the fact that he was backing away from his typical underhanded approach. But he was sure that, although he had never wanted to admit it, this was the path to a place in the winner's circle. "She was right all along," he admitted to himself again, sheepishly. "I wonder where she is now."
When dinner was over, the racers left for their rooms. This routine was difficult for the Slag brothers to get used to again; they missed the freedom of their cave. After their departure from a room, its restoration became a full-time job. Luke was plagued by a similar problem. Sleeping in an actual "bed" was an unheard of concept. His custom was sleeping wherever he fell, usually on the porch or under a tree outside.
Peter and Penelope strode arm in arm to their neighboring rooms. They leaned against the wall and watched the others file past. Once the halls were still and empty, Penelope spoke in a musical whisper. "Ya'll did good today, Peter."
"Thanks. I didn't find out I placed until someone told me. It was close." Peter was quiet for a moment, then a thought struck him. "Did you see Dick Dastardly?"
Penelope considered, then shook her head. "No, I didn't notice him. Why?"
"Do you think he's planning something big? You know it almost seemed like he didn't try anything all day."
Although she wasn't terribly interested in Dick Dastardly's racing techniques, she listened to Peter anyway. "He could be. But don't worry your lil' ol' self a whit" when she tried to comfort Peter, Penelope let her southern accent come out. "because I'll always be thayer." By now she was practically whispering in his ear. Leaning closer, she kissed his cheek airily. Peter grinned and returned the kiss to her. With that, they beamed, and went their separate ways. Saying goodbye would have been unnecessary. Both understood the message perfectly.
Morning came quickly, but every driver was able to get up as if they had become immune to the grogginess of the early hours from the last race. Breakfast was nearly nonexistent, only enough to be going on with. No one, with the exception of Rock and Gravel, was starving.
Although every one of them was overjoyed to be back on the racetrack, it had almost seemed too much too soon, and they were worn out. Fortunately, this was their third race, and after the fourth, they would get a couple of days to relax.
Everyone was excited about the race in spite of their fatigue, everyone except Muttley. Dick Dastardly had gotten into the Mean Machine with every intention of racing honestly, and Muttley was still stubbornly disapproving. Win or lose, Muttley wanted to set traps, put up detour signs, let the air out of tires. To him, that was what racing had always been. It had nothing to do with fast cars and everything to do with dirty tricks.
Stealthily, Muttley crept out of the Mean Machine, an idea coming to him. The race was set to start in a few minutes, and the other racers were all in their cars, engines humming. This was a perfect opportunity to pull something, and Muttley quickly tried to think of something to do. And it came to him. His sharp teeth sank into the tough rubber of one of the Mean Machine's tires, and after several snaps, the tire began to sag. Muttley jumped back into the car, his deed done.
To him, it didn't matter whose tires he flattened, or whose car he sabotaged, so long as there was sabotaging to be done. After all, if someone tried such a trick on Dastardly himself, wouldn't he retaliate and be up to his old tricks again? Muttley certainly hoped so.
The gun went off, and so did the other racers, but the Mean Machine's engine just roared furiously. The hair on Dick's neck bristled. Somehow, he knew what was wrong, but as always, was in denial. He jumped out of the car, and saw the flat, trying to imagine what could have caused it. Muttley, all-knowing Muttley, sat in the front seat, pleased with himself. "Hsss-ss-ssss-ssss!" he hissed, tongue hanging out over his bottom lip, as he pressed his nose up against the glass of the window and watched Dick change the tire.
It was every man for himself in the races, come hell or high water. Getting a flat tire or getting caught in any other car problem was just something to be dealt with as if it was part of the race. Once the tire was finally changed, Dick and Muttley were on the road. Muttley was alert and hopeful, assuring himself that Dick would try something in order to slow down the leaders. It was his nature; he would just have to.
Meanwhile, Penelope Pitstop was busy taking an early lead. Pat Pending had fought stubbornly with her for it, but in the end she began to edge ahead. She held a comfortable lead, far ahead of the others. "Best be doing my face. I have to look good in the photos of me in the winners' circle." She shuffled through various colors of nail polish, examining each. "Let's see should I choose Scarlet Passion, or Sultry Sunset?"
No one was clearly in second; the rest of the racers were in a cluster about half a mile behind Penelope, and Dick Dastardly was in a distant last place. The Creepy Coupe seemed to be closest to the front, Dragon power was serving them well for a while. The Dragon's wing beats came slower and slower until they stopped altogether and the Creepy Coupe slowed to a crawl. A stream of racers shot past them, and Little Gruesome looked angrily up at the Dragon. "Lazy beast. So much for lucky candles!"
