2~
It had been spread by word of mouth, and hinted at by local news for days, the end result being the crowds and local news reporters standing in rapt attention both in front of, and the across the street from, City Hall.
Mayor Nettles stood beaming behind her podium in the bright, weekend sun. She addressed her constituents with a voice that was strong with both civic pride and victory.
"People of Crystal Cove, I have wonderful, wonderful news. As you may have known, I have been in contact with HC Productions in Hollywood to shoot one of their shows here in town. Well, I am happy to announce that after three weeks of incessant phone calls and blackmail threats, Crystal Cove will be the starting location of the next season of the Wacky Races!"
She has expected cheers and applause, and even when they came fierce and free, Janet couldn't help the swelling in her heart that came from the fact that the people chose well in their civic leader and rewarded her with their affection.
While she half-heartedly tried to calm the crowds down and explain what a visit like this would mean for the economic prosperity and fame of the Californian town, Marcie stood in the throng on the other side of the street with Eleanor Angelina Shelby, friend and Maintenance Director of Fleach's Folly Factory.
"Thanks for bringing me here, Elle," Marcie said. "My dad was too busy to take me, today."
Eleanor waved it off with her easy, usual Gatorsburg charm. "Ain't no thing, sweetheart. Besides, you know what a motorhead I am. Any chance to see those wigged-out cars in person is worth a lunch break."
Marcie gave Eleanor a furtive, yet hopeful look. "Uh, speaking of cars. Do you still have that old convertible at home?"
"The Guinea Pig? You still want that, huh? Well, you know what my going price for 'im is."
"But, I don't have that much money, Elle," the teen admitted. She already knew what the unfortunate, inevitable answer was going to be. "I only have 318 dollars saved up."
Eleanor gave a commiserating chuckle. Oh, to be young, and wanting a car…
"I'm sorry, chickpea, but you'll have to come up with a little more than that. Tell you what, if anyone else wants to buy it, I'll tell 'em that I'm holding on to it for a friend."
"Yeah, okay," Marcie said, taking the charity glumly. Then a thought struck her that made her give the woman with a sly, knowing glance. "Oh, and say hi to Durango Jim for me."
Eleanor frowned in confusion at that. She knew him, but she didn't understand why Marcie would have mentioned him so out-of-the-blue.
"Durango Jim?" the woman asked. "What about 'im?"
Marcie looked up in innocent-looking thought. "Well, I heard that you like illegal street racing out by the farms."
"Shhh! Keep it down, Marcie!" Eleanor hissed in fearful annoyance, her eyes glued to Sheriff Sheriff B. Stone standing beside his wife at the podium. "The sheriff is right across the street. Besides, you know I do." What was the girl playing at?
"I know," Marcie told her coolly. "Just like I know that it was my homemade fuel additive that's allowing you to enjoy your status as number one racer, right now."
Finally, the point, Eleanor thought suspiciously. "So, what's your point, friend?"
"Only that Durango Jim and his Longhorn Hustler is gunning for your spot, and I figured you might need an edge in next Saturday night's race. I can give it to you."
Opening her wool jacket carefully so that only Eleanor could see inside, Marcie showed her a corked test tube standing in one of the jacket's inner pockets. Eleanor recognized the liquid's color immediately.
"You made more?"
Marcie closed her jacket and patted it lovingly. "Of course. I'm always thinking of you, and I'm thinking of you winning next Saturday night with my formula under your hood, for, say, a discount on your convertible?"
Eleanor could see the A-bomb drop from the Enola Fleach. "C'mon, Marcie," she pleaded. "A gal's gotta eat."
"And this gal wanna drive," Marcie said, smiling pleasantly. "I want to buy your car before I pass my driver's exam next week. I like my schedules neat and tidy."
Eleanor stood silent, brooding, while she thought very hard on the deal. She swore that she could see a pair of horns adorning the girl's head.
Marcie gave her a predator's grin, and spoke softly. "I would seriously consider taking the deal. I'm the only person who can make the additive to keep you and your Hog Rod on top."
Eleanor ran the scenario of that insufferable blowhard from that dusty, Mount Diabla dogtown, stripping her of her number one placement in a race that she could have won, the darkness of the night effectively hiding her shame.
The bomb fell, and she saw the mushroom cloud form over her negotiations, before she grunted in frustration, and then lowered her head, finally, in defeat.
"Alright," Eleanor grumbled into her chest. "You got yerself a deal. I'll bring it 'round your house tomorrow."
