Stories, Stereotypes & SuperlativesbyPayDay©
Note: This is my story, I wrote it, stealing is lame. If you don't like it, don't read it. Feel free to e-mail me with any mistakes you find. I will feel free to delete it and call you an asshole, out loud. Hope you enjoy the ending (no peeking!), reading it twice is also fun.
Now the Disclaimer: This has been re-submitted with tweaks, all feedback and votes may have been valid at the time of their posting. This story is stupid long, the whole story at once -- three parts. I apologize to anyone named Jennifer and Allison in advance, because I know the Tara's, Laura's, and Lisa's would never forgive me.
Do not be stupid with this information
This is not a true story.
Do Not Try Most Of This Stuff At Home.
Shout out to all the motor heads and to Constitutional free speech.
Short Stories, Stereotypes, and Superlatives:
It was funny, it was not meant to be, but it was. It was not necessarily the gesture that made it comedic, and not necessarily the execution of the maneuver that caused them all to giggle lewdly. No, it was just a funny thing to do, if you did it. The ends justified Wyatt's means, though Guinevere couldn't help but think of the similarity to Burt Reynolds ditching a cop and smiling at the camera.
Why wouldn't she? Guinevere's father actually was a racecar driver, nothing famous mind you, just a great driver on a hometown dirt track. It was his hobby, and her best memories were of her family together on race day.
Her mother was always worried at the start, and relieved at the finish, with something entirely different in between. "Oh just be careful, honey," was what her mother would always say to her father once his helmet was on, following the phrase with a kiss to the clean and used surface.
"Don't worry, lover," he would always say to her mother, he only said 'lover' on race day, calling her nothing else for the duration. "It'll be fine. I'm the best, right sweetheart?" He always replied to his wife, easing her grief, by bringing their young child into the conversation. They always went out as a family, even as spectators, it was their hobby as well.
"Right!" That was always Guinevere's reply to her father. She looked exactly like both parents with their attributes spaced evenly; her mother's strawberry kissed light brown hair, her father's brown, green spotted eyes. The exception was her freckles, freckles neither parent had. Freckles she did, in abundance, with extra.
She would have her empty one of the pair of her hands up, thumb extended, and her father had an 'ok' sign made with his, in return to her thumb up. To her, no man bested her daddy, even if her father lost a race early on. She knew the best driver did not always win, even at that age. It was always the same for the Hodges Family Performance team, at the start of every race.
Her father, as best he could, tried to instill in her his passion for internal combustion, racing, and engineering, in small intervals, in his spare time. From top to bottom, in and out he assembled, fabricated, and combined pieces to make the whole as one (ha). This offered him a chance to relax and spend quality time with his daughter after a full work week.
Always she had a toy car in one hand, even while she watched him work, slowly rolling herself on a wheeled dolly or stool, or holding a 'drop' light to aid him. Guinevere wanted to know each part he was wrenching, always asking why with how, the answers often confusing to her young mind. She was bright, but as he went into full detail he would see her get confused. Instead of droning on, he would just smile at her and, steer the conversation back to his little girl.
This is how they spent all of their time together. Whenever life allowed.
"I know she's a girl, honey," her father was saying in her memory, "but it's what she likes, and I just want her to be happy." She could always remember her father shrugging off her mother's warnings, Guinevere not understanding what the connotations of the conversation were until later in her life.
"Guinny only loves them because you do, dear." Her mother, even back then, was a perceptive woman. "I'll let you take her to the garage to watch you work and help, if that's what she wants. But you have to promise she stays sort of clean and uninjured, ok? I don't want to see any oil on anything, and I mean it," her mother was not a mean woman, though she was looking stern. She knew children would be children, especially her own. Guinevere's mother also knew her husband was right about her happiness.
"There's an 'and' dear, so slow down..." Guinevere had been pulling her father's hand towards the door with one of her own, a matchbox car clasp in her other - as always - when her mother stopped them.
"...And, you swear you won't let her go racing." Her mother knew she would have problems with her child when she got her license, if not before then, dreading horrors to come while remembering her own early driving days full of the same.
