Moving at a steady clip of 18 miles per hour, Dash was lost to the world of racing and corporate sponsorships. It was only here, at Oscar’s combination Poolhall, Go-Kart track, and Thai massage parlor that he could be at home with his thoughts. His mind began to shift to happier times. Suddenly, he was transported to his boy-hood hometown of Crashelltenbergville, Mississippi, where the population was just under 400 and the two most prominent centers of industry were moonshining and hedge-fund speculating. Dash was one of two boys married to Mary Laudermyer and Curtis Rencroft. Being a relatively progressive couple by Crashelltenbergville standards, Mary and Curtis decided to hyphenate their children’s names and thus Dash’s nickname had been born from a lifteme of confusion from trying to explain his name was Dale Laudermyer “Dash” Rencroft.
Life could be tough living in a small town and one of the few solaces that Dash had been racing converted Yamaha lawnmowers with his big brother Hyphen Rencroft. Curtis Rencroft sold the lawnmowers in the Sears that was two towns over but his true passion was modifying them for speed and forcing his sons to race them in the medium sized field behind the family trailer. At first Dash had felt kinda silly racing a lawn mower at 15 miles per hour but eventually he began to make a strategy for it. For the rest of his life he never felt more alive than he did trying to avoid running into the Clutter’s cocker spaniel beagle mix with his lawnmower. Woe to the brother that fell behind and lost his race. Curtis Rencroft could be a mean sonofabitch when he wanted to, which was most of the time. He was known to go through 2 cases of Jack and 3 of Smirnoff in an afternoon. And then he would move on to the hard stuff. And then he would get into a switching mood. Crashelltenbergville’s oak trees were notorious for the strength and durability of the switches that could be had from them and if Dash lost, his backside would be as red as the Electoral College map when a hypnotizing socialist Antichrist isn’t in the running.
Yes, except for the savage beatings and social ostracizing, Crashelltenbergville, Mississippi seemed like paradise. That is until that fateful day that would change the course of Dash’s life forever. The afternoon was sunny, with temperatures in the high 60’s. The kind of weather that’s just beginning to be good for just a tshirt but you would probably be more comfortable in a jacket or a light sweater but whatever makes you happy man. I’m not here to tell you how to dress. Dash was putting on the gas going into the 145 lap of the race his father had decided to call the “Where’d all the Beer Go? I think your whore mother drank it” 200. He was gaining on Hyphen but knew he would never win if he didn’t come up with something fast. In a split second, Dash decided to get close enough to his to spook him into giving up the lead. Unfortunately for both brothers, Dash misjudged the distance to Hyphen’s lawn mower and nudged his brother into a full out spin. Suddenly, the momentum of Hyphen’s lawnmower doubled and then quadrupled into itself, sending the Yamaha ZH200 swiftly into Curtis Rencroft’s 1977 Dodge Monaco which inevitably sent the Hyphen into a series of end over end barrel rolls that ended with the his lawnmower bursting into flames then exploding; sending little pieces of Hyphen and lawnmower all over the Mark Callaway Memorial trailer park. Looking back as he raced away from the horror and the grief for his dead brother, Dash knew he could never go back home and that he could force himself to do whatever it takes to get out the skids, and into the win.
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