In the post below, I promised a demolition derby at seven . . . and here it is. Two posts in one day!
As the Derby opens, the cars are reasonably intact.
But it doesn't last. We'll follow the triumph and tragedy of Car 25 . . .
He's ready to rock 'n roll with a machine gun and a death bird on the roof, and flames adorning the sides. As he circles the tract, 17 and 151 take a hard hit into the grandstand barrier.
The cars begin coming apart under the pounding:
He we see the victor and vanquished . . . At some tracks, they run the drivers down when they try and crawl from the wreckage but these drivers are merciful.
He guns his engine and moves in for the kill, again:
But his victory is short lived. 25 comes to an end moments later in a cloud of smoke:
The crowd began roaring, the mood turned angry, and I slipped away while I still could. Things can turn ugly in an instant out there, when crazed fairgoers pour out of the grandstands and over the barriers, to pull the drivers from the cars and tear them limb from limb.
In downtown Northampton, there's a rumor that a certain Mexican resturant is spicing its meals with Aztec hallucinogens in hopes of provoking just such a orgy of violence and destruction. And this afternoon, a mad dog in a warrior mask worked the crowd, spraying a foul-smelling powder that stang and burned. I was lucky to see him coming and duck behind a food cart. I stink of old sausage but at least it's not poisionous.
Even up here, some of the people worship the old gods. And they demand blood. As the race ends, the helments come off, and cars lay in pools of their own gore. But will it be enough?