DISCLAIMER: I do not own the film "Cars." "Cars" is owned by Disney and Pixar Studios. However, the new characters in this fic are own by me.

----

Chapter 3: Gifts, Greetings, & Mysteries

Crimson watched as the little yellow Fiat buzzed around him, talking a mille-a-second and throwing every kind of offer for tires at him. When Lightning and Doc had warned him that Luigi was "a little eccentric," they may have made an understatement. The moment the import, and his assistant Guido, a blue-and-white forklift, entered the operating room towing a tire display behind them, Luigi started lecturing him with this prepared speech on how the first tire was made and how it revolutionized the world.

Then, after inspecting the three remaining tires on him, he went off on the young SUV on proper tire care and how he's seen better tires on lawn mowers. The whole time, the forklift slowly circled Crimson, inspecting his tires and undercarriage, making the Jeep increasingly nervous and irritated. This is nuts, The Cherokee thought. I mean, I've heard of enthusiasm about your job, but damn! This little bugger won't stop talking about tires.

As Luigi lectured him, he noticed Doc Hudson looking in through the windows of the door. Crimson, after making sure the Fiat wasn't paying attention, mouthed the words "Help Me" to Doc. Doc smiled at this.

"Mr. Alpines! Are you paying attention!" Luigi barked.

Startled, Crimson replied, "Uh, yeah. Totally."

"Great," the import continued. "Now that I got those offers on the table, as you Americans put it, which one would you like?"

Crimson paused as he calculated a response that wouldn't result in another lecture. "...uh, none of those."

The smile on Luigi's face turned to shock. "...not-ah one?"

"Yes, because none of them are right for me," he simply explained.

The look of shock turned to digust. "No no no no no! Luigi will tell you what is right for you," the car said in determination.

Getting fed-up with the stuck-up import, Crimson growled, "no, I will tell you what's right for you." Realizing his mistake, Crimson stammered, "I mean me. I mean- whatever! Look, pal, I am a Sport Utility Vehicle. I am designed for driving through every kind of terrain possible; dirt, gravel, mud, snow, etc. I am designed to climb mountains and tow cars like you out of mud pits. I can't do any of that in white walls. I go to a truck-stop with white walls on, I might as well have a "Run Me Over" sign tape to my back!"

While this was going on, Doc watched through the windows in the waiting room. He was fairly impressed by the Jeep's stamina. Most of Luigi's customers - if they weren't Ferraris or other imports - would have turned and shot out of there like a bullet train.

"Hey Doc!"

Mater's voice jolted Doc out of his train of thought. "Hi Mater."

"How's Crimson doin'?" The tow truck asked as he pulled up to the window to see Luigi and Crimson arguing. "Daggum! Luigi still trying to sell him those tires?"

"Oh yeah," Doc sighed. "This has been going on for two hours. I really need to talk some sense into Luigi."

Back inside the operating room...

"I don't need white walls, I don't need new rims, I don't need any of that," Crimson said, exhausted. "I don't even need the tires right now because Dr. Hudson is going to have to take them off when he replaces my axles and suspension. Just put on my spare and come back in a few days okay-"

Crimson twitched when he felt Guido poke his back axle for the nth time. "And would you quit POKING ME BACK THERE!" he roared at the little forklift. "I don't like when a doctor does it, and I sure as hell hate it when a complete stranger does it! Get up here where I can see ya!"

"Okay," the forklift happily obeyed and drove in front of him, parking next to Luigi.

Disgusted, the Fiat turned to Guido and distastefully said, "Come on Guido. Obviously Mr. Alpines doesn't need any tires right now."

"Okay," Guido said again. The two exited through the back door of the operating room, Guido pushing the tire display. Crimson could hear Luigi mutter under his breath, "American gas-guzzlers. They're all the same."

The young Jeep growled quietly in anger. "What a wingnut," he muttered.

At that moment, Doc and Mater entered the room. "Where were you!" Crimson snapped at Doc. Doc, however, just chuckled.

"What? I thought you handled him pretty well," he replied light-heartedly.

"Good lord," the SUV ranted. "If there is a mental institution around here, you need to throw that guy into a padded room. 'White walls'- I can't drive on white walls!"

