Ferrari Speedwagon

“OOOH! Looks like another victim folks, Number 45’s hitting the pits and Ferrari ‘black cat’ speedwagon's going up another place” Daytona midday heat can't stop the cheers of a ravenous speed hungry audience. Everyone's favorite heel of the racing world was at the top of his game today, he wasn't gonna let up on the heat now. “Hold on now Furd” four loudspeakers were chatting over the blazing sound of pumping engines, steaming rubber, and the ever more ravenous cheer of the crowd. “ We love to hate 'em,’ but thorough investigations have been conducted on Mr.Speedwagon, and have determined no foul play in his racing tactics.” Thirty seventh, now thirty sixth, you would never hear such enthusiastic booing from such a smiling crowd towards their waving anti-hero, they loved to hate him indeed, and they adored him just as much. Thirtieth place , twenty ninth, “ Frank, they can conduct any kinda investigation they want” the Florida sun flashed out of the spotlight, number 28 took a skid at the turn, blasting flames just close enough into the crowd to satisfy their adrenaline-craving hearts. “But no kinda science can put a pin on sheer luck” Ferrari happily took the open spot, and pushed his luck all the way to the end of the line.

“It's simply Impossible! There is just no way, the odds of an axel lockup like that are-” the sharp thwack of Racer 28, Chuck Ruddegons polycarbonate helmet was almost as abrasive as he was. “Low odds that's for sure, but by no means impossible, bizarre though…” Chuck's head pit crewman, a burley tower of muscle flaunting squared glasses, took scrap notes on the even more scrapped car. “You oughta be thankful for the impossible anyways Chuck, getting outta that without even a scratch, you must have some sorta angel watching out for ya.” The freckle-faced giant slapped Chuck on the back as he took off to help with the car recovery, catching mutterings of “ Angel? That was some voodoo-bull if I’ve ever seen it-” out of his boss. Far across the Garage, he spied Ferrari Speedwagon pushing his way through a sea of camera flash, “Another sheer luck victory huh? Heh, maybe the kid is some kinda jynx” the engineer shook his head with a shrug “I gotta get outta Florida man”

“How about’a cheers huh? Another win for the bastard of the raceway!” Ferrari's race manager raised a half full glass overhead to the bustling afterparty crowd of Daytona elites, who laughed in drunken unity at the rotund man's jubilant cheer. “ It's called a toast Mr.Streakman” Ferrari Speedwagon, leaning back turned , chuckled to his manager, who had climbed up on a table to make his exclamation. Though chaotic and loud, 10 seconds in the party room that loomed over the supersized stadium is all you’d need to understand its attendance. Black suits, red dresses, camera flashes and cocktail glasses, at its center the flamboyant showboat who stole the audience's attention from the heat itself leaned casually against a table under his manager. Long blonde hair draping down either side of his red and green leather race suit, on the track he’d be soaking in the spotlight and thriving in it much like the large succulents that lined the stadiums outer walls. Now however, in the dim tacky studio that passed for a ballroom, surrounded by sleazy paparazzi and sordid sponsors who passed for high society, he closed up his leaves and put on a show, a talent he might have been born to do. “N-no son, I'm very sure it's called a cheers” Mr.Streakmans words were occasionally parted by a hiccup or a drunken stir as he fought to keep his balance on the sidebar table. The crowd of partygoers, if more sober than Streakman than not by much, cheered and applauded at the spectacle of a round inebriated Italian-American struggle to keep himself and his drink from falling underfoot. Ferrari stood up away from the table, wary of becoming part of the show, “Nah sir I don't think - “ his awkward groan turned into a gasp when the table leg gave out, and an even louder gasp followed as Streakman tumbled down into them. “ Oh for the love of-” In the half second that followed, a small smile crept onto Ferrari's beach tanned face “fine then Mr.Streakman, let's give em another show”. Reaching out for his cascading manager, any onlooker who wasn't preoccupied with the marvel that was about to follow would have seen a flurry of dance like movements from Ferrari one could mistake for a well choreographed seizure, in synch with the fantastic feat of skill and more importantly, luck, that his manager was about to demonstrate. As Streakman tumbled down, the round table that had previously served as his soapbox snapped fully off its leg, landing perfectly on its side and rolling underfoot. The crowd parted just in time as the man ran atop the rolling table, much to his own amazement, the turbulent stunt knocking off his distinguished grey hair piece right into an awestruck observer's face, who in her surprise, shrieked and tossed her carry purse into the air. A carry purse which lost none of its contents, save a penny which flew out of a zipper slot just wide enough to allow its escape onto the floor, rolling along side Streakman and the table until it lodged itself underneath the later, changing its angle 45 degrees and launching the indescribably fortunate man right into the arms of a certain baby faced pit crewman, who had snuck into the party curious about the client of the dazed man he now held.

