Cars: The Hot Rods
By J-Flux Wallace
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the film "Cars." "Cars" is owned by Disney and Pixar Studios. I also don't own Bill Engvall's "Here Your Sign" bit. However, the new characters in this fic are own by me.
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Chapter 5: The Tuners, The Girl, Robert and Boombox
At the crack of dawn, the residents of Radiator Springs awoke to the familiar reveille call at Sarge's Surplus Hut as the veteran of the town raised his American flag... followed by Hendrix's "Star Spangled Banner" and an exchange of words between the old Jeep and his neighbor.
"Fillmore! Turn off that disrespectful music!"
As usual, the VW Bus next door replied, "Respect the classics, man. It's Hendrix."
Sarge growled, his engine revving in frustration. "Hippie," he muttered to himself.
"Like, do you two just argue all the time or what?" a voice behind him asked. Sarge turned to face a red, teenage Cherokee.
"Alpines, you're up," Sarge said, not acknowledging the teenager's question. "I'm impressed. Usually my new young employees are late."
"Well, I'm an early-riser, sir," Crimson said, holding back a yawn. "Now, show me what I need to do and I'll be out of your grill."
Sarge grinned. Finally, a kid who actually wants to work, he thought. "Right. Follow me."
----
Sarge spent a few minutes showing the store to Crimson and giving him the basics to running the place, addressing him like a soldier. Sarge would occasionally glance at the Cherokee to see if he was paying attention, and surprisingly, he was. The way the younger Jeep acted baffled Sarge, making the veteran concluded that he had become way too use to modern teenagers he dealt with at the boot camp - Crimson never seemed intimidated by the old Jeep, and never gave him any lip. Shortly after, the old Jeep left for the boot camp, leaving the store in the wheels of the young SUV.
Behind the cashier register, Crimson looked around the store, noting the dust-covered merchandise on the rows of shelves. When was the last time someone bought anything here? Crimson asked himself. He lazily slumped on his suspension and sighed, boredom kicking in. He glanced around the building for something to do.
A flickering light bulb above him caught his attention. At first, he ignored it. But, the more it flickered and buzzed annoyingly, the more it bugged him. Finally, he went to the back and got the scissor-lift and a light bulb gripper. He raised the lift, and tightened up the light bulb until it didn't flicker no more. "There we go. Much better."
Suddenly, the light bulb popped and went out. "Ah nuts."
He lowered the lift and headed to the basement to get a replacement bulb. He went to the back, opened the basement door, hit the light switch, and proceeded down the corkscrew ramp into the basement.
However, the ramp was a bit narrow for the SUV, which he didn't notice...
SCRUUNCH! "Ah crap!"
...until he got stuck.
Crimson was pinned between the wall and the pillar the ramp wrapped around. He tried to shake himself loose, but no avail - he was wedged in tight. What am I, a rolling bad luck magnet? he thought. He shifted into reverse and gunned his engine. He stopped when his tires started squealing loudly. He then shifted into four-wheel-drive, hoping the extra grip would help, but all he got were screeching tires and smoke. He stopped for a moment.
"...I can't believe this," he groaned miserably. He consider his options; either keep trying to back out, or wait until Sarge or someone else stopped by. The backing out option seemed futile at the moment. The second option was probably the easiest... but the most humiliating. After all, he had enough horse-power to drag a pick-up truck out of a parking space, yet he couldn't get himself out between a wall and a pillar! He could imagine the hoopla over it; Mater or Sarge trying to pull him out, he'd be so stuck that they'd call in Red to do it, everyone over town would laugh at him...
Come on, you can do it! his conscience cheered. You've been in tougher scrapes than this! Just floor it until you come loose.
A determined grin on his face, Crimson revved his engine, and all four of his tires soon began screeching. After a while, he could feel the right side of his body scraping against the pillar. He wiggled a little as he felt himself slide back up the ramp...
VROOOM! The Cherokee shot out of the doorway. "Whoo-hoo! I'm free!"
Then he remembered: there were shelves of (possibly expensive) merchandise behind him.
With the reflexes of a foreign sports car, the Jeep slammed on his brakes and did a 180-degree turn at close to 40 MPH. His right front fender lightly tapped a shelf, which at the top had a stack of steel foot lockers. He froze as the shelf wobbled a little, but nothing fell off.
Crimson paused for a second before laughing triumphantly and shouting, "Yes! I still got it!"
That's about the time he got clobbered with one of the previously mentioned lockers. It landed on his roof with a loud crash, causing the Jeep to let loose a slew of words that'd make any church-going man die from shock.
