okay phew, glad that was sorted. Not coz the results changed, of course, just that now we can say things should be running right!
Also tagging @Rk38 in this because while I did the tune, I did almost none of the design due to computer and time constraints, hence I can only say mine was an extension of god’s work
Dale R. Thomas could scarce believe his fortunes. Just the New Year gone by he was drowning his thirty two years of regrets in Coors Light, having gone from dead-end job to waking up too late to realise his dream of being an ASCAR driver, scraping the bottom of his barrel only to find no way in Hell could he buy his way into the circuit, let alone get a car of his own ready for the Sunday Sports Car Cup. But a couple weeks later, a mysterious phone call changed all that. The offer was mighty suspicious: a brand and a team he had never heard of, possibly British Communists, what could possibly be worse!? His family and his neighbours told him not to do it, that would be positively un-American. But his girlfriend convinced him that beggars couldn’t be choosers, and this was his one last shot at glory and all he had to do was Pray and Believe. Possibly she just wanted him off the piss for a bit, coz he got real ornery when he was drunk.
Now, on a Sunday afternoon, caked in sweat, clad in the most ridiculous yellow and blue outfit, adrenaline pumping through his veins, those troubles were a world away from him. There was confetti and cheering and the sheer roar of the crowd and the buzzing in his ears. There were microphones thrust in his face. There was a giant goddamn trophy. All of these things beyond his wildest hopes and expectations.
“YAAAAAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” he whooped, waving his arms around and almost punching a crewman in the face. “NOW THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ 'BOUT!” He slicked the sweaty hair from his face. “I wanna thank all y’all, my crew, the team, the organisers, and my beautiful girlfriend, Tammy. I wanna thank the Lord, for blessing us and this great nation. U S A! U S A!”
The irony of his chant was not lost on the crowd. Half of them started booing his act of treason driving for and even making a British Communist team win, as the other half started cheering for his obviously unwavering patriotism. Fist fights broke out in the stands. Beer and hot dogs flew everywhere. It was glorious and squalid all at once. Dale, for that matter, was oblivious. Right now, he couldn’t care less if the Devil himself had sponsored him, because he was finally a real ASCAR driver and a winner.
From the other side of the Atlantic, Arthur “Ableman” Herrington, founder of Armada Motors, embattled and buried up to his armpits in outstanding fees and threat of legal action from all his dumb moonshot programs, allowed himself a hearty chuckle. For exactly as long as young Dale had been alive, he had yearned to make a conquest in motorsports across the pond, but had failed miserably. It was just all so very different to what Armada had become, what with big beefy cars and V8s and pushrods, where Armada stayed small and light and technologically daring. But the purity of hitting everything with a sledgehammer had a special place in his heart, for his own origins of the boys in the shed. Now, however, the fruits of his team’s labours might finally bear fruit, as unusual as his bedfellows might be. And if nothing else, after 3 decades of struggling in the midfield as far as American motorsports was concerned, they had their first, vital win.
“That doesn’t look like British motorsport,” professional bean counter Graham Streeton remarked as he entered Arthur’s office to inspect the paperwork.
“It’s not,” was Arthur’s smug reply. Graham, Arthur’s long time friend, studied Arthur for a moment, knowing something was up. He stared at the TV again, at the oval, at the redneck pumping his fist on the screen, at the cars, and his eyebrow twitched.
“Why does that car have Armada Racing on its livery?”