"Skeet skeet skeet skeet skeet" exclaimed Dale Earnhardt, Sr., the intimidator, as he shot a hefty load of semen off the Broadway Bridge. His adrenaline began to flow. He had just recently faked his death by making a rehearsed right turn in the middle of a counter-clockwise race around Daytona Speedway. But he was fed up with it all, he didn't want his demise to be just an illusion. He threw himself off the cold beams of the Broadway Bridge, towards the harsh water of the Harlem River below. Nothing mattered to him, Dale was thoroughly shaken by the realization of the godlessness of American Empire. In his heart, he still loved his son, his wife, his family, but as he raced toward the cold sludge, the arteries that part the soulless sprawl of former New Amsterdam, he carried with him only one thought; will he live to see his cursed seed fuse with the New York waters, or will he be the victor in his final race?
A train passed over the same bridge as Dale Earnhardt, Sr.'s body crossed the axis of the bridge surface. The moment at which he and the Seventh Avenue Line of the New York City Transit Authority were perpendicular, and Earnhardt's eventual corpse was within plain view of the tram's passengers was brief, but a watchful few bore witness nonetheless. Among the witnesses, a pair of FBI agents tasked with keeping track of Dale after his Daytona 500 theatrics. They listened for the damning crack as his body collided with the surface of the river below. They heard nothing, but acted on their assumptions anyway. One flipped open a phone, dialed a number, and placed it by his left ear. One ring passed, then two, then an answer. "We weren't in time to stop him," the agent said. The voice over the phone replied after a moment of silence. "Be sure you recover the body first, let's not make this more complicated than it has to be."
In the next car over, further from the front, Jerry and the gang were nestled, passing time on their way to Jerry's 81st street apartment in downtown Manhattan. "Something foul is in the air here," mumbled Benito Mussolini. He said it quietly, almost as if under his breath, but certainly everyone could hear him, though little attention was paid to the statement.
George was doing a crossword puzzle. "A variation of grape used to make dry wine. Six-letters. Anyone?" Kramer, in a single erratic movement, pulled the cigarillo from his mouth and rasped quickly as smoke shot into the space ahead of his mouth. "Raisin." George looked at Kramer as if he were insane. "What are you, insane?" His eyes were narrowed, as if he were suspicious of the tall man in front of him, his mouth slightly agape, as happens on occasion when one enters a state of deep focus or contemplation. Kramer was taken aback by the rebuke, but George was steadfast in his gaze. "A raisin isn't a grape." "What do you mean it's not a grape?" Replied Kramer, almost shouting. "It's not a grape," asserted George once more, "that's why it's called a raisin. If it were a grape it be called a grape, but it's called a raisin!" "Well it's a dried grape, George!" George stood up, beat red, breathing loudly, newspaper folded and clutched in his hand. "It's not a grape! If you asked somebody if they had any dried grapes, they'd think you were crazy! You'd be hauled off to the happy hotel, and they would never let you out! Your goose would be cooked! You'd never know the light of day again! Raisins aren't grapes! Raisins aren't grapes!" George was shouting at the top of his lungs; he could be heard from several cars down either direction. Kramer raised his voice as well, but wasn't quite as loud as George. "Well how do you make dry wine George? You gotta use dry grapes!" George was practically on the brink of having an aneurysm. He continued screaming, "Raisin isn't the answer! You can't make wine out of raisins!" This sort of meltdown was tragically common among small-penised men such as George Costanza. Amy chimed in. "You can make wine out of raisins." "Yeah!" Agreed Elaine. Sonic's blood rose to a simmer, he repeated to himself in his head, "shut the fuck up Amy, shut the fuck up Amy," but he wasn't going to hit her here, not where everyone can see. "Shut up!" howled George. "It's not raisins! Give me a different answer!"
The others wanted to continue the conversation, but decided to drop it to avert the puerile anti-intellectualist attitudes radiated by George and his micropenis. The more intelligent people in the group - Tails, Knuckles, Sonic, Benito Mussolini, Bill Murray, and perhaps Jerry - knew the true answer. It was 'Merlot'. But for their various reasons, they didn't provide George the assistance he begged for. Sonic and Bill Murray were both too above it all, wondering when this snooze cruise of a train ride would end. To them, providing an answer wasn't worth the effort. Jerry and Il Duce were both distant to the conversation as well, though because their focus was momentarily far away from their Earthly positions at that moment. Tails and Knuckles refrained out of religious principle. They were engaged in prayer, and felt no obligation to correct the will of Allah (subhanahu wa ta'ala) to leave an unbeliever in the blind, dark void of ignorance. If George were a more virtuous man, maybe he could compose himself in such a way that demanded the respect of men of the holy book, maybe then he would be given the answers he was looking for by those who are wiser than he, by the will of Allah (subhanahu wa ta'ala).
In the meantime, their train reached a stop at 79th street, only a few blocks from their destination, and the gang exited, though without Bill Murray. As they traveled among the tall skyscrapers of Manhattan, through the crowded streets and sidewalks, the mobians among them gained few odd looks. One might expect hedgehogs, echidnas, and foxes such as these to be an oddity in this metropolis, but America's eastern seaboard is crawling with freaks of all shapes and sizes, and the greater rabble were numb to odd figures. As they walked, the mobians started to feel a friction in the air. "You know Jerry," started Kramer, feeling eyes on the back of his neck, "I think these animals have a thing for me." He laughed and elbowed Jerry. "I have the Kavorka you know, the l-" "yeah yeah," interrupted Jerry. "The lure of the animal," he said almost mockingly.
They arrived at Jerry's apartment. "Make yourselves at home," said Jerry. "You know I never properly thanked you for saving us from the cops back there. If it weren't for you, I could be getting railed in the ass by a Gumby impersonator right now." "Hey, no problem dude!" Sonic gave a thumbs up. "Always a pleasure to shred some police officers!" Just then Jerry's phone rang; he answered. A series of unassuming, standard phone call-manner retorts followed. The standard potpourri of 'uh-huhs' 'yeahs' and an occasional 'really?' Jerry delivered a "sorry to hear that, thanks for letting me know," and said his goodbyes. He turned to Kramer, George, and Elaine and spoke. "Our friend Landon committed suicide!" The gang was shocked; George and Elaine exclaimed simultaneously. "What?" "Yeah," followed George, "jumped off the Broadway Bridge earlier today." "That's crazy," replied Elaine. "They said the funeral is tomorrow." "That soon?" Asked George, "strange." "We should all go together to pay our respects to the departed," said Knuckles, prompting Kramer and Amy to nod in agreement. "If you all insist." said Jerry.
The gang settled into the apartment. They managed to tune a radio to The Alex Jones Show and got comfortable.