----
A few hours later, Sarge came and relieved Crimson of his duties for lunch... after he explained the mystery dents on his side and roof. As he pulled into the cafe drive-in, he saw the two deputies chatting by themselves.
"Hey Deputy. I didn't know you had a clone," he joked.
Roger chuckled at Crimson's remark before introducing the other Crown Vic. "Alpines, this is Deputy Allen. Allen, you read Alpine's file."
"Yeah. How you doing?" the other deputy asked.
"Doing fine," Crimson answered as he pulled into a stall next to Roger and hit the release for the gas pump. "Just got out for lunch."
"What's up with the scrape on your right side?" Roger asked. "I never noticed that before."
"Oh, it's nothing. Kind of, uh, got stuck going into the basement," the Jeep mumbled.
Roger laughed a little. Allen, however, wasn't amused. "Man, I told Sarge he had to bring that building up to code," he muttered as Flo pulled in front of him with his order.
"Oh, relax Allen. He'll get around to it," Flo said.
Suddenly, the two police cruisers perked up at something. "...what is it?" Crimson asked. Then he heard it.
It was faint, but it was a sound Crimson was all too familiar with. Two engines that buzzed and one engine that was a souped-up small block.
"...tuners," Roger said in monotone.
"Oh joy," Flo muttered.
Three cars could be seen rolling down the road toward the cafe. One was a large purple-and-black import with a huge spoiler and NOS canisters on its back, leading the pack. Behind him was a smaller green-and-purple import with Japanese decals on the sides and a stack of spoilers on its back, and the other was an orange muscle car with a huge blower on its front.
They pulled into the drive-in and saw Crimson. The purple-and-black racer was the first to speak. "Whoa! Guys, look who's back from the dead!"
"I thought this here gas-guzzler was roadkill when that tow truck brought him in," the smaller green racer chided.
"He must be a zombie, because he still looks like roadkill," the orange muscle car added, causing the two other cars to laugh out loud.
Crimson turned to the deputies. "Who are these clowns?"
"Alpines, meet Boost, Wingo, and Snot Rod," Allen answered in displeasure. "I'm sure you can tell who's who."
Boost pulled up to get a closer look at the Jeep. "Shoot man, look at you. You might as well be a demolition derby car. Ain't you ever heard of a body shop?"
"Ain't you ever heard of 'mind your own damn business'?" Crimson shot back.
"Ooo, I think you hit a nerve on the Jeepster, dawg," Snot Rod said mockingly.
"Yeah man, chill," Wingo said before turning to Crimson. "You can get fixed up pretty easy, dude. Get some sweet dubs, a spoiler, chrome, who knows- you could even join up with us."
Crimson looked at the small car, and laughed. "Yeah right. And look like you? Trust me shrimp, I wouldn't be caught dead looking like you or your buddies. In fact, if I were you, I'd get rid of that stepladder on your back. The girls around here would think you're over-compensating for something."
Wingo sat there in embarrassment as the deputies and Flo bursted out laughing, a smug grin on Crimson's face.
"Man, that was a good burn," Snot Rod commented. Wingo smacked him on the side with his tire. "Shut up!" the little car squeaked angrily. He whipped back around and glared at Crimson. "No one talks that way to me. Never!"
Wingo charged at Crimson, his front tires squealing and engine screaming. Everyone gasped and shut their eyes, awaiting the impact...
...but it never came. All they heard was Wingo's tires screeching on the pavement. They opened their eyes to see the red SUV effortlessly holding back the green import with his right front tire. "Man, the tuners back home had more horsepower than this guy," Crimson commented.
Finally he shoved Wingo in the opposite direction forcefully; the import shot between Boost and Snot Rod and let out a shriek before crashing into a bunch of garage cans on the sidewalk. "Ah, sick!" he cried out, now covered in garbage.
Boost and Snot Rod looked back at Wingo, than back at Crimson. Boost's eyes narrowed as he glared at the Jeep. "No one messes with one of our boys, road-hog!" The two cars revved their engines and approached Crimson.
Allen pulled out in front of them. "Okay, that's it! Boost, you and your friends get out of here before I throw all three of you in the impound. Now!"
Boost and Snot Rod glanced at Allen, then at Crimson, and finally backed away slowly. "I'm gonna get you, gas-guzzler."
Crimson smiled and replied, "I'll be waiting, NOS-head."
The three tuners left the cafe.
"Man, you have no idea what you've just done," Roger told Crimson.
