Posted on: May 23rd, 2010 Davidjack vs. Samjay at the Track
Just another Stone Coffeeâ„¢ hot day at the track and Davidjack’s in the lead driving for Yellow Cleanâ„¢, when Samjay hits the side of his car and sends the whole group spinning into wall. Glass cracks, helmets ricochet through cabs, and tires split open. The whole thing is shut down in a cloud of smoke, and the fans scream and shake their babies. Samjay gets out and vomits on the road, wipes his chin, and waves to the crowd.
Davidjack rolls out pissed as a hornet in his Yellow Cleanâ„¢ jacket and pants, stumbles over to Samjay, and starts giving that fucker an Original Ass Whoopingâ„¢.
Corporate sponsors in the audience, Ass Whooping reps, see Davidjack working over Samjay and start booing. He doesn’t have a license to use our product, they say. These bastards come piling out the stands and running onto the track in their brown suit jackets and sunglasses.
Davidjack sees they mean to fine him in blood and jumps back in his car. Yellow #8 is dead. He goes over and kicks Samjay in the nuts again, takes his keys, gets in Blue #11, and shoots back out on the track. Davidjack cuts DonutsÂ© across the backs of those brown-suited fucks, bounces the wrecked car over them, then slams it into the last one trying to climb the wall, and the engine catches fire. Davidjack jumps up on the hood, grabs his dick, and waves. The fans shake those babies for all they’re worth. They’ve never seen entertainment like this.
Then the announcer comes in, starts tallying the damages and talking who’s at fault. Organizers shouldn’t have let people on the track, but Yellow Clean’s driver shouldn’t be a murdering fuck, but Blue Clean should be more careful bout who uses their equipment, but Ass Whooping reps shouldn’t have been out past the bleachers in the first place.
Davidjack knows somebody’s gonna bleed millions for this and he gets the shakes. Starts jogging around the track to make himself feel better. Shit gets quiet then. Reporters crowd around the finish line and snap pictures of this fucker finishing the race on foot. Into the papers Davidjack goes, a goddamned inspiration, nothing gonna stop his spirit, a fine athlete and model for our young people.
Yellow Cleanâ„¢ shells out sixteen million to Davidjack to buy his image, hires an airbrushed look alike to stand in for the commercials, and Davidjack goes home to retire in a bubble of heroine and cocaine.
Twenty years later, Davidjack has married, fathered three children, has one grandson, and can’t remember any of it. Constant injections of cheap smack have melted his veins and muscles into a brown pseudo-foot. The man has become a gastropod, a giant fucking snail, an embarrassment to the fine sport of Nascarâ„¢.
One day, Davidjack’s dumbshit grandkid comes talking to him about the soapbox derby and something drops somewhere deep inside that snail brain of his. Davidjack pushes the kid out the way and slithers toward the door, race lighting up in his head like a radio tower.
Davidjack makes a slime trail into the sun, but his brown body is too lettuce-like to withstand the rays, and the whole spectrum of hot light cuts swaths through him until he’s ash, and the fucker was so stoned he never even knew it. Burns up like spider silk, smokes like tires, and smells like sewage. Family scoops him into an urn and by god, he can be a hero again.
They organize a big to-do at the track for the funeral, invite all his old racing buddies, broadcast the service over the PA system into the packed stands. Just when the reporters turn to get pictures of the Yellow CleanTM urn wearing those medals, they see Samjay, now a bloated gastropod himself, reaching his funnel mouth down into the urn and chewing up the ashes. The crunching of Davidjack’s dust is the only thing you can hear over the PA for ten full seconds.
Reporter throws a mic in his face: Samjay, why dishonor the memory of Davidjack, one of the sport’s heroes?
Samjay looks up, smack-lust glowing in his eyestalks. Who? he says.