"Relax, he's not gonna put you on white walls," Mater told him. "He'll come to his senses."

"He better before I knock some senses into him," Crimson muttered.

He heard the door behind him squeak open, tires rolling on the floor. "Oh, what now!" Crimson groaned loudly in frustration as his turned around, expecting Luigi and Guido again.

Instead, he was face to face with two other cars- One a customized, metallic red Impala Lowrider with orange pinstripes, and the other a green 1950s show car, holding a can of gas and a quart of oil on a tray.

"Oh sorry," he quickly apologized to the two cars. "I thought you were someone else."

"I was expecting that," the show car responded as she pulled in front of the Jeep. "Let me guess- Luigi offered you white-walls?"

"Oh yeah," Crimson said. "He offered me a bunch of other stuff, but I zoned out after 20 minutes."

The two old cars laughed at this comment. "Well, he does have that affect on people," the Impala commented.

"Anyway honey, I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you some oil and regular unleaded for you," the green car said, setting the tray down in front of him.

Crimson's eyes lit up as he stared at the tray's contents. "Oh, thank you," he gushed. "Thanks a bunch, uh Ms.-"

"Flo," she responded. "And this my husband, Ramone," she added, motioning to the Impala.

"Ramone is going to be fixing your dents and repainting you," Doc told Crimson.

"Yeah, just thought I'd stop by and check your damage," Ramone told the young SUV. Lowering himself to the floor, he looked down Crimson's left side, noting the odd dents and bare metal. "You know, I've done touch-ups after roll-overs, but I don't ever remember this kind of damage on the side."

"Oh, that's not from the roll-over," the Cherokee explained between sips of gas. "I accidently scraped myself against a tree once. Took a curve too fast."

"Well, we can fix that up," the lowrider said as he raised himself back up. "As soon as your axles and suspension are replaced, you can come by, and I'll put some new paint on you and replace the plastic parts of your fenders, okay man?"

"Sounds good, Ramone."

"Great. Take it easy, man," the Impala said as he rolled out of the operating room.

"I should be getting back to the cafe," Flo told the three remaining cars. She started to back out of the room. "Nice meeting you, Crimson. Don't strain yourself, okay?"

"I won't, ma'am," he replied. As he sat there, he realized something.

"You know, I never told that lady my name. How did she know?"

"Oh, everybody in Radiator Springs knows your name," Mater said. "They found out from either me or Lightning or Ms. Sally or one of the deputies."

"Hmm. I take it Radiator Springs is a small town," Crimson hypothesized as he turned around, pushing the tray with his other front tire.

"Yep," Doc said. "It use to be smaller until Lightning McQueen showed up a couple years ago."

"By the way, I've been meaning to ask you," Crimson asked, "Who is this McQueen guy?"

"You mean you don't know him?" Mater asked, puzzled by the question.

"I've been on the road for a few years, so I don't stop too often to catch a race," the Jeep explained. "Besides, I kind of lost interest in NASCAR after Earncart died."

"Well, Lightning was one of the youngest racers in the PIston Cup," Doc told Crimson. "And in one race, he got in a three-way tie with Chick Hicks and the King."

The Jeep stopped sipping his gas at the mention of Hicks. "Chick Hicks is still racing?" He chuckled. "I thought he would've given up after almost 15 years and only getting to second place. He ever win a Cup?"

"Oh he won a Cup," Doc muttered, a sour look on face. "Anyway, because of a mix-up, Lightning ended up here when he should have been in California, prepping for the race. He caused a bit of damage to the town, so Sally convinced everyone he needed to fix what he damaged."

"Why did she have to convince them?"

"Well, I was the judge, & I dismissed the case," he said, a little ashamed. "I didn't want a hot rod like McQueen in our town. I felt he wouldn't be good for the community. He was thoughtless. Arrogant. Selfish."

"He didn't act that way when he was standing by me last night, waiting for help," Crimson commented.

"Well, he's changed over time." Doc continued with the story. "So after a while, I guess he fell for the town."

"And for Ms. Sally," Mater added, chuckling slyly.