Crimson looked over at the young Ford. "What? Don't tell me you're afraid of those under-power, over-juiced, over-painted lemons. I say bring it. You'll be arresting me for murder after I finish them off."
----
Days passed without incident, and soon Crimson found himself to be the talk of the town.
It started with the incident involving the tuners. Many of the local residents would stop by the Surplus Hut just to talk to him about the tuners and what he did, including the Sheriff and Doc Hudson. Sarge even gave him a special semi-automatic rifle given to military academy cadets. ("For Bravery," the veteran said.)
And then of course, there was Sarge. The elder Jeep was particularly impressed by Crimson's work around the store. Day by day, the veteran would come to the cafe at dinnertime with something new to gush about. Once it was about a shelf with night-vision headsets, all stacked and lined-up neatly with not a speck of dust. Another time it was about a $500 trailer-cannon he had sold that Sarge had been trying to get rid of for years. The others had never seen him this enthusiastic about a hired hand ever.
Shortly after, the rest of the town started to visit the store and talk to Crimson. Mack stopped by once to see "who this kid was McQueen and Sally were talking about"; Red would occasionally peek into the store windows at the young Jeep, even Lizzie had stopped by and offered him a "better-paying" job at the Curio shop. The young Cherokee declined - mainly because he liked working at the Surplus Hut, but also because he was picking up a slightly lecherous vibe from the old Model T.
----
"Alpines!"
The red Cherokee turned to face the green military Jeep behind him. "Hey Sarge. What's up?"
"My assistant couldn't be able to make it to the boot camp today- he got laid over in Knoxville," Sarge explained. "Anyway, we're doing long distance speed drills, and I need some help. Just need you to make sure they make it to the half-way point."
"...do I get paid overtime?" Crimson asked.
"...uh, yeah, sure you do," Sarge answered. "Now come on. I'll tell you the basics on the way."
----
"Okay runts, listen up!" The line of tricked-out SUVs and pick-ups jumped at the sound of Sarge's voice. "Today, we are doing a Forty-Mile/Forty Minute speed drill. In case you're too stupid understand that, it means you have to cover forty miles in under forty minutes. This drill was used during World War I, World War II, and the Korean War for cars that had to manually detonate bombs and be able to get out in a specific time frame. Mr. Alpines here is going to be at the halfway mark to make sure you make it through," Sarge said, motioning to Crimson.
As Sarge continued lecturing the SUVs and trucks in front of him, Crimson looked over the group. It was mainly Hummers, heavy-duty pick-ups, Escallades, Yukons, and Explorers. All of whom had lift-kits, huge tires, custom rims, chrome, and outrageously gaudy paint jobs. Not a real 4X4 in the bunch, Crimson thought to himself.
At the far end of the group, however, two cars got his attention. One was a tiny, blue panel truck/van, a 2004 model by the looks of it, about Crimson's age. He had a huge spoiler, speakers on his sides, and street racer tires and rims. He looked more like a tuner than a SUV, and was the most nervous among the group.
The other was a 1985 ivory-and-red Ford F350 Extended Cab, a white cowboy hat on his roof with Texas plates and a winch. Everything on him looked stock. He looked to be in his mid 20s, and compared to the rest, was the most calm. He even looked relaxed in this environment.
Sarge wrapped up his lecture. "Any questions?"
A silver-and-navy blue Chevy Avalanche quiped, "Are we going to get sand in our rims again, sir?"
Crimson did a double-take. What kind of idiotic question is that? he thought.
Before Sarge could scold the Avalanche, Crimson said, "No pansy, we're gonna have one of your friends carry you on his back so your rims stay nice and clean. Here's your sign."
The other SUVs and trucks bursted out laughing as the Avalanche sunk into his suspension, redder than an apple. Sarge turned to Crimson, grinned, and nodded in approval. He turned back the group and barked, "Okay, that's enough of that. We'll spend a few minutes doing stretches before we start."
Sarge turned around and drove over to the teenage Jeep. "I have the radio and the clipboard with the privates' names out at the checkpoint. If any of them don't go through the checkpoint, radio it back me. How much time do you need to get out there?"
"It's 30 minutes out?" Crimson asked.
"Pretty much."
"I'll be there in less than 10," the young Jeep answered. He started his engine and shot off down the course like a racer.
----
At the ten minute mark, Sarge sent the group off and got up in his observation tower. Through an electronic telescope hooked up to a TV set, he could see the square 10 mile-by-10 mile course, and a slow moving dust cloud traveling down it.
Sarge could hear a couple of cars roll up behind him. "Hello Sarge."