"A séance to settle your nerves?" Big Gruesome suggested, hopefully.
"No. That would take too long. Let's just get back in the race" Little Gruesome mumbled something about potions and dragon's blood, then pushed down on the gas pedal.
Far ahead of the Gruesome Twosome, Rug-Bug-Benny sat attentively at the wheel of the Bullet-Proof Bomb. The other six members of the Ant Hill Mob were slouching in their seats, exhausted from all the driving the past few days had involved. They took turns driving, so each of them only had to drive one leg of the race in a row. Still, it did wear on them. "Ey, Benny. How much farther to Waterloo?" Clyde demanded from the back of the car.
"I dunno, boss."
Kurby looked at the map. "Uhh Foity-five minutes?"
Closing his eyes, Clyde reclined in his seat. "Good. I'z getting tired of drivin'."
Also tired of driving, Dick Dastardly sank back in his seat, sullenly staring straight ahead. The Creepy Coupe was now visible on the horizon, and Dick felt a sense of pride for overcoming the great distance that had built up between him and the others.
Muttley looked pleased with himself, and was sure that Dick would create some sort of bizarre scheme to get ahead of the Creepy Coupe. Whether the wheels were turning or not, Dick didn't appear to be concocting anything. He was stolid, immovable. Frustrated by the lack of attention he was getting, Muttley whined, increasing in volume.
As hard as Muttley was trying to garner Dick's attention, Dick was trying all the harder to ignore it. By the time Muttley was practically howling, Dick glanced down at him. "What is it, Muttley?" he snarled, becoming impatient with Muttley's protesting.
Again, Muttley looked out the front window at the Creepy Coupe, which was becoming gradually closer. After some wheezy laughter, Muttley looked to Dick for approval. "You just don't understand, do you? I want to try something just as much as you do, but it did us no good. I've told you that a thousand times. The only way to be sure to win is to eliminate all the others, but we could never even do that." He paused, eyes narrowing. Leaning back, recumbent in his seat, the Double Zero shot past the Creepy Coupe.
"Besides, that was just one more thing Colette couldn't stand about me."
Still up in front, Penelope Pitstop was blissfully picturing herself signing autographs and getting her picture taken for the cover of scads of newspapers. The amount of time she had spent there had ended her concern for where the other racers were. Her followers had remained more or less in a cluster some distance back, although one would pull ahead from time to time. This was what was happening again.
For the most part, second place seemed to have been held by the Slag Brothers since the Creepy Coupe had dropped so far back. Nonetheless, the Crimson Haybailer abruptly came blasting past them, as if out of thin air. In a way, that was the case, as the Red Max had managed to leave himself enough room to get over them and assume second place.
Max considered continuing his flight to the lead, but after a glance over his shoulder, decided against it. Although lost in the sea of followers, Sarge stared up at him, steely eyed, from the top of the Surplus Six. Keeping that in mind, Max was not willing to attempt to fly into the lead if it meant running the risk of getting his tail shot off. A maladroit, but harmless landing secured him in second place, only a few feet behind Penelope.
Only once he had regained his balance did Max take notice of Penelope. Like every other man on the racecourse, Max was not immune to her feminine charm. In the early days of the races in 1968, before Peter Perfect unofficially claimed Penelope as his, Max had spoken with her, shy though he was. What particularly struck him now was that what had motivated him to speak solely to her at first was the fact that she seemed far less intimidating than anyone else.
His aim was to project an image of being worldly-wise, when Max was somewhat naïve in truth. He knew the evils war and hatred could cause, but he had never seen their effects with his own eyes. His instincts told him about women, but he had never before acted on them. He was chaste in mind and body, and that was what directed him to Penelope, who seemed just as innocent as he did.
At the time, although their relationship remained strictly platonic, Max secretly wanted it to become more than that. Before that could happen, they started to grow apart. It seemed as if over night, they were suddenly perfect strangers. Max never fully understood the cause of it, but it seemed that the more she changed, the more he stayed the same. By the end of two years, she was no longer the wholesome country girl she had once been. She had become street-smart and manipulative, even if it was still masked by the sweet face of a Tennessee girl.