The crowd of well-to-do’s stared at Streakman, still aloft in the man's arms who himself gazed down in disbelief. The room that had been not 15 seconds ago filled with drunken banter and rowdy cheering seemed to have had the drink knocked right out of its system by the stubby man's display, and all was silent. Silent until Ferrari, whose presence for once went unnoticed, spoke up, “Geez Mr.Streakman, always trying to upstage me huh?”. A bit of banter he half hoped would distract the crowd from the display of impossible probability that just played out before their thankfully inebriated eyes. The young man's charismatic smile cracked slightly in the brief silence until another jolly voice broke out, raising the mood and volume back into its elated level. “Ey! What a ladies man ol Streakman is huh? Haha!”, “How long’d ya practice that one ya old attention whore? Hah!”. Ever the capitalist, and of course a showman, Richard Streakman took in the attention with only a subtle blush, and Ferrari took the respite away from his praise to give the open bar a little attention of his own. “Rum and Doctor Pepper please and thanks”, he spoke in a contently tired voice, finally able to let himself loose from the partygoers' expectation. Slumped backwards, shoulders propped up on the countertop, Ferrari let himself hang awkwardly against the barfront just because he could, sneering softly as he eyed Streakman being passed from guest to drunken guest just down the hall. Don't think for a second that the young racer didn't enjoy a good party, hundreds of corner store tabloids and fringe internet blogs would tell otherwise, speaking of Ferrari's own legendary displays of extroverted mischief. These semi-corporate scenes just weren't for him, no matter how much its middle aged populace had to drink, and while he knew how to put on a pretty face for these sorts of events, nothing ever felt better than the silent drive home. When the cheers faded and speakers died down, and his engine purred and the radio sang to his soul, when he was alone with his thoughts on the empty dark road was when Ferrari Speedwagon felt at home.

“Quite the show Mr.Speedwagon, I had heard you were skilled, and indeed it seems you may be as first rate as I've been told.” Ferrari stood up straight from his stooped position against the bar, looking up to its attendant who had spoken to him. Looking way up, while Ferrari was considered relatively tall for his line of work, now that he gave him a good look, he noticed just how particularly large the bartender really was. A broad shouldered Native looking man, Ferrari guessed Cherokee as they seemed fairly commonplace in this part of Florida, whose proper mode of dress strangely accompanied the man's statue quite nicely in the boy's eyes. “ Oh yeah? Well hey thanks man, that's some uh- some pretty high praise right there.” Speaking plain, he felt more at ease now that he had only one adoring fan to occupy rather than a crowd. Besides, despite his fancy suit and sophisticated kind of speech, the barkeep felt more direct than the partygoers had been, less fake. “ I've only been on the circuit a few years now, so I can't say it's not partly natural talent-”. “I don't mean your race, Mr.Speedwagon-” The Bartender interrupted, in his continually polite stoicism, “ However I did notice your talents put to use in your occupation as well.” Ferrari’s face raised out of his lackadaisical slump, while the rest of him turned fully to sit properly onto a barstool while he heard the man out. “ What I refer to is your exhibition of foresight and timing in saving face for your employer, you seem to have a firm grasp on the style and usage of your abilities.” Now fully attentive, Ferrari looked into the man's eyes for a hint of what he meant by this, trying to put together a reply, “I- are you talking about Mr.Streakmans accident in there? Nah man I didn't,- I think he organized that himself, guess he’s trying to become some sorta party legend or something, ol’ guys always coming up with new schemes to get himself attention.” He hoped the hulking barman would just drop the subject, though he begrudgingly doubted this would happen, there was a reason he felt particularly extroverted towards him after all. After a moment of only guessing on what was going on behind his rock-chiseled brow however, Ferrari was relieved to see the man go back to his craft, putting together another mix behind the bar. “I see… Well then Mr.Speedwagon, please allow me to congratulate you on your win tonight” he placed a warm-brown spirit onto the bar, a Kiss-the-bricks-cooler Ferrari quickly recognized, a specialty of the track's lounge. Quickly cleaning his hands on a hanging towel, the large man began to silently close down the bar, and just as silently made his way out of the room, leaving the young racer to his softly bubbling drink and the muffled sound of the party down the hall. Once again forcing himself to let loose, Ferrari began to sip the fruity scented gift, closing his eyes and contemplating the interaction. “ I really should be worried shouldn't I ?” gazing into the bubbles that rose up from the disturbed spirit as he sipped once more, a heavier sigh escaped him while he leaned his stool back on its legs. “Yeah probably… oh well”