Running from the cops felt as natural to Dash as a wild white snow cat does running through the tundra while dodging sniper fire from a helicopter. The Cool Ranch Doritos #42 car had been surprisingly easy to hot wire and Dash had found that if he just pushed down the gas pedal all the way and didn’t really think of who got in the way as he was escaping the garage, things just kinda worked themselves out. He thought he had heard a crunching sound as he grazed Roy Buckman’s leg but it was hard to tell with “Bat Out of Hell” playing full blast on the stereo. Dash had been drinking pretty heavily prior to stealing the car and the Jack kept flowing forth as he barreled down the highway. Suddenly everything was so clear and focused. Dash now knew what he had to do. If his love with Madeline was going to live, the Cool Ranch Dorito #42 car had to die.
But where to kill it was the question. Would it be off Stickman’s Gorge down by the river where Dash had first proposed to Madeline. Or would it be the alley behind abandoned First Prespraterian Church where they had first consummated their love. Or would it be the parking lot of the Sam’s Club where Madeline had waited patiently while Dash inquired whether the morning after pill could be acquired in bulk.
With the cops on his tail Dash knew he would never get a chance to dispose of the Cool Ranch Dorito #42 car. So he gunned it into the next gear and reached for the Glock 40 caliber he kept in the Cool Ranch Dorito #42 car’s glove compartment just in case the races got a little hairy. He reached out the window and fired off a few shots to let the po-po know he meant business. Witnesses later would say they heard him shout a few things where I’m sure you could see it as Anti-Seminic but that’s really taking them out of context and we’re all human and sometimes we say things we don’t really mean and who are you to judge after all. Huh, James Patrick Robinson. I’m sure you’re a perfect fucking person who never said anything out of line in your whole life. Big fucking deal. This is a real man we’re talking about. Not some mammsie pammsie comedy man. So get off your high horse for once and try and walk in someone else’s shoes, huh, Patrick?
Anyways, after the shots went off the police cars began to keep their distance with the Cool Ranch Dorito #42 car. Or so Dash thought. What he didn’t realize until it was to late was that the Highway he was driving on was the Glenn Jacobs memorial highway that was hopefully over budget and consequently unfinished. When he finally did realize the course he was taking would lead him to his untimely demise he knew he only had two options. Go out in a blaze of glory like those two lesbians in that movie with Brad Pitt and never see his darling Madeline again or put the brakes on and be delivered to a jail cell where he wouldn’t be behind the wheel of a decent motor vehicle for a long long time.
I don’t think I have to tell you which one he chose. People from 3 counties away said they could hear the explosions from the car hitting a fuel tanker on the service road below the highway. But their probably just lying to make themselves look cooler because sound really doesn’t travel that way. Madeline would eventually marry a different driver who wasn’t quite as good as Dash on and off the track. But then again, who is? Roy would walk with a limp the rest of his life. A less than subtle reminder of what happens when you push a man who’s dangerously close to the edge. And Matilida, well she just kept of being a filthy tramp.
Before today few outside the racing world know the tragic story of Dash Rencroft. But it is this author’s hope that his name will live on in the annals of Nascar lore. If only as a warning to those who loved so hard that they couldn’t get out of the skids, and into the win.
No comments:
Post a Comment