"Hi Doc," the Jeep gruffly replied, not looking up from the monitor.
"So Sarge, I heard you put Crimson out on the course. How's he doing?" another, younger voice asked.
Sarge turned to come face-to-face with a familiar red stock car, as well as a blue Porsche and a rusty tow truck. "McQueen? I thought you were having a meeting with that Soupcart racer."
"Stewcart," Lightning corrected. "Tony's being held-up in Phoenix, so he'll be coming tomorrow. I had Mack take over for the rest of the day."
"So where is Crimson?" Mater asked.
"Out at the halfway point, making sure none of the little brats try to make a run for it." Sarge hit the call button on the radio. "Alpha-Leader-Pinecone, this is Six-Alpha-Roger-Green-Echo. Do you copy, over?"
A voice came back saying, "Dude, what?"
Oh yeah, Sarge thought. He remembered he wasn't talking to his regular assistant. "Uh, sorry Alpines, act of habit," he said into the microphone. "How you doing out there?"
At the checkpoint...
"Well, to tell the truth, I'm pretty bored," Crimson answered back. He glanced down the five mile stretches of dirt road on both sides of him, not a glimpse of a car in sight. "I managed to get out here in about seven minutes. It's been 26 minutes; where are these bozos?"
At the tower...
Sarge pointed the telescope at the dust cloud on the course and looked at the monitor. "They're pretty close to the 15 mile marker at the corner," he answered back. On the monitor, he noticed some movement among the trucks in the crowd as the ivory-and-red Ford zoomed between them and shot ahead of the group. "Wait a minute; looks like the '85 Ford in the cowboy hat is in the lead."
"Jeez, he's really hauling it now." Lightning commented.
"They'll be passing you by in a few minutes," Sarge added as he swung the telescope, Crimson coming into view on the monitor... as he was scratching his grill on a nearby cactus.
"...Alpines, are you picking your grill?" Sarge asked over the radio.
On the monitor, Crimson stopped scratching and stammered on the radio, "Uh, wha-what? I-I'm not p-picking my grill!"
"Don't lie to me. I saw you picking your grill in the telescope," Sarge said.
"I wasn't picking my grill; I had an itch!" the teenager said defensively over the radio.
"It don't look like it," Sarge replied.
The five cars leered away from the speaker as Crimson screamed, "I wasn't pickin' my grill; I was scratchin' it, dammit!"
"Okay son, calm down! Jesus-Chrysler," Sarge said.
Back at the checkpoint...
Crimson re-gathered his nerves as the first truck came into view, barreling down the course. He pulled the clipboard in front of him to check off the names. He looked down and flipped through the list until he found the truck's picture and name:
del Camino, Robert
He put a check next to his name. He looked up to see where the truck was.
As the Ford passed by, Crimson yelled over the roar of his engine, "Good job, man. You're making great time!"
"Thank you!" the Ford yelled back as he passed by.
A few minutes passed and the rest of the group passed by, Crimson checking off names and shouting words of encouragement ("Come on guys! Are you compacts or are you gas-guzzlers? You own the road, so act like it!") Soon the trucks and SUVs passed by, and Crimson had checked off every name but one.
He glanced up to see the blue panel truck tailing behind the dust cloud of the bigger vehicles, muttering angrily to himself. This guy even sounds like a tuner, Crimson thought. He looked down the list and checked off his name:
Yota, DJ
"Come on, DJ! Move it," Crimson barked at the tuner. "You got 20 miles and 29 minutes left."
"Get bent, road-hog!" DJ snapped at the Jeep. Crimson was taken aback by the panel truck's comment. Man, what a jerk, he thought. He hit the call button on the radio. "Sarge, they all passed through. What do I do now?"
"Come on back, Alpines," Sarge said over the radio. "Follow the group to make sure none of them are slacking off. Just leave the stuff at the checkpoint."
"Roger that," Crimson called back. He started his engine and sped off down the course.
Wait until I get my tires on that tuner, his conscience grumbled as he sped down the course next to the road. Too bad I don't have my winch on me. I could make a noose out of it, heh-heh.
Suddenly, he caught a glimmer on the road coming toward him. He squinted his eyes to see what it was.
Finally, he saw her.
The most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his entire lifetime.
She was a 2004 Volkswagon Jetta. Charcoal-colored, her paint-job glistening in the sunlight. She had chrome trim, a roof rack, and the sexiest curves ever. It was like that moment in the movies where the guy sees the really hot girl next door: everything slowed down, Roll-DMC's "Drive This Way" playing in the background ("Had a Jetta, had a Mazda, and they gave me just a lil kiss, like this!" followed by the guitar lick), he could see every curve on her body, as well as her beautiful stark blue eyes.