"I swear, my beautiful wife," Guinevere's father said to his beautiful wife, "that she will not lose any toys out there in the shop." He had his fingers crossed, in the air, for all to see, with a broad smile on his face as the pair headed out to wrench on the car.
His garage was very organized, spotless really, yet his daughter always came back with a smeared black nose where her father grabbed it. Despite unsuccessful attempts at being offered dolls, she instantly selected wings and costumes as daily outfits during her early days. Guinevere was the conundrum of a tom-boy, and a joy to her parents's life.
So, why not Burt Reynolds? This guy moved with the same style of cockiness and ownership, though this man's hair looked just like Steve McQueen's. Just like it; same style, though longer and mostly untrimmed. Soft, dirty blonde was blowing around on his head in the windy, spotlessly clean, black interior of the car. All possible windows were open, with the sunroof ajar and mimicking a spoiler.
This guy also had that same 'dreamy' look on his face that Lightning did, with different attributes; even, short stubble grown across his face and neck. The sunglasses on top of head were surfaced in silver mirror. There were thin strips of cloth netted into the window openings.
He was piloting his shabbily painted road machine in the passing lane parallel to the cute foreign job (you know the one) with the four bikini clad women in it, driving down the long, straight, flat, near speed-trap-less two lane roadway - no other cars in sight. They could all feel the vibration of their tiny, brightly colored, stock foreign car out of tempo with the beat from their own far too loud stereo. It was his vehicle making their blaring Top 40 selection more irrelevant and ten times as unintelligible.
"What a loooo-ser." It was Jennifer, the infamous L-shaped hand on her forehead.
Guinevere, instead of teasing, was noting the five-point-harness being stretched by his shirtless chest, not the other way around, and his soft light body hair. He was wearing the black leather seat all wrong though, large in build but just above average in height. He was making himself fit into the seat by force, tightly, as the constrains of the car's size would barely allow.
Guinevere also spied the multitude of speakers visible on the back deck panel, behind the back seat, underneath of the rear window. There were gauges on and in the dash in front of him. There was a small square screen molded into the dash, in a car that shouldn't have one, pixels and instrument arms moving in a dance.
In his left hand, hanging in front of the steering wheel and over the smooth dash, was definitely not a burning cigarette. His left wrist was on the steering wheel. His right arm was disappearing, mid bicep, below the horizon of the passenger's side exterior metal, resting on somewhere in the area of the center console, and leaning on the right arm. There were unique tattoos and he was almost too big for the mid-sized car, head almost touching the grey headliner; some of his shaggier hair occasionally flicking out of the open sunroof, geniously (you read it) staying out of his eyes via the sunglasses.
"Yeah, that is stupid. Just dumb, how does he drive that piece of crap?" Melissa was agreeing with Jennifer - who was of the attitude to treat her seat like some sort of couch. All the while, Guinevere was trying to figure out how a thing could be so low and not scrape the ground and tear itself apart.
"How did he do that?" She was thinking to herself. It hovered valiantly without efforts, always the same height from the Earth, despite the dirty tricks of wheelbase and the lands surface. The movements seemed abrupt, spastic, totally at random.
"Or potholes... ugh, look at him, fucking stoners..." Melissa was shaking her head now in mock disgust, still laughing. "You should have let me call the cops," she was giving Guinevere a 'death to you' gaze that was totally ignored in return, her attention elsewhere. Allison honked the horn to no response, but left the windows up; the hums, vibrations, and sounds of his car still droning through and trying to steal the thought processes of the untrained.
Occasionally, out of time with its unwavering vertical travel, Guinevere would watch the car bounce, and go even lower. It took her a few moments to realize it was not his car, but the car she was in, that was moving. His vehicle had not moved from level the entire time, only the wheels and tires. One machine was following an altogether different path than the other, seeming in more ways than one.
Guinevere Hodges was not quite the only one of the four college girls aboard to swoon in her cloth seat at his silent and most definitely cheesy 'what's up, pretty ladies in a car, how yuudoo-in?' head nod as he revved the engine to redline while in neutral. He was still traveling at speed equal to theirs down the lonely road, side by side.