Now that they were not even companions anymore, he could have hidden feelings for her, and he certainly did. Instead of only seeing her as a comfortable sister-figure, he could focus on her appearance, and everything that made her attractive in a new way. Part of the attraction lay in her unavailability, as she and Peter were still an on-and-off item.
Years earlier, he had being prepping himself to say something to her about making the transition beyond friendship, but Peter Perfect had beaten him to it. Max regretted his halting cowardice, but had to admit that there was little he could do about it now.
Penelope, on the other hand, was not so affected by their brief amity. She vaguely remembered it as she noticed the Crimson Haybailer in her rearview mirror, but didn't give it a second thought. To her, men were no longer "friends." Those she paid attention to fell into two categories: lovers and losers. As Max was neither in her mind, she gave him little thought. Peter was a lover, to put it simply. During their time apart, he was out of sight and therefore out of mind. That was no matter; she found one replacement after another. That was apparently quite unknown to Peter, and if it wasn't, it was irrelevant.
Changes had ended a romance between Max and Penelope before it started, but Max never lost hope that that could change. Even though he was drawn in by her allure, he was in a race right then, and had to put that first. By now, he was right behind Penelope, and would have to drop back if he wanted to get ahead.
Lessening the pressure he applied on the gas, Max began to drop back. As he did, a car or two passed him, and slipped into the gap he was creating to use as a runway. Max's eyes widened, as he now found himself in fourth place suddenly. "Vhat? It vork so vell ze forst time," he sighed, trying to maneuver back up, but was having difficulty doing so.
While Max fought to regain his position farther back, a very diverted Ant Hill Mob had wound up in second place, and managed to squeak past Penelope. With the exception of the driver, the mobsters were either asleep or semi-conscious from the tedious driving. A bump on the road jostled them around, and all closed eyes popped open for a second, then half-shut again. But Rug-Bug-Benny remained vigilant.
"Ey, Benny. How much farther to Waterloo?" Clyde demanded again.
Again, everyone heard the crackle of Kurby fussing with the map. "Foity-five minutes?"
"Yous said that an hour ago," Clyde spat at him, looking annoyed. The mob was quiet for quite some time, thinking, dozing, wishing the trip was over at the promise of a rest stop.
Only Rug-Bug-Benny remained alert, and after hearing nothing but the hum of the engine for ages, he spoke. "Okay, yous have to choose. Eithuh yous take some real dull rusty scissuhs, and yous cut off yuh bottom lip. Yous cut and cut until it's off. Bottom lip. Gone. Or yous have to kiss one of the othuh mugs in here. Wuddaya choose? Yous have to choose!"
The mob was still silent, not so much out of interest as out of surprise. Never before had Rug-Bug-Benny said so much at one time. "That musta been buildin' up fuh years," Willy whispered to Mac. Then, Willy spoke to the whole group. "Yous mugs is my gang. But I couldn't ey, Benny. Would somebody be dere to bandage up the lip?"
Rug-Bug-Benny thought about it, then answered, "Dere would be a medical expert, yes."
"Which uthuh mug in here?"
"It don't matter."
Willy, Danny, and Kurby looked at each other and nodded. Danny spoke for the three. "Well, wez guess wez gonna have to go lip."
Willy picked up from there. "Wuh bou' yous, Clyde? Kiss or lip?"
"Gotta be lip. The thought of kissing yous mugs Ring-a-Ding, whaddaya doing'?"
Ring-a-Ding was digging around between the cushions in the back seat. "Tryin' to find the scissuhs."
"Yous don't have to do it, really." Danny reminded him. Ring-a-Ding looked relieved, and the mob gave Mac an encouraging look.
In the corner of the back seat, Mac was contemplating the decision. I can't give up my lip, but I don't want dem to think I'm euh "I'z gonna go lip, too."
Liar, each of the other mobsters thought silently. They had been wrapped up in their peculiar conversation, that nothing else was given much thought, until now. "Look Benny. Izat the finish line?" Kurby asked, pointing.
Clyde and Benny followed the direction of Kurby's finger, and it certainly was the finish line. Ring-a-Ding looked out the back window and saw the distant silhouettes of a few vehicles, but they were so far back that not one would be able to catch them. Sure enough, they couldn't, and the Ant Hill Mob crossed the finish line first.
Second in line was Penelope Pitstop, still followed by the Red Max. Max knew the finish line was not far away, and reminded himself that if he could get in front of Penelope, he might have a chance. The Compact Pussycat took up most of the road, as Penelope had taken to driving right in the center. If the Crimson Haybailer didn't have its wings, there would be room to drive past. Flying over her was possible, but that would mean slowing down so there was room to take off.