"Yes!"
Raising her head, Eleanor gave Marcie a pained, yet proud smile. "You're a mean horse trader, Marcie Fleach. You'd do your daddy proud."
"Thanks," Marcie said with a grateful grin, as the patrons around her cheered again.
"So," Mayor Nettles yelled above the tumult of accolades and whistles. "let's give a great, big Crystal Cove welcome to...the Wacky Racers!"
Pointing off into the distance, Janet guided every eye to the procession rolling down the wide street. The applause rose to a crescendo, as the Racers, driving slowly, and in single-file, began to pass the adoring people flanking both sides of the boulevard.
"Hey, here they come!" Marcie called out to Eleanor.
Leading the parade of autos, shining in the Saturday afternoon, looking as pink, and as feminine, as its driver, Penelope Pitstop gave waves and smiles to the fans as practiced and poised as a homecoming queen, the cheers and catcalls following in the Compact Pussycat's gracefully slow wake.
More raucous cheering greeted the caveman brothers Rock and Gravel Slag as they raised their weathered, wooden clubs in prehistorically manly glee, occasionally slamming them against the top of their Bouldermobile, carved out of a single chunk of rare, percussive-powered Concussionite, causing its log rollers to move with sedate speed.
Looking more like an architectural float that a race car, the Creepy Coupe, with its belfry sitting high like a sail, cruised along, its driver and co-driver, Big and Little Gruesome, giving waves and occasionally snarls at the fans, who they knew, expected such a performance.
The rumble of diesel engine and treads heralded the approach of the tank-like Army Surplus Special. As per the agreement not to fire live ordinance in Crystal Cove's city limits, the Special sported a rack built around the outside of the turret, holding fireworks that shot off at regular intervals. High atop the turret, retired Sergeant Roderick Blast gave crisp salutes to the American people that passed by.
If diesel engines marked the Special's passing, then the rattle-trap sound of a haphazardly repurposed coal stove-turned steam engine announced the hillbilly ingenuity of the Arkansas Chugabug. Its driver, "Lazy" Luke Brown, leaned back in his wooden driver's seat, unperturbed by the cheering, and steered with uncanny precision with his bare feet, eyes closed, giving the appearance of sleepdriving, while his co-driver and friend, Blubber Bear, shyly waved to the crowds.
Coming into view, a blood red bi-plane/roadster hybrid taxied along, almost dominating the width of the street with its canvassed wingspan. Waving and giving a grin as big as his nose, sat the Red Max.
Just then, he turned to hear something, up ahead, that he didn't expect. A girl calling out to him. In proper German.
"Red Max!" Marcie yelled in unaccented Deutsche. "Ich denke, Ihr Auto sieht cool! Die Kombination von Flugzeug und Automobil ist eine sehr neugierige Design!" ("I think your car looks cool! The combination of warplane and automobile is a very curious design!")
"Danke, junges Mädchen!"("Thank you, young girl!") he answered in his native tongue.
"Wie gefällt es Ihnen hier in Crystal Cove?" ("How do you like it here in Crystal Cove?")
"Ich fühle mich sehr in Ihrer Stadt begrüßen zu dürfen! Das erinnert mich an die glorreichen Tage des Sieges Paraden, während ich meine Kanzlerin und dem Vaterland gedient!" ("I feel very welcome in your town! This reminds me of the glory days of victory parades while I served my Chancellor and the Fatherland!")
Marcie chewed on the statement in slight confusion as the Crimson Haybaler drove by. She had always thought that the special cars that some of the Racers drove were just gimmicks to give a visual statement to the drivers' "character." Like costumes on a professional wrestler.
But the Red Max actually behaved, if not outright believed, that he truly was a German World War I ace. Surely, he was just a very good actor.
Surely.
"I didn't know you spoke his language," Eleanor replied, impressed.
Marcie shrugged, "Fifth period German. I guess it finally came in handy."
Marcie looked to the direction of where the cars were coming from, expecting the next one to roll by, when it happened.
Her breath caught in her chest. She could see the gleam of white and silvery brushed steel, the wide, flat, angular and streamlined shape of automotive technology.
When Professor Pat Pending's Convert-a-Car approached from up the street, canopy raised so the people could see the professor, and vice versa, Marcie gave an uncharacteristically loud whoop, and a frantic cheer.
"Elle! Elle!" Marcie yelled, shaking the poor woman by the arm. "There he is! There he is! There's Pat Pending!"