He took the patience to wait until after the driver had honked.
It was not the obvious sarcastic playfulness combined with stupid danger, but her mental comparison to sexy movie stars born from men of his cut that made Guinevere laugh. The other's motivations purely humor towards his action, at first.
Thoughts of television brought 'funny because it's true' to her mind and she almost touched her nose. Wyatt's deep blues noted her difference, seeing her location behind the driver's seat, almost pressing her cute face against the glass, before turning his vision back to the road.
Guinevere caught the contrast of his dark blues against the thread of the netting, and the man in his car was smiling brightly, now turning to look straight ahead, back to the road.
"I'd fuck him," said Allison to instant giggles, she was the bold one.
Wyatt Billings took a left onto "Beaches Highway" not knowing the actual name, or the reason for the nickname other than that it goes to the beach in one direction.
It was his favorite expanse of infrastructure, well maintained, smooth like a river rock, and out of weight class for the trucks and buses. Weight class and speeding were the only things generally enforced. Only the few locals, knowing better, managed to escape with most other drivers being culprits.
The revenues were acceptable enough to be kept quiet. The road signs at the few intersections had long since been stolen, being in the boondocks. Basically, it was the only back road directly to the shore without any of the traffic.
You had to know this road was here.
The maps seldom showed it; and GPS satellites read only of the distance; nearly five miles longer than the toll road or highway. Towards the halfway point, the road had a long slow curve, making it appear to go the wrong way for traveling to either destination at either end.
In the evening it gave off the creepy 'dueling banjos' feel, as the hunting club was the only other building, right next to the patrol depot, sharing it's driveway and almost out of sight. In the daytime though, it was pure tributary beauty, having long since been preserved as marshlands without the parks.
It was a well kept secret for locals, the unspoken truce on either end was that it did not exist if you needed directions It should have been nicknamed "the free toll road with five intersections" but it was not. The only two signs left on the whole road said "Distance To Beaches 50" and "Distance From Beaches 50" towards the civilization end of the road, on opposing sides of the shoulder of the pavement.
Neither town on either side was named "Beaches" or anything close to it.
Everything earlied (yup) for Wyatt, that day - perfectly - how he had wanted and planned it to be. He was on his way from the performance store, last tiny part for his dream machine in his possession. The store was at one end of Beaches Highway, the small shore town that made his home was on the other.
He lived on the bay side of the ocean his entire life, his father a small business owner long since passed, and his mother part of the local town legacies of wealth. He had money, like they did, but he only acted the part with his possessions, not his attitude or lifestyles. Wyatt's father never had the 'better than you' type of ideal. His father was a worker and a car guy himself. His mother on the other side surely did, though. Their combination created a relaxed individual who worked for what he wanted, which, other than cars and things related, was very little.
It was a long ride using the speed limit, still quite long without. It was worth it to Wyatt to get his part early on a Friday instead of waiting for shipping. It was the only thing he needed to make his other car function. This was the best (read as: safer for everyone else on the road) way for him to travel, to civilization and back from the shore. He had passed a trooper at excessive speed on his way up - but the trooper was waving.
See, this young man just happened to be the personal mechanic of all four troopers who worked the emergency station, and that length of roadway plus the surrounding - barely - area. He was also the young man that souped up their pair of cruisers for catching cars exactly like his, free of charge.
Wyatt was also friends with the bakery owner in his hometown, his trips to it being much faster than the troopers could muster.
Some people should not be allowed to drive, people like Wyatt, and the police sometimes need an advantage. He had messed with one trooper the only time Wyatt had ever been 'caught' and it was on that particular stretch of road.
Don't misunderstand, he had respect for the work they did -- always, always he trusted that they would do their job - but Wyatt also knew most officers of the law have respect for personal choice. Respect always goes a long way for people with shitty jobs.
