Page 110 of Vile Bastards
Because, inevitably, when the track gets icy, the slides are bad and students careen off into the winner’s circle, into the patchy grass that borders the woods, smash into the cage or the muddy hump we use to catch air.
“Alright, cowgirls and boys, I’m out. My throat is killing me. Up next is Princess Nokia with ‘No Effort’. Enjoy the rest of your Friday.”
The song starts, a chill beat that’s worth dancing to. Seems like I’ll have plenty of time to groove to it as Cody starts to slide toward the edge of the track. Leaving the track itself is one of the few ways to get disqualified here in Prescott. Pretty much everything else goes: including driving backward.
Cody turns the Pontiac around to face me, and then rockets in my direction. He’s heading straight fucking for me, but I call his bluff, pressing down on the clutch and shifting gears. I don’t swerve; I don’t even allow myself to think about swerving.
You ever heard of chicken?
Yep, we’re playin’ a game of motherfuckin’ chicken.
I speed up, hands curled around the wheel, bobbing my head to Princess Nokia’s sick-ass rhymes. I’d rather die than be called chicken on my own track. Does that make me insane? I know the type of guy I’m up against, the very sort who’d risk his life to prove a point. Bet he has a three-inch dick, I think with a smirk, blasting through the mud in a seemingly unavoidable head-on collision.
I can only imagine what my friends, my crew, my boys are thinking.
Nothing good, I’ll bet.
At the last second, Cody jerks his wheel to the side, spinning in the mud so that he’s turned back around to face in the right direction. I use the opportunity to catch up and then pass him, resisting the urge to roll my window down and shout chicken!
Cody tries another cheap trick, turning the Trans Am perpendicular to one of the straights, blocking the center of the track. It’s the type of underhanded bullshit I’d expect from a rich guy. Not that Prescott kids are immune to playing games, but mostly we’re here to see who understands their car best, who knows the ins-and-outs of this old track, who can fucking drive.
Clearly, Chet’s son only knows how to do magic tricks.
This time, I head up the charge, picking up speed as I barrel down on him. If I hit him, we’ll both die. He must know that. But he doesn’t move. Not that it matters. I’m not playing chicken this time. At the last second, I swing my wheel to the left, whipping around him and clipping the corner of his car in just such a way that I send the blue Pontiac flying through the mud.
The impact is jarring, but I was expecting it.
I don’t even stop dancing.
I mean, come on. The lyrics to this one? I like. Very much so.
Even though I know Basti’s probably openly weeping—I just jacked-up my car, again—I know that he’s got my back, and I’ve got a rich boy’s ass to beat. I mean, come on, this is Chet Archer’s son. He’s at least Aspen-level douchebag. Maybe he’s worse?
Guess he’s a fan of the phrase ‘third time’s a charm’, eh? Because he tries yet again to screw with me on my own turf, reversing toward the center of the track and then spinning his tires, spraying muck everywhere. It glitters like brown snowflakes under the harsh glare of the overhead spotlights, and then the lights cut off abruptly.
I ignore it. We’ve had power outages here before. What I can’t ignore is Cody, turning off his lights, and adjusting his car so that he’s blocking the smoothest part of the track. My choices now are to hit him or drive through a massive mud puddle. If I get stuck there, he could feasibly outpace me and win this race.
Rather than risk that, I slow down, and then I nudge the front of the Pontiac, slowly increasing the gas until I’m pushing the Trans Am through the mud. Cody tries to salvage the situation by turning into me, but as soon as he does that, I whip my own wheel to the left, scraping the body of the Pantera down the length of his car.
Does he think I won’t get dirty to win? Is he nuts? Even people who’ve never met me before understand through the rumors: I’m a no-fuck’s-given psycho.
I realize then that I’m not having a panic attack. Not at all. No harsh breathing. No sweating. Nothing. It’s just me and the track, and my opponent who—especially in this case—is destined to eat a face full of mud.
Laughter spills from my lips as I reverse the Pantera, and then slam the gas, spinning my wheels and covering the Pontiac from head to toe in thick globs of mud. Everyone in the parking lot has turned on their headlights, brightening the darkness in a horizonal line of solidarity, honking horns, and shouting from the bleachers.
