The Rally and Crash
Hale Chimesfills sat in his auto-garage with slumped shoulders. The steel tent filled with various autoparts, souped up cars, and hot goods. A scavenged jukebox blared a fresh Chuck Berry hit that he could hardly hear. The twenty something warrior was locked in thought on his throne: a worn, beaten up, green leather chair that no one else dared sit in. With a blank composition drawn on his face he sat seated next to his cherry red 1948 Ford DeLuxe Convertible. His chariot, the Austin Axl Husband, would be outfitted with the latest customizations tonight. It would be given the most powerful engine this side of his world had ever seen. Fitted with the newest, strongest wheels; then, greased and oiled to perfection. But for now, he sat there alone, his head slung low. Slick black hair swept back into a neat combed pompadour look. Dressed in the armor typical for his day: a pristine white t-shirt, light blue denim jeans, and a heavy black leather jacket. The jacket currently unceremoniously thrown on the floor next to matching jet-black beatle boots. Hale was a product of his era; a camel cigarette snug in his lips as he puffed a sigh.
Who he was now didn’t stop him from being consumed by the thoughts that plagued all men. He took another long, slow drag. Something was off today. And the last day and the day before. He had sat and slept in this dwelling for some time; not bothering to get on with anything. The “Grimmer Donkeys” -- his men, his gang -- coming in and out. Cockeyed smiles and lively looks framing their all too similar faces. He had still been directing them, giving them their working orders for the war effort. Keeping his brave blank face all the while. The big race with their rivals the “Nag Rots” was on the horizon tomorrow. And a great deal stood on the line for this final culminating battle. The boys would have their fill of women for months if he won; and less important to them, a massive chunk of Nag Rot territory would be theirs. This was serious. The battle had been going on for the last two weeks. Fist fights, knife dancing and now a chickie race to settle it all. He was their best driver and it all stood on his shoulders, as it had countless times before.
What’s more, he had even more fuel that should have been added to his currently smouldering fire. The fact that his perfect unblemished racing record would stand the test against the equally impressive Perth Cornice. Yes, the same Perth Cornice known on the opposite side of civilization as the greatest driver alive. Perth was Hale’s forever rumored rival; they had danced and flirted around each other for years, accomplishing great deeds but never coming face to face till now. He should be excited, enthralled -- relishing the chance to take everything he could possibly want from the world.
But he found himself unable to care.
Something had been off and for how long he couldn’t quite remember. He couldn’t remember the crash and fall. When it all had slipped away, or when it all began to slip away. Hale’s authentic valor and ever burgeoning ego seeming to have left him. He normally thrived under this type of pressure and loved the glory it brought him. “But now?” The break neck stakes of a life and death race felt small and fragile. It was just another rat race. His antiquified world around him becoming just as ephemeral. The fleeting satisfaction of adrenaline filled races that would leave him pleased and powerful for days felt completely pointless. The whoops and hollers of his men and their undying devotion felt like hushed, whispered comments of no consequence. And Hale, confused and dumbfounded by his own malise, could only sit there in his cold, steel-plated tent trying to figure it all out. Austin Axl, his truest friend, at least keeping him company all the while.
His grease slicked mind worked the best it could; it was not designed for this type of battle. He thought and thought of what was wrong with him. Hale wasn’t in love. He hadn’t suffered some great terrible accident. He wasn’t nursing a fat lip or bruised ribs. None of his donkeys had yet to die again recently. His beloved husband was about to be in prime shape and ready to fuck. He had no real reason to be feeling the blues. He already had most everything he could want in this world. But perhaps for the first time in his young life, he had begun to think. Really think. And it was an unfamiliar feeling he wished he could switch off. He began to realize who he was and where he was going. And for once, he felt the direction wouldn’t be him driving his beloved steed into another race. He saw glimpses of a future. Days when the “Grimmer Donkeys” and “Nag Rots” would end. He saw a man in his mind with unpolished, graying hair dressed in a monkey suit and gagged with a bowtie. He didn’t like these thoughts. They left Hale feeling as just a man. It left him feeling like he had just been playing some character in some passing era. That the act he was in would soon be over. It left him feeling stuck in a time that he knew was special but would still go labeled, stamped and then dismissed by history. He was parazlyed in fear of being set to live and die in this role. Hale always knew he was a greaser but he had no intention of being just another character.
