A picturesque morning in the tiny town of Propwash Junction. The few dozen denizens were already up and going about their day. Everything was serene…or so it seemed…

"Dusty!" barked an old man with a graying mustache. " Will you kindly explain to me why you wolere late again?"

Dusty Crophopper groaned inwardly as he turned to face his employer. Once again, he'd stayed up most of the night and ended up sleeping in. He'd tried to get to work with as much quietness as he could muster, only to be caught as he was reaching his locker.

Dusty forced himself to smile up at his employer. "Sorry, Leadbottom," he said, "but...eheh...I didn't sleep a lot last night, so..." He gestured helplessly with his hands.

"So what? Why did you not get a good night's sleep this time?" Leadbottom folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Well," Dusty began lamely, "I had to do so many things, and it kept me up for most of the night. That's why." He forced himself to smile.

Leadbottom didn't look convinced. "Did any of those 'many things' have to do with the wild race you've been blabbering about these past months?"

"Uh...what? No!"

"Don't lie to me, Dusty," Leadbottom snapped. "You've been watching reruns of that wild race again, haven't you?" When Dusty didn't respond, he continued talking. "Damn it all, boy! When are you goin' to get it in your thick skull that you just ain't meant to enter that race? You're a human! That race is for them monsters only!"

The "wild race" Leadbottom was referring to was a competition that was held for people who were born with special skills every year. They had many names for themselves, although the popular term of "monsters" was hardly a politically correct one. The competition itself was dangerous, to the point where humans were all but banned from participating. Yes, humans could enter and give it a shot, but many chose to stay out of it in order to protect their own skins. The few that entered were lucky to make it through the first day.

This did not deter Dusty one bit. For as long as he could remember, Dusty had always been enthralled by the "wild race." It was bigger and better than any other holiday he'd ever celebrated. He would keep track of every monster that entered, made guesses about who would win and who wouldn't, and study the winners' strategies. He researched the race's history, rules, and incidents in the hope of learning how to beat it when he entered one day.

After last year's competition finished, Dusty made the big decision to enter himself in the next one. His best friend Chug had supported his decision wholeheartedly, but Dottie, his other friend and pseudo-sister, disapproved of the whole plan. She would keep reminding him that he didn't have what it took to even survive the first day, let alone the first hour. In spite of her words, he wasn't deterred. He was going to compete, and nothing was going to change his mind.

"I don't care," Dusty said to Leadbottom. He heard himself sound pissed off, but did not care. "I don't care if I'm just a human. I can fight like them, too! Even if the whole thing is a living nightmare, I still wanna do it." He stared at Leadbottom as though he were expecting a response.

Leadbottom groaned. He did not want to have another pointless debate about this "wild race" with his young employee. "Let's get goin'," he said after a moment of silence. "We've got a lot of work to do today." Without another word, he made his way to the fields. Dusty sighed in frustration before following. It wasn't common for him to snap at people, but whenever he did, he wondered if there was something inside him that made him behave that way.

"And finally done!" Dusty exclaimed as the sound of the whistle blared out over the fields. "Wow, what a day..."

Dusty vowed that if he ever found the opportunity to look for a different job, he would make sure it didn't involve dirt and corn. He headed back towards the locker room to shower and change out of his work clothes. He would like to head home and take a nap.

It isn't funny how lucky I am to put up with the smell of Vitaminamulch, Dusty thought. He couldn't stand his job, and he also couldn't stand how "lucky" he was to be where he was.

Upon arriving home, Dusty wanted nothing more than to fall asleep on the couch. Instead, he heads to his bathroom to take a shower. He tossed his dirty clothes into the laundry basket, then hopped into the bathtub and turned on the faucet. As he scrubbed his body, he was unable to stop himself from thinking back to a particular evening from his childhood.

"Mom?" a six-year-old Dusty inquired as he stood in the hallway outside his bedroom.

"Shh, Dustin," said Dusty's mother as she ran her fingers carefully through his hair. Then she took him by the hand and led him back to his room.

Dusty began to feel uncomfortable. His mother looked tired, but there was fear in her eyes. "Mom?" he asked again. "What's going on? Is something wrong?" As his mother placed him back in his bed and tucked him in, he couldn't help but ask, "Where's Daddy?"