Wyatt thought back to the conversation that started the arrangement between the four troopers, without the involvement of their superiors, as he feathered the throttle and clutch, and downshifted into second gear out of sight of the intersection well behind him.
He was laughing out loud to himself and his memories.
The trooper, one of four, had run towards Wyatt's window, hand on his gun, bellowing at the racer: "Do you know how FUCKING fast you were going! YOU SOMBITCH!" ; as Wyatt stuck his hand out the window and introduced himself, first name only, through the vibrant blue window net.
Wyatt had just spun the car into smoky circles, at a-terrible-to-most speed, down a length of the road, stopping the car in the dirt alongside, but just away from, the cruiser. He had a helmet on, and the clear yellow visor of it was up. Above and below where the plexan sat when closed, was the phrase "If You Can Read This, I CHOSE To Stop" in black sticker letters on the brightest white vented plastic surface of the helmet.
The calmness the - seeming - old school stunt driver exhibited had taken the officer aback, instantly aback. There were no plates on the car, but it had the valid inspection sticker on the window, and there was a giant white Jolly Roger on the flat black hood of the car, turned at a funny angle, as to not be square above a smaller 'crows nest' pattern over the grille. The paint looked terrible with holes in places for venting, but it was a strange oversized camouflage pattern; the rest of the car looked pristine, sounded pristine; though the automobile's shape was unidentifiable.
The tires were in position to take off again, as fast as they had arrived. There seemed to be a whistling, or humming, maybe both, sound coming from the medium-sized car. The trooper had never seen an exotic, nor import - if that's what it was - looking so modified, even through the mostly 'poor' appearance. He had always assumed this style of car to be small engined and computerized junk. The trooper's mind had been altered, no drugs were involved.
"Where are your plates?" the officer responded, no longer yelling, hands still a breath away from the radio at his shoulder, and the gun at his hip. Clearly he was not angry as much as curious. Training told him about the chances of shootings, logic told him to remain calm as this was the first car he'd seen all night. He had forgotten his hat; the open door of his cruiser was chiming between the unhurried, random, dialogue of radio chatter in the background.
"Look, trooper, sir, I just want to talk," the mostly unidentifiable man, who called himself Wyatt during his introduction, still had his right hand aside of the net, out of the window, the left on the steering wheel. The officer assumed he was young, but he also assumed the kid had the car in gear, ready to blast off.
"You got lucky, boy, reeal lucky. I'm the ranking Sergeant for these parts," the now obviously relaxed and mirroring Wyatt Sergeant said, while grasping the young man's hand in a firm, friendly shake, and a broad smile.(ha) "That was one hell of a trick you pulled there, but I think I would have tracked you down." He went stern and continued. "You can't outrun my radio, boy," the Sergeant said with a sudden laugh at the end, exerting his authority and skill, as the renegade stepped out of the thing.
"Do you want to bet me on that, Sarge? Box of Danish's? I have five cans of mis-labeled spray paint stashed in the back, with my plates... and some spares." Wyatt's smile was proudly, (yup) kicking a thumb back towards his ride while the other hand held his helmet.
It was then that the top rank trooper and the cocky kid struck up their conversation about potential lonely road hi-jinks. That was the type of guy Wyatt was, that was the type of trooper the Sergeant was.
Wyatt now floored the gas the he felt the sensation of the aftermarket shift assembly catch with smooth precision into second, the revolutions dropping and biting the front edge of the power band as he let the clutch out. Perfect shift for the way the car was set up, his hands remaining on the wheel and shifter, for there was more to come.
Last nights inspections - and a little preventative maintenance - had assured him of today's trip going well. One insanely high speed run up, and one with a little more speed added on the way back home. He began to tear along at aggressive velocity, revolutions near kissing the peak, seeing a bright colored dot contrast the pavement ahead, just before his next shift into third.
He was really hauling now, laughing aloud only to himself, at how the next shift into fourth was going to hit like magic, right around the point he passed the car ahead. The stereo was inaudible at the moment, despite being turned down. Wyatt lived for the sound of the acoustics of the high revolutions suddenly changing with gears, as loud as possible.