"Who could blame him?" Crimson remarked, blushing at the thought of the beautiful Porsche. "Anyway, continue."

"Well, I still wanted him out, so I called the press and the law enforcement agencies looking for him. Soon, he was in California. And during the race Hicks rammed the King into the wall."

"No way," The Jeep exclaimed.

"Way," Mater answered.

"He was pretty bad," Doc said, "Almost as bad as you. And Lightning was almost to the finish line when he slammed on the brakes and stopped inches from the finish line. He backed up and pushed the King to the finish line. A gallant act if I ever saw one. Hicks got the Cup."

"And after that, he moved back here, opened his racin' headquarters, and moved in with Ms. Sally," Mater concluded. "It was pretty cool. He got me a ride in the King's Dinoco Helicopter!"

"Sounds like a nice guy," Crimson said.

"He is," Doc said. "Especially to you. He and Sally are going to pay for your medical bills."

The Jeep stopped sipping the oil in front of him. "W-What? He's paying my bills?"

"Yeah," Doc said, puzzled. "Why are you so surprise by these people's generosity?"

"Because I've never been treated like this," Crimson told the Hudson bluntly. "I grew up in the city. In the city, it's every car for himself. You got to leave everyone in the dust to get ahead; generosity, politeness, even friendship be damned."

This brought up Doc's memories of the accident that ended his racing career; how afterward everyone had abandoned him and how it was a decisive factor to moving out to Radiator Springs. He sure could relate to the young Jeep. "Hmm. Is that why you've been on the road all these years?" Doc asked cautiously.

The Jeep paused, a hint of sadness in his eyes, before mumbling, "No, that's not why. I-I don't want to talk about." He went back to sipping his oil solemnly.

The tow truck and the blue Hornet glanced at each, questioning the Jeep's reaction. And the mystery continues... Doc thought to himself.

----

Later that day, Doc had left the clinic for some reason, leaving Crimson alone. The Jeep didn't mind the solitude; he was use to it. It gave him some time to think things through.

Should I stay a little while, he pondered, or should I go? It couldn't hurt to stay. At least, maybe I could get a job and get a little money before I head out. It would beat drag racing.

Thankfully Doc didn't ask why his engine and other parts were worn, otherwise he would have have to reveal that, in order to pay for gas and oil and occasional repairs, he'd participate in illegal drag races. "Dirt drags" he had dubbed them.

Dirt drags weren't like street races or city drag races. Usually, these races took place in dirt fields or dirt roads (Or paved roads, if he was in a remote place with few cops), and often it was between pick-ups and/or SUVs. It's quite difficult and very hard on the body: the uneven road, the strain on the engine and suspension system, and trying to keep stable at 100 MPH.

It was also fairly dangerous, since instead of cars on pavement, it involved four-by-fours on loose gravel. On more than one occasion, Crimson had witnessed some dirty driving by another truck that resulted in a roll-over. But they paid well; he could easily get $500 to $1000 off one race, enough to last a few months. And he was proud that he had never lost a race.

But ditch-digging was better than doing something illegal. Crimson never liked dirt drags - the danger, the strain, the fear of getting caught - but he usually ended up doing it out of desperation. He finally made his decision. What the hell, he thought. The folk here seem nice enough. I'll stay for a bit.

"Pit stop."

Crimson snapped out of his state of thought, and he turned to see Guido next to him, smiling at him.

"Oh what now?" Crimson groaned. "You're vouching for your buddy or what?"

"Pit stop," the forklift chirped happily as he went around to Crimson's backside, opened his hatchback door, and pulled out Crimson's spare in his cargo compartment.

"Hey what are you doing?" Crimson asked warily. The forklift set down the tire, pulled out a electric drill, and with the speed of a NASCAR tire changer, unscrewed the nuts on Crimson's bare right front rim. The rim landed on the floor, clanging loudly, as Guido put the spare on, screwed the nuts back on, and adjusted the pressure in the spare.

Crimson looked at the spare, then at the little forklift. He smiled. "Thanks buddy," he said, lightly tapping him with his spare.

"Okay," was Guido's response, and he was out the door.