Marcie leaned out of the crowd, waving her arms and calling out to him. "Pat! Pat! Your reprogramming gambit in last season's race in Nevada was inspired! Hacking a mobile, automated weapons platform on the fly, like that, was so epic!"
The small parabolic mic that was extended from the seamless chassis, swiveled in her direction, picking up her words clearly. Pat adjusted his headset, following the mic to see Marcie waving with a smile as big as her glasses.
"Thank you! When you deal with Dick Dastardly as long as I have, you learn to think on your feet!" he replied into the headset, his words ringing out through concealed speakers in the car's aerodynamic fenders.
"Is it true that the Convert-a-Car runs on an experimental cold fusion engine?" she asked next.
"My dear, if it were any colder, it would make ice cream," came the jaunty reply.
Marcie debated about saying the next thing that popped in her head, embarrassed at being so swept up in the moment, but, deciding that she'll probably never get this chance again, blurted out, with blushing face, "I think you're cool!"
Pat favored her a charming grin. "Thanks, again! I am invariably felicitous to stimulate pulchritudinous, pubescent females, such as yourself!"
Eleanor could make heads or tails of that sudden storm of verbiage she heard, but a glance to Marcie indicated that not only did the girl understand it, she was moved by it.
"You heard that?" Marcie asked, her face getting redder. "He...He called me pulchri..." Then she fainted in Eleanor's fast arms.
"Marcie!" Eleanor said, trying to gently shake awake. "Marcie, for crying out loud, wake up! You're making a durn spectacle of yourself, and since I don't understand a word he just said, and you're swoonin' like a bridesmaid, I'll just have to assume he said something nice to you. Marcie!"
A concerned-looking woman nearby, watched the scene of Eleanor trying to rouse the girl. Eleanor shrugged to her while she fanned air to a now awakening Marcie.
"That was...so cool," Marcie dazedly mumble to herself.
"Her mother was a groupie for Thomas Dolby," Eleanor said to the woman, apologetically.
Marcie's clearing thoughts were sidetracked by the sudden cacophony of Bronx cheers, boos, and hisses that rose when the black and purple Mean Machine prowled slowly up the street, its tinted windows, a new feature, Marcie noticed, darkening ever more deeply in the daylight.
"I guess it's good that the windows are tinted," she mused aloud, standing fully again. "He's probably showing the hecklers his unique sign language skills, right now."
While the citizens enjoyed the cavalcade of celebrities riding by, sheriff and mayor took the time to relax, watch the event, and speak quietly to each other.
"Well, you did it, Honey-Your Honor," Bronson told her proudly. "You got Hollywood to come here. You've made some little boy's life-long dream come true."
Mayor Nettles stretched covertly and exhaled. "Well, I can't take all the credit. Some scientific think tank that helps sponsor the races helped me convince the production to shoot here."
Stone waved it off. "Well, whatever happened, a boy can now follow his dream to show America what it means to be a true public servant, and a real man of law enforcement."
"You're not horning in on the shoot, Bronson." Janet told him in a deadpan voice.
"Please. Horning in?" Bronson said in an approximation of surprise. "Me and my men are simply providing security while the film crew is in town. Can I help it if, say, in the course of my duties, a camera just accidentally captures my rugged good looks, my steely eyes, my tough, but fair demeanor?"
His wife crossed her arms in annoyance and warned, "Bronson, don't act like a fool in front of the film crew. In fact, don't act. You're not very good."
"Humph! Shows what you know!" the sheriff puffed up. "I've read the history of Dead Justice, growing up, and I know that the people are ready to see Dead Justice ride again on the small screen!"
"And you're the sheriff to play the part?" Janet asked skeptically.
"I even wrote the pilot script," he said proudly, then he cleared his throat and recited. "It was hot in the town. Dead hot. And it was dangerous there, too. Dead dangerous. But there was money to be made here. Dead money-"
Janet put a fingers to his lips to quiet him. "Read it to me later, Hoss. Right now, I have to talk to the producers and get this shoot on the way, and you, my beloved husband, have crowd control."
Bronson looked out to the throngs of people while he glumly reached for his walkie-talkie.
"Dead Justice didn't have to do crowd control," he groused, just as the Mean Machine was crossing over to the next block.
When the driver/passenger section of the jetcar suddenly blossomed and shattered from an fiery explosion that sent a vibrating shockwave through the bones and hearts of everyone watching, HC Productions' camera crews were dutifully there to capture the unexpected death of Richard "Dick" Dastardly.