With a certain amount of apprehension, Max braked, slowing the Haybailer down enough for him to attempt a take off. He was at the ready, all set to push down on the gas pedal. In an attempt to soothe his pounding heart, Max took a deep breath, then looked ahead again. Those short seconds had been just enough time for the Arkansas Chug-a-Bug to squeeze past him. Luke was reclining on the rocker, feet on the steering wheel, not showing any sort of concern as to what was going on.
Blubber whimpered and poked Luke in the shoulder, but Luke was in his own dimension. He gave the wheel a nudge with his right foot and was side by side with Penelope. Reaching an arm back listlessly, Luke searched for a cord attached to the Chug-a-Bug's boiler. Finding it, he gave it a tug, steam spurted out of the boiler, and the Chug-a-Bug spluttered and lurched forward. By the time they reached the finish line, the Chug-a-Bug was a full car length ahead of Penelope, making them the second and third place winners. Another race was over.
Hours after the race ended, Bonnie and the Black Hills Pioneer journalists sat in her van under a darkened sky. "So you've all worked out who you're going to interview?" The heads bobbed up and down, and Bonnie relaxed tense muscles. "Good. See you later," she continued without looking up again. The five journalists got out of the van and filed into the Waterloo hotel where the racers were staying.
"Are you sure you want to do this? I could trade you if you want," Laurel whispered to Colette.
Filled with determination, Colette nodded. "I have to do it. I got fourth choice, so I have to take what I got. And I think it would do Dick good to see where I am now."
Laurel tossed her curls from side to side. "Yeah, and Ashleigh definitely has it worst!"
In the lobby, there were several small groups of journalists, which allowed the Black Hills Pioneer journalists to breathe a sigh of relief. This was nothing like the jungle of cameras and reporters like they had seen at the winner's circle. The crowd was gradually thinning, and each of the five Black Hills Pioneer journalists to begin their interviews.
Ashleigh whipped a pen out from behind her ear. "Lucky me, three teams to interview." Gathering her thoughts together, she searched for the Gruesome Twosome.
Across the room, Jack and Luke stood face to face. Jack was unsure how to start. The two had greeted each other, but not another word had been spoken. Luke was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a childlike grin on his face, as if he just wanted a casual conversation. "So, how"
"Hey there, we've howdied, but we hain't shook yet. Whadda folks call yer?"
Jack looked confused, but told Luke his name. "And what does folks call you?" He asked in return.
"Folks calls me Luke James."
"Luke James is that it?" Jack asked.
"That's all. I don' have no idear why I gots two farst names but no las' name."
"So, Luke, you placed second in today's race, even though you have some of the wordshuh?" Jack was reading the question off his hand, and had done a poor job of writing it down. "Oh, worst odds to win overall. What do you have to say to that?"
"Don' make me no never mand what them folks say. Even a blind hog finds a acorn once in a while," Luke twanged back in what seemed to be one long sentence. Jack took no insult, as there was no venom in his words. When his monologue was finished, the two laughed, and picked up with questions again.
"This has nothing to do with anything, but do you think Pat Pending would mind me interviewing him too?"
"Gawd, no. He my pal. Come wi' me, we gon' go fand im." Luke grabbed Jack's wrist and led him in Pat's directing. Even when carried only by his own two feet, Luke still moved at a steady, leisurely gait.
Piling up all the courage within her, Colette knew what lay ahead of her. His back was facing her, but Colette was all too familiar with Dick Dastardly. She was nervous, but ready to stop running away. She gave Dick a tap on the shoulder, and with a whirl of his long coat, he turned, only to find himself face to face with his last and only ex-girlfriend.
His jaw dropped against his will, but he didn't want her to know just how surprised he was at her arrival. "Colette. Long time no see," he commented in an oily voice. He wanted to come across as the same man she knew; by no means would he admit that he was taking her last advice to him.
"I see you've changed a lot," Colette snapped, sarcastically, taking in his appearance and presence.
"So have you," Dick answered back in the same tone as he looked her up and down. "But I never thought you would seriously become a journalist."
Colette felt her old wounds being opened again, freeing the fire that they held captive. "I know why I left you, and that was one of the reasons. You never thought I could be my own person."
"You needed me. You wouldn't have gotten through college if I hadn't been there!"
