Somewhere along the sidelines, a burly man in a blue cassock bashes bamboo mallets against his dented kettledrum. For the royal family, it is always about kitsch. Huddling along the final stretches of raceway, a malapropos ensemble of Hispanic girls in ruffled flamenco dresses clap their clamshell castanets with intensifying fervour.
The rat-a-tat-tats are violating Luigi's sense of focus. Not that it matters. He and Mario are moments away from a landslide victory.
What Luigi does not realise is that Mario is not watching the track. He is leering at the ladies on the sidelines.
All of a sudden, their cart flies through a well-placed line of banana peels. As the cart spins round and round, Luigi is flung clean off of the bumper. He skids along the macadam, and his arms are thrown at agonising angles. As he lies still on the pavement, a blur of pink and orange glides past. Delirious with pain, he catches the faint scent of peaches and daisies upon the air.
And then it is only burnt rubber and tar. The smooth, black tar beneath his abraded face; the filthy tobacco tar between the gaps in Mario's twisted grin. Luigi can smell it.
"Piece of shit-a. We could-a have won that-a race."
Luigi closes his eyes.
Mario tries to spit on his face, but misses. He keeps spitting until he's got it on Luigi's shirt, in his hair, and finally, right on his cheek, and then he leaves.
Peach arrives shortly afterwards. She and Daisy support Luigi as he rises, and Peach -- carelessly, it seems -- throws a string of Star Cup beads round his neck. To cheer him up, he supposes.
"Kitschy," he says.
"What?" she asks.
"What do you mean, kitschy?" Daisy wonders.
"Nothing," Luigi says, shaking his head as Daisy uses a festive napkin to wipe him off. She tuts quietly to herself, and there's a dark look in her eyes. "Those flamenco dancers are a nice touch, Princess. The courses you design are always very . . . nice."
"Yeah, thanks," Peach says coolly, and she isn't looking at Luigi. "Well, we had best go to see Mario. Daisy and me. I promised I'd dance with Mario. He'll be cross with me if I don't hurry. He's not in a good mood as it is, I expect."
The two princesses leave, and Luigi is alone.
He can still hear the beating of the dented kettledrum.
The rat-a-tat-tats are violating Luigi's sense of focus. Not that it matters. He and Mario are moments away from a landslide victory.
What Luigi does not realise is that Mario is not watching the track. He is leering at the ladies on the sidelines.
All of a sudden, their cart flies through a well-placed line of banana peels. As the cart spins round and round, Luigi is flung clean off of the bumper. He skids along the macadam, and his arms are thrown at agonising angles. As he lies still on the pavement, a blur of pink and orange glides past. Delirious with pain, he catches the faint scent of peaches and daisies upon the air.
And then it is only burnt rubber and tar. The smooth, black tar beneath his abraded face; the filthy tobacco tar between the gaps in Mario's twisted grin. Luigi can smell it.
"Piece of shit-a. We could-a have won that-a race."
Luigi closes his eyes.
Mario tries to spit on his face, but misses. He keeps spitting until he's got it on Luigi's shirt, in his hair, and finally, right on his cheek, and then he leaves.
Peach arrives shortly afterwards. She and Daisy support Luigi as he rises, and Peach -- carelessly, it seems -- throws a string of Star Cup beads round his neck. To cheer him up, he supposes.
"Kitschy," he says.
"What?" she asks.
"What do you mean, kitschy?" Daisy wonders.
"Nothing," Luigi says, shaking his head as Daisy uses a festive napkin to wipe him off. She tuts quietly to herself, and there's a dark look in her eyes. "Those flamenco dancers are a nice touch, Princess. The courses you design are always very . . . nice."
"Yeah, thanks," Peach says coolly, and she isn't looking at Luigi. "Well, we had best go to see Mario. Daisy and me. I promised I'd dance with Mario. He'll be cross with me if I don't hurry. He's not in a good mood as it is, I expect."
The two princesses leave, and Luigi is alone.
He can still hear the beating of the dented kettledrum.