"Daddy's fine, Dustin," Dusty's mother assured him. "You don't have to worry. I just want you to stay in bed and go back to sleep." She smiled to reassure him, but Dusty knew from the tone in her voice that something was wrong. Before he could ask, she gave him a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving the room.

Dusty frowned. That was the last time he ever saw his mother alive. He never understood the circumstances of his mother's death, or even his father's. Everyone told him that the past was in the past, nothing could be changed, and if you lingered on the details too long, you would never be happy.

Dusty finished his shower and changed into clean clothes. Just then, the phone rang. Dusty went to check the caller I.D.; it was his friend Chug. He picked up. "Hey, Chug."

"Hey there, Duster!" Chug's voice sounded cheerful on the other line. "Are you home?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Alright-y! You are ready for today, aren't you?"

"Don't hurry me, Chug. I'm really tired today."

"What?!" Chug sounded incredulous. "You can't be serious! You never skip practice."

"I know, but Leadbottom had me worked to the bone."

"So? Leadbottom always works you to the bone. It never stopped you before."

Dusty sighed. Chug had a point there. They would still practice even when Dusty was cramped and exhausted. "Okay, okay," he said at last. "Give me a few minutes to get ready, okay? I promise I'll be on your way in no time." Then he hung up.

"Better get myself into some clothes," Dusty said aloud before heading off to his bedroom.

Dusty changed into his clothes, grabbed a duffel bag that sat in the corner of his bedroom, then made his way out of his house and towards the store Chug ran with their other friend Dottie. He saw Chug outside his store helping out a customer. The customer, Sparky, was another of Chug's friends. Every time they met up, they would start chatting about whatever they could think about. They shared many interests and almost could never stop talking about them. That was why they were such good friends.

Dusty waited until Sparky left before pulling out a walkie-talkie. It was Chug's idea to have him contact him like that every time before they began training; he said it gave the whole thing a "realistic" feel. "This is Dusty Crophopper, over," he called. "Come in, Chug! I'm ready to start training, over."

He saw Chug hurry back into his shop. Not five seconds later, he heard his voice crackle on the other end. "Chug is not here, man," he said. "Come on, Dust! You gotta use your call sign. We talked about this. Over."

"Right, right." Dusty couldn't help but grin. "This is Strut Jetstream calling for Coach Turbozilla. You ready for practice?"

"You bet, Strut! Meet you at the field."

Dusty made his way to the vacant field just beyond the store. Beyond the store was a forest. He saw Chug stA picturesque morning in the tiny town of Propwash Junction. The few dozen denizens were already up and going about their day. Everything was serene…or so it seemed…

"Dusty!" barked an old man with a graying mustache. "There you are. Will you kindly explain to me why you were late again?"

Dusty Crophopper groaned inwardly as he turned to face his employer. Once again, he'd stayed up most of the night and ended up sleeping in. He'd tried to get to work with as much quietness as he could muster, only to be caught as he was reaching his locker.

Dusty forced himself to smile up at his employer. "Sorry, Leadbottom," he said, "but...eheh...I didn't sleep a lot last night, so..." He gestured helplessly with his hands.

"So what? Why did you not get a good night's sleep this time?" Leadbottom folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Well," Dusty began lamely, "I had to do so many things, and it kept me up for most of the night. That's why." He forced himself to smile.

Leadbottom didn't look convinced. "Did any of those 'many things' have to do with the wild race you've been blabbering about these past months?"

"Uh...what? No!"

"Don't lie to me, Dusty," Leadbottom snapped. "You've been watching reruns of that wild race again, haven't you?" When Dusty didn't respond, he continued talking. "Damn it all, boy! When are you goin' to get it in your thick skull that you just ain't meant to enter that race? You're a human! That race is for them monsters only!"

The "wild race" Leadbottom was referring to was a competition that was held for people who were born with special skills every year. They had many names for themselves, although the popular term of "monsters" was hardly a politically correct one. The competition itself was dangerous, to the point where humans were all but banned from participating. Yes, humans could enter and give it a shot, but many chose to stay out of it in order to protect their own skins. The few that entered were lucky to make it through the first day.

