"She's French, it's all in the name, " a modern, tanned Corolla, transfixed his sight on the yellow Sport's Coupe as she shimmied, high on her suspension, over the slippery mud. He was parked on the rickety grandstands just two feet above the guardrail, the promoter of the event called that spot the "Best of the House". You could see every corner of the Eight. Parked just below, on the sideline of the track, the gatekeeper and promoter himself, Roscoe, kept his eyes trained on the two new hitchhikers in the derby, neglecting to look at the Corolla— whom he had indirectly begun a conversation with.
"Said her name was, 'Frances', the other guy with the duckbill spoiler, 'Chester'. Besides, Frenchies don't compete in good ol' demolition derbies."
The cars, most twisted and rusted beyond repair, zested pass the outer gate, thrashing about mud and oil in their wake. The yellow, now gritty and miserable car in question, wailed alongside her stocky and atypical competitor. Both in last place.
Dilapidated and muddy, that was the scenery. The mood? Violently zealous.
Vehicles in the unkempt, wooden stands began thumping their tires rhythmically to the heavy metal speakers. Their yips filled the night with sadistic pleasure. These were the kind of cars to egg-on a fight to the death street brawl.
All eyes were set on the reigning champion, and probable former teacher, Fritter. The wretched school bus kept a dangerous tailgate on those two straggling sports cars. She grinned and hooted manically with enough room to chew off their bumpers. Rumors said Fritter feasted on competitors after sawing them to scrap metal. Based on her jagged, razor teeth and the wear down of that coppery, oil-stained, lacerating stop sign, Roscoe wouldn't need to inquire on it.
It was also good revenue to have her around, especially on Family Night. She scared the lugnuts off newbies, the crowd loved it.
This was the Crazy Eight. Roscoe had stellar experience of how vile and exciting the derby was. In fact, terrified and unusually conscripted vehicles made the perfect plot, or so the green Campster figured out over the years. Fans plucky enough to jump in the arena after a few pints of leaded and spiked 5W-30, were usually met with an early, permanent oil drain. Roscoe's job as gatekeeper and promoter easily kept him on the tips of his treads, so the Hollismobile expanded by making some extra side cash being a Thunder Hollow photographer as well. With two newbies in the arena tonight, he made sure to keep himself parked at the sideline closest to the track. The terror would be documented on each, respectively.
'Beltline', the yellow coupe, was cowering in the center of the track, hoping to remain undetected by the school bus. Not a good idea, terrified meat tasted better. Fortunately, Fritter's entourage settled their energy on 'Goldie's friend, the mud-bathed stocky sedan with that dang duckbill spoiler. He was quick and agile, but Roscoe was more interested in why they came at all. Cars like them didn't fit in a place like this.
Chester was in the center, giving Beltline a clumsy push. She was stuck in the mud flailing her sticky tires about and mumbling something. She was a boring treat for Fritter, and the bus would gladly scavenge. Roscoe had heard her mention that scared metal tasted better.
The banner dropped, and the school bus began her joyride. It was FRITTER TIME!
But Roscoe knew Miss Fritter was also an idiot.
The bus drifted her turn dreadfully, and lost her traction, ban-saw disappearing somewhere in Chester's rear end. A gutteral laugh escaped the Campster's mouth as he watched the spectacle. Fritter was left on her side, mud bathing like the big heifer she was.
"Don't even touch him," the bus struggled, "he is mine!" watching the gold coupe— her meal, make an escape. Beltline hobbled around the dilapidated track, slipping and yelping on her all-season tires each inch of the way.
"Hey! You're gonna ditch your friend behind like that!?"
The yellow car ignored fans garbling taunts through the fence. Her face fixed in blank, cationic horror watching the school bus regain her traction with a heavy boom right-side up. Mud splashed about, sending globs to splatter on Chester's roof. He struggled to accelerate with that damn mangled stop sign caught between his rear tire and mud flap. Fresh wet dirt did zero wonders to helping it pry loose.
Roscoe let his interest in the forth-coming gruesome scene falter. That wasn't no abstract beige this Chester Whipplefilter fellow sported. Nah, paint had a reflect to it, even under dirty street lights…
Fritter erupted with fire, her hefty tires ripped apart a trail to the muddy fool in the center of the Eight.
Those heavy, slick tires on him weren't going to fool Roscoe either. duck bill spoiler, burly axles. Chester looked like a damn race car. What were the chances Fritter would get to eat a race car tonight? She got herself a delicacy for dinner.
Except he swerved from her sights, toppling a tower of outworn tires and tubes. Miss Fritter mumbled a sentence of curses as her beast-like proportions went airborne. Despite his distance in the opposite direction, Roscoe felt himself shrink. No one wants to be on the receiving end of a soaring, ugly bus. Thankfully, it was a tattered billboard she crossed, jamming her in its confines.
Collective gasps ensued, and Roscoe shared the awestruck sentiment with the muddy stock car in center. He continued to race to nowehere after the stupor subsided, opting to swim through the terrain awkwardly.
Roscoe didn't like where this was going, and Drippy with his desires to race across the Eight to help the stranded bus made the events all too ridiculous. Beltline was still skidding across the erosion just as the water truck reached the center, she was the last car standing. She managed to avoid the big lug, and he too, toppled over like the idiot he was.
The bloated tank on his back groaned, bursting over Whipplefilter like a broken water main. He flinched under the cold shower, gargling incoherence as his ugly mud-job washed away. The crowd gradually fell silent, and some peered more closely as the red ''15" melted clean off his side.
A Sisley sedan parked closest to Roscoe was murmuring something, "Is that… Lightning McQueen?"
Roscoe hadn't a clue who he was talking about when the audience erupted. Chester was now a shiny crimson, creeping to maroon with the dull dirt polish. A big, golden bolt ran along his flanks to his mid-section, and a new number with it. Definitely a race car, and based on the uproar, a well-known one too.
His blue eyes darted side to side in embarrassment as he realized his cover was blown. Two forklifts hoisted a backdrop, GOT MY TIRES DIRTY AT THUNDER HOLLOW. The race car stared in frozen stupor ahead of flashing photography. That wasn't a part of his plan, clearly.
"Roscoe, take one for Chick's Picks!"
The Campster exchanged a glance with the race car, still squinting in the haze of meddling fans. McQueen? That's what they called him, right? So his name wasn't Chester Whipplefilter? The racer didn't seem to hear the commands taking place inches from him. The forklift beckoned Roscoe again, waving his arm in encouragement.
Roscoe adjusted his antenna, the digital red light prepared, "Say.. CHEVRON!"
The photo was a messy, but spectacular look for McQueen, but Roscoe hadn't a clue of what Chick's Picks was either. It sounded like an article for a CARgirl magazine, but if sending a picture or two to this network meant money in his trunk, he'd gladly oblige.
This was a great night for the Crazy Eight. Hey, no one even died, and the crowd was still thrilled out of their mind. Maybe McQueen would bank in from this too