Crimson stared at the girl as she passed by, drawling out, "Whatta Jetta-"
WHAM!
Crimson was brought back to reality after running into a cactus head on, the cactus busting apart as he ran over it. He shook the bits of cactus out of his eyes and stopped, swinging around in the opposite direction.
He blinked a few times and searched the horizon for the Jetta, but she couldn't be found on the road. He sat there and sighed, disappointed. Man, I knew she wasn't real, he thought as he turned around slowly and drove back to the site.
----
Crimson pulled into the site, noticing the other vehicles chatting with each other. He looked around for Sarge and finally saw him, talking with Doc, Lightning, Sally, and Mater.
"Hi Crimson. How did you do?" Sally said to the Jeep as he pulled up.
"I did fine, Ms. Carerra," he replied.
"You took a long time to get here. You all right?" Sarge asked.
"Oh, I'm fine. I just had a little accident," Crimson said. "I, uh, ran into a cactus."
"Oh. You needed to pick your grill again?" Mater chuckled.
"I wasn't pickin', I had a friggin' itch!" Crimson snapped, blushing uncontrollably.
Lightning and Sally snickered at his reaction. The young Jeep looked around the other SUVs and pick-ups, talking among each other. He turned back to Sarge and asked, "You giving them a break or something?"
"Sort of," the veteran answered. "We're having a town meeting today, so I'm giving them the rest of the day off. So, did any of them give you any lip?"
Crimson paused before answering. "...just one." He turned around and motioned at DJ. "The little blue one with the speakers. DJ."
"Really? Well, I'll just straighten him out-"
Before Sarge could move, Crimson stuck a tire in front of him. "No Sarge. I want to handle this one personally." Crimson drove off toward the young tuner.
He pulled up behind DJ, who was talking to a Escallade and a Hummer, whining about something. Crimson honked his horn loud, scaring the smaller car. DJ let out a yelp and whipped around to face Crimson. "Dude, what the hell was that for?"
"'Get bent, road-hog'? Who the hell do you think I am; some compact you can push around on the interstate?" the Jeep barked as he shoved DJ with his front tires.
"Don't you touch me!" DJ shot back, shoving the Cherokee with his front tires. Or at least, he tried to. Crimson gunned forward, knocking DJ up onto his rear.
DJ swung back onto his tires and growled at Crimson. "Gas-guzzla, you have no idea who you're messin' with!"
"Actually, I do, Boombox," the Cherokee said. "I'm messing with a disrespectful, pitiful excuse of a car, who under normal circumstances, I wouldn't even give the time of day to."
"So why are you giving me the time of day now?"
"Well, I'd like an apology."
"An apology?" DJ scoffed.
"Yeah," Crimson said. "Before I turn you into a cube of scrap metal."
"Make me," DJ said.
"I'll be more than happy to make you, runt," Sarge said, glaring at the tuner as he pulled next to Crimson.
DJ glanced at Sarge, then at Crimson, and sighed angrily. "Okay, I'm sorry I told you to get bent," he grumbled.
A satisfied smirk on his face, Sarge pulled away from Crimson. DJ Pulled up next to Crimson and whispered, "You better be watching your back, 'cause me and my friends are gonna mess you up bad."
"I'll be waiting, Boombox."
The tuner raced off the boot camp site. "Stupid tuner," the Jeep mumbled.
A voice came up behind him. "Hey man. Good job telling off the tuner." Crimson turned to see the ivory-and-red '85 Ford that was heading the group earlier.
"Thanks, man," Crimson replied. "Uh, del Camino, right?"
"Robert. Robert del Camino."
"Crimson Alpines. Hey, I've been wondering - I heard through the local police that some truck that was racing that tuner was thrown in here. Do you know who it was?"
Robert chuckled. "You're looking at him, man."
"It was you? You were the dude pulling 105?" Crimson asked. "Awesome! Did you win?"
"No, neither of us did. Those two deputies caught us before we could finish the race," Robert answered.
"Hmm. Bummer," Crimson said. "Want to get a bite to eat before the town meeting? I got some interesting drag racing stories you might like to hear."
"That sounds good, Alpines," The Ford said as they drove back to town.
----
NOTE: In case you didn't know, Roll-DMC and "Drive This Way" are parodies of the rap group Run-DMC and their song "Walk This Way."