This did not deter Dusty one bit. For as long as he could remember, Dusty had always been enthralled by the "wild race." It was bigger and better than any other holiday he'd ever celebrated. He would keep track of every monster that entered, made guesses about who would win and who wouldn't, and study the winners' strategies. He researched the race's history, rules, and incidents in the hope of learning how to beat it when he entered one day.

After last year's competition finished, Dusty made the big decision to enter himself in the next one. His best friend Chug had supported his decision wholeheartedly, but Dottie, his other friend and pseudo-sister, disapproved of the whole plan. She would keep reminding him that he didn't have what it took to even survive the first day, let alone the first hour. In spite of her words, he wasn't deterred. He was going to compete, and nothing was going to change his mind.

"I don't care," Dusty said to Leadbottom. He heard himself sound pissed off, but did not care. "I don't care if I'm just a human. I can fight like them, too! Even if the whole thing is a living nightmare, I still wanna do it." He stared at Leadbottom as though he were expecting a response.

Leadbottom groaned. He did not want to have another pointless debate about this "wild race" with his young employee. "Let's get goin'," he said after a moment of silence. "We've got a lot of work to do today." Without another word, he made his way to the fields. Dusty sighed in frustration before following. It wasn't common for him to snap at people, but whenever he did, he wondered if there was something inside him that made him behave that way.

"And finally done!" Dusty exclaimed as the sound of the whistle blared out over the fields. "Wow, what a day..."

Dusty vowed that if he ever found the opportunity to look for a different job, he would make sure it didn't involve dirt and corn. He headed back towards the locker room to shower and change out of his work clothes. He would like to head home and take a nap.

It isn't funny how lucky I am to put up with the smell of Vitaminamulch, Dusty thought. He couldn't stand his job, and he also couldn't stand how "lucky" he was to be where he was.

Upon arriving home, Dusty wanted nothing more than to fall asleep on the couch. Instead, he heads to his bathroom to take a shower. He tossed his dirty clothes into the laundry basket, then hopped into the bathtub and turned on the faucet. As he scrubbed his body, he was unable to stop himself from thinking back to a particular evening from his childhood.

"Mom?" a six-year-old Dusty inquired as he stood in the hallway outside his bedroom.

"Shh, Dustin," said Dusty's mother as she ran her fingers carefully through his hair. Then she took him by the hand and led him back to his room.

Dusty began to feel uncomfortable. His mother looked tired, but there was fear in her eyes. "Mom?" he asked again. "What's going on? Is something wrong?" As his mother placed him back in his bed and tucked him in, he couldn't help but ask, "Where's Daddy?"

"Daddy's fine, Dustin," Dusty's mother assured him. "You don't have to worry. I just want you to stay in bed and go back to sleep." She smiled to reassure him, but Dusty knew from the tone in her voice that something was wrong. Before he could ask, she gave him a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving the room.

Dusty frowned. That was the last time he ever saw his mother alive. He never understood the circumstances of his mother's death, or even his father's. Everyone told him that the past was in the past, nothing could be changed, and if you lingered on the details too long, you would never be happy.

Dusty finished his shower and changed into clean clothes. Just then, the phone rang. Dusty went to check the caller I.D.; it was his friend Chug. He picked up. "Hey, Chug."

"Hey there, Duster!" Chug's voice sounded cheerful on the other line. "Are you home?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Alright-y! You are ready for today, aren't you?"

"Don't hurry me, Chug. I'm really tired today."

"What?!" Chug sounded incredulous. "You can't be serious! You never skip practice."

"I know, but Leadbottom had me worked to the bone."

"So? Leadbottom always works you to the bone. It never stopped you before."

Dusty sighed. Chug had a point there. They would still practice even when Dusty was cramped and exhausted. "Okay, okay," he said at last. "Give me a few minutes to get ready, okay? I promise I'll be on your way in no time." Then he hung up.

"Better get myself into some clothes," Dusty said aloud before heading off to his bedroom.

Dusty changed into his clothes, grabbed a duffel bag that sat in the corner of his bedroom, then made his way out of his house and towards the store Chug ran with their other friend Dottie. He saw Chug outside his store helping out a customer. The customer, Sparky, was another of Chug's friends. Every time they met up, they would start chatting about whatever they could think about. They shared many interests and almost could never stop talking about them. That was why they were such good friends.