Hale kept thinking these sulken thoughts, sinking deeper into his throne. His mind churning through the night. He knew he wasn’t the boy-god his men claimed him as: the undefeatable champion that an oil stained generation would always remember. He was flesh and bone. He was forgettable. His mind focused heavy on that. He’d be gone soon. His time -- his era -- replaced by another.
“Would anyone care about Hale Chimesfills?”
The thought stuck in his craw, as he bristled at the notion. Hale leapt off his throne and rose to his full height now. He was tall and strong. Gifted a frame that you’d find on the front cover of a superhero comic. He was proud of this, as he was most things in his short life. Hale had little regrets. And the ones he did have were kept close to his chest, only his most trusted Donkeys and Austin ever knowing. He picked his black leather jacket off the floor and flung it over his shoulder. An arm with more than enough strength resting on his hip. There was a deep breathe into his mighty chest, his cigarette thrown and stamped out on the cement beneath him.
For a second, the mystery that was plaguing him was erased. The Nag Rots would soon be at the race track beating and hollering. A drive. A focus. That’s what was needed. The thought of his hatred for the Nag Rots populating his head. “Yes.” How he hated them. Dressed in their pristine white t-shirts, dark denim jeans, brown leather jackets and matching brown boots. He tried to think of another reason. There was a pause. A crash. And it began to slip away.
Soon this drive would be over. He began to think again; grimmer realizations setting in once more.
*
The morning of the big race had arrived. This was it. This was Hale’s time. The world around him hot, beating, alive and on fire. The fresh morning sky still dark as chilled air fought the rising heat of diesel powered steel. Hale and Perth were at the track, their cars revving side by side. The race mere moments away. His men lined around his Ford. Hale, tucked away in the cock-pit of his beloved husband, taunting Perth with ginger, loving steps on the throttle. The scream of his machine loud enough to match and then eclipse the hollars and roars of his grim, psychotic braying Donkeys. Their combined cries pushing a beating sensation along in his powerful chest.
This was his moment and his time forever. A hot piece of blonde haired ass dressed in a white hollister top and black daisy dukes made her way up the track. She took her place standing between the pair of mounted warriors. She slowly raised a checkered flag above her empty, yellow head. Hale; however, looked straight past her. Her perfect countenance and full tits an afterthought. His mind was only focused on the dirt track. The race was simple enough, the one who stopped closest to the edge was the winner. Mano machine: the driver who cared the least about his life the winner.
Taunting and baiting were the customs of this type of event. Jeers and threats spat between each driver as they made their maddened ascent towards the break point. Each expected to clash and bash their beloved chariots against one another all the while as the threat to be launched off the horizon became more and more real. Hale had done this dance enough to know all the tricks and he knew so had Perth.
This time it would have to be different. The checkered flag dropped. Tits bounced and engines blasted off. There was no clash of metal, no curses spat from Hale’s lips. He made a straight beeline for the edge. Perth, shocked, not wanting to be a coward could only try to keep up. Desperate to curse, crash and rail against his rival. But this would be all for not. A grin finally escaped Hale Chimesfills’ lips. That same blank, brave face he had been wearing for too long now broken. After Hale’s newfound grin came tears of joy and pure laughter, the beat of adrenaline the only thing in his heart and mind. The great perspective, now cast in a beautiful sunrise, mere feet, inches from him. Perth right on his tail. And Poor Perth, thank the Gods, his Nag Rots would have heard his pathetic sobbing if not for the roar of his engine. He had no better sense and kept following Hale, now too late to stop. His owns realizations upon him.
Hale knew where he was going. Where his entire life had been leading him. He was going straight into immorality. His Austin Axl Husband agreed with him as the engine roared louder toward the ascent. All sound and reality was drowned out from the world. There was a mix of wicked laughter and crying in the cockpit as Hale flew straight over the sunrise. His final crash lighting the half-dusk sky with a thunder only man and machine can make. His Donkeys speaking of it for months. Perth too went straight over that abyss. His own crash somehow so much less. Hale, the first to arrive at the destination, was deemed the winner. Perth Cornice was left only as a coward and a loser, greater realizations never fully setting into him.
The Grimmer Donkeys had their women for months. They also had the Nag Rot’s territory which they soon forgot about. Those Nag Rots would weasel their way back into that former land within weeks. New races and fights would brew with other greased societies for years to come. Their era, unbeknownst to them, soon to die. Hale Chimesfills, the unblemished perfect boy-god racer, beating them all to it. His name spoken of for all time and then forgotten.
Word Count: 1920