"I needed you? I needed you to leave me alone, if that's what you mean. You weren't my master."
"Whore," he muttered under his breath. Colette was speechless, unable to one-up him.
"This is an interview. It has nothing to do with us in the past, and everything to do with you right now. Can we just get on with it please?"
"Fine, sure, whatever you say, Collie." He answered defensively, flinging his arms out.
"One more thing. Don't call me that anymore." Colette frowned, despising his old nickname for her. She looked forward to when this long night would be over.
"No no nooooo!" Ashleigh flung her arms out in a reflex, fully prepared to ward off blows. Papers scattered across the floor around her. Rock Slag was charging straight for her, club in hand, and Gravel was holding onto the end of the club, being dragged along behind.
"Uggg urg ooga!" Rock grunted, leaping around Ashleigh. When she realized that he was not planning to hit her, Ashleigh had to laugh at his tribal dance. Gravel tried to apologize for Rock's antics, but his prehistoric mother tongue was completely foreign to Ashleigh, who could only nod her head.
Not far away, Julia was having much better luck. After a successful interview with the victorious Ant Hill Mob, she was having a heart-to-heart with Penelope Pitstop. "Julia, just whayer did you get those adorable boots?"
"I can't think. I've had them forever! But I wish I could drive that far that fast and not have one hair out of place."
"Oh, I did my face on the way here. I don' need a beauty parlor when I have my car."
"Is that what made you want to race again?"
"That was one of the reasons. I missed Peter, of course. But I also thought that if I got some notice here, I could become an actress."
"You want to be an actress? I used to want to be one, too," Julia answered joyously.
"What changed your mind?"
Julia stared at the floor. "I couldn't get into an acting school. So, here I am."
To Penelope, Julia was the most acceptable person she had come across in ages, maybe more so than Peter. Female companionship was something that would do her definite good, and Julia seemed to be her long-lost twin. "Julia, you're going to Montague like we are, right?"
"Yeah, we're gonna follow the whole race."
"Well, since we stay thayer for a while, we could have a girls' day out. What do you think?"
Julia's eyes lit up. "Really? Me and you? That'd be great!" Very rarely did Penelope suggest something like this to a person unless she had a hidden motive behind it. This was one of those very rare times.
Colette, having finished her interview with Dick, which seemed to last longer than their relationship did, set off for her other interview. Laurel tracked Colette down and cheered her up with jubilance all over her pudgy face. "Finished with my interviews. They ended way to soon. Peter Perfect and Rufus Ruffcut. I'm so glad I got first choice! So, how was the interview with lover-boy? Sorry, ex-lover-boy?"
"Juuuust great."
"Who do you have now?"
"Red Max he's the one we never hear about, isn't he?"
Laurel considered for a moment, then the light came on. "I think he's the one who almost knocked your head off with his car that first day."
"Oh, you're right! Well, it can't be as bad as'ex-lover-boy'."
"See ya in a bit!" Laurel announced to Colette, and the two went their separate ways.
"Red Max?" Colette spoke softly, unsure about how to speak to him. The good thing about Dick was his familiarity.
"Ja? Oh, hello," Max answered back, softly as well. He was taken by surprise, and his face reddened to match his jacket.
Colette picked up on his anxious vibes. "Do you mind if I interview you?"
"No, interview ees fine."
"How has it been adjusting to the races again?" The incident of the first day was in her mind.
"Deefficult. I haff not driven ze Crimson Haybailer in so long, it ees deefficult to control. Und I miss my home."
"Where is that?"
"Mannheim, in Vest Germany."
"That would be tough to get used to. Do you want to go back?"
"I vant to be going, but racing ees a part of me, too." There was something about his quietly honest answers that intrigued Colette. Max was a mystery. No one before her had bothered to find out much about him. She was determined to make herself the first.
"Max is there a last name that goes with that?" Colette posed the question more out of curiosity than anything else.
"Eisenreich. Max Eisenreich. Your name?"
"My name's Colette DesCroix."
"Hello, Colette."
"Hello, Max."
The Convert-a-Car: 17
The Bullet-Proof Bomb: 15
The Army Surplus Special: 12
The Arkansas Chug-a-bug: 8
The Turbo Terrific: 8
The Compact Pussycat: 6
The Buzz Wagon: 6
The Mean Machine: 3
The Bouldermobile: 3
The Creepy Coupe: 3
The Crimson Haybailer: 3