“George please, you can’t smoke in the medical centre!” the doctor pleaded, as Cannonball packed his pipe with tobacco while he sat on the bed, awaiting an examination following his accident. Where on earth does he keep that tobacco pouch in his racing suit? the doctor wondered to himself.
“Son, I’ve been racin’ since you was but a twinkle in yer pa’s eye…I don’t need some egghead to tell me that I feel fine! Now, are y’all gon’ let me outta here the easy way, or we all gotta do this the hard way?!” Cannonball said as he stood up menacingly, rolling up the sleeves on his racing suit.
“Well, umm…” the young doctor stammered, “I guess since you say you feel fine, that should be good for now. But if you feel unwell at any t-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Cannonball grumbled, taking a big draw through his pipe, “come see y’all so y’all can poke an’ prod me an’ tell me I should quit smokin’ this here pipe in m’car…” With that, Cannonball put his signature hat on, wheeled about and walked defiantly out of the medical centre, where the media had assembled to question him after his wreck. Immediately, he was greeted with a flurry of questions, thrown rapid-fire over top of one another. After a few attempts, the journalists settled down and a semblance of order took hold, punctuated by the sound of the field racing past every few moments.
“Cannonball, describe what happened out there?” The attractive, young TV reporter asked, thrusting a microphone in front of his face.
“We wrecked, plain n’ simple.” He replied gruffly.
“You took out the 26 car as they were lapping you, any comment on that?” She asked expectantly.
“I don’ like the way them boys race, if I may be honest. These Yankees come down here what with their big money and their big aahdeas, and it’s wreckin’ this here sport that y’all know was built what by men like me. They needed t’ be taught a lesson, I reckon”, Cannonball fired back, feeling his hackles rising.
“But surely there is a better way of solving your disputes than by wre-” The reporter asked, as Cannonball cut her off.
“Now listen here young lady, there’s a time what for talkin’ and a time for action…and actions speak louder than words sometimes…y’hear me?” Cannonball said curtly. “Now if y’all excuse me, I gotta go build me another racing car!”
“Cannonball!” Another reporter shouted to get his attention as he strode away from the scrum. “Is there any truth to the rumours that you stole one of the ASCAR executive’s cars to be used as a template for this year’s Special?”
Cannonball turned and grinned, “Now now, son…let’s not go usin’ words without understandin’ what they mean!” he replied. “It’s only stealin’ if the car been moved from where it was parked, and you’ll find I ain’t moved it but one inch!”
“But, it was totally disassembled, according to my source!” The reporter asked, pressing the issue.
“Now son, I don’t expect you to know this, but a racin’ car is a complicated thing, and to build a good’un, you need to be takin’ very precise measurements, and that means that sometimes, y’all gotta get inside the thang to get a true understanding of it.” Cannonball retorted, “and besides, I left ‘em a set a’ wrenches what for puttin’ it back together again…I ain’t no jerk after all!” With that, Cannonball strode off through the crowds, leaving the reporters dumbfounded.