Dusty waited until Sparky left before pulling out a walkie-talkie. It was Chug's idea to have him contact him like that every time before they began training; he said it gave the whole thing a "realistic" feel. "This is Dusty Crophopper, over," he called. "Come in, Chug! I'm ready to start training, over."

He saw Chug hurry back into his shop. Not five seconds later, he heard his voice crackle on the other end. "Chug is not here, man," he said. "Come on, Dust! You gotta use your call sign. We talked about this. Over."

"Right, right." Dusty couldn't help but grin. "This is Strut Jetstream calling for Coach Turbozilla. You ready for practice?"

"You bet, Strut! Meet you at the field."

Dusty made his way to the vacant field just beyond the store.

Nov 29, 2017Site's acting weird with the PM today. The whole document is less than 8000 words.

He saw Chug standing right at the edge of the field, dressed in a matching green jacket and hat. He had his walkie-talkie in one hand and a book in the other. The book was their guide to prepare them for the wild race.

"You all ready to surprise me, Duster? I mean, Strut?" Chug asked through the walkie-talkie. Dusty could see him grinning from where he stood.

"I can give it a try!" Dusty replied, laughing. He unzipped his duffel bag and pulled out its contents: two Smith and Wesson Model 29 guns with a .44 Magnum cartridge, and the holsters they went in. The guns were originally his father's; he'd received them as a birthday present as a child, but they were kept away from him until he was old enough to know how to use a firearm. That had been the idea of both his mother and Leadbottom.

Dusty checked to make sure the guns were loaded before attaching the holsters to his belt and sliding them in. Then he pulled out one of the guns and took on a fighting stance. "All set, Coach," he called out.

Chug's voice crackled back onto the walkie-talkie. "Ready and...go!"

Dusty took off towards the trees. This exercise was simple: run through the woods and shoot all the targets he could find. Chug had set up a trail for him to follow, and hung targets for him to shoot at. The "targets" in question were glass bottles that dangled from tree branches from colorful pieces of yarn.

Dusty shot at a bottle, and it shattered instantly. "One down," he announced over the walkie-talkie.

"Great! Now, try to shoot a target that's behind you," Chug told him.

Dusty looked over his shoulder and saw a green wine bottle hanging from a maple tree. He turned around, cocked the gun, and fired. First shot missed. Dusty grumbled and tried again. This time, he was successful. "Got it on the second try," he declared.

"Okay, don't be dogging it," Chug said. "Now, I think there's another target on your left. Pretend it's someone trying to sneak attack you!"

"Roger that!" Dusty turned around and fired. He managed to hit the target/bottle. "Did it," he declared proudly.

"All right-y," Chug's voice came back on the walkie-talkie. "There's about three targets I've set up down by the dried-up riverbed. This time, I want you to use both your weapons. Try to pretend they're enemies and you gotta sneak-attack them. Got it?"

"Got it!" Dusty jogged down towards the dry riverbed. Three bottles hung from a willow tree on the other side, two hiding within the branches. Dusty ducked down behind a large rock and got his other gun ready. At that instant, he felt a burning sensation forming in his legs, but he chose to ignore it.

Both guns in hand, Dusty peered up from behind the rock and made to aim…but then felt a shooting pain go up his legs, through his body, and to his head. The shock made Dusty cry out in pain and fall down. As he lay on the ground, he felt a brief sense of relief that he had not cocked either gun at that point. Otherwise, he would be in trouble.

"Aw, f," Dusty groaned.

"Strut? I mean, Dust? What happened?" he heard Chug's voice inquire.

"Something's wrong with my leg," Dusty replied. "I don't know what happened. All I know is that I didn't shoot myself."

"Hold on, I'll be right there." A few minutes later, Chug showed up and helped Dusty up on his feet. "Can you walk okay, man?" he asked worriedly.

Dusty put some weight on his feet. No burning sensation or shooting pain happened. "Yeah, I think so," he said after a moment. Maybe it had been from the combined stress of working and training today.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. At least, for now. I just know Dottie won't be happy about this."