c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(4-25)
Townshend Lincoln had fallen asleep with the Cleveland PBS channel on his television. An error brought on with inebriation clouding his vision, as he searched for a replay of the WWE Wrestlemania exhibition that had just been held. Through a filter of liquor and fatigue, his brain was teased with verbal combat between media figures. Then, he emerged from this persistent haze slowly, piecing levels of consciousness one at a time. Daybreak had arrived at Evergreen Estates. A mood of calm followed the first hint of sunrise. A glow of an awakening day streamed from his front entrance, with the door standing fully ajar. He had tipped into oblivion while on his couch. Drool and alcohol permeated his shaggy beard. Crumbs from a sack of fried chicken dotted his Harley-Davidson T-shirt.
He felt woozy when trying to stand.
At first, a merciful tone of quiet nature soothed his ears. But then, synthetic squawks of car horns and Country Music intruded on this peaceful reserve. An electric whooshing of Cybertrucks in action buzzed through his trailer walls, as a pace outing began.
The first annual Tesla Rodeo & 50-Lap Qualifier was almost underway, at his isolated property in the pines.
He cursed weakly, while rubbing his eyes. In the street outside, a rowdy herd of electric beasts was busy circling the neighborhood, like professional drivers getting the feel of a NASCAR oval. So many residents had taken the VMS rent-to-own deal, that now, nearly every driveway provided shelter for one of Elon Musk’s futuristic vehicles. While the outside world was busy castigating owners of these cutting-edge rigs, those at the distant community of mobile homes had taken a different view of supporting the wealthy oligarch. They adorned the sleek, metallic mules with Confederate banners and Gadsden flags. Or had them painted olive drab, with military insignia on that green background.
Swooning with his stomach empty and blood-sugar level flagging, the old hermit slurred out a brief commentary that no one else could hear.
“It looks like a running of the bulls, in Spain!”
Pastor Cabe Forester from their township’s Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven, stood at a makeshift pulpit that had been erected in a parking area next to the maintenance garage and office. He was dressed casually for the event, but wore a gold cross pendant on a chain around his jacket collar.
“Neighbors and friends, I’m here to offer a blessing of this first rodeo for charity, in your residential development. Let me thank our esteemed brother in Christ, Linn Speck, for bringing it all together. The air at Evergreen Estates is cleaner today, because of your efforts to buy EVs. And our conscience is clear, because we’ve all pooled our resources to support a godly man and his administration, in Washington! We’ve made a difference in Ohio and America, there can be no doubt! If you agree, then shout it to the sky. Amen!”
There was a thunderous response from parishioners and inhabitants of the boxcar village.
“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”
Aimes Hefti had assembled his amateur militia to serve as an honor guard for the event. They were fully armed with pistols, rifles, and police tasers. To signify a beginning for the competition, blasts of live rounds were sent toward the azure blue.
On a folding table sat the gold trophy to be awarded, plus a copy of the Trump Bible. Money from entry fees was slated to go into a benevolence fund, at the church. So, the happening would benefit those in need, in Geauga County and beyond.
Forester folded his hands and bowed. His voice deepened with emption as he prayed over the reverent flock.
“Holy God, we are in a time when our enemies have never been more ruthless. Power has slipped from their grasp, and they are hungry to reclaim supremacy. They are devious and crafty in doing Satan’s work. Your people must be vigilant, always. Therefore, let us pray for protection. Shield us from the wrath of wounded and unrepentant sinners! Make us safe as we exalt your name before the world! And also, bless the name of your champion, who is once again in the White House!”
Another burst of zeal resounded from the blue-collar assembly.
“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”
Kimber Kronski, a recent immigrant to the junkyard oasis, lifted a Pine Tree standard to signify an official start for the contest. She was a waitress and dancer at clubs along the festive, waterfront strip, at Geneva-on-the-Lake. Her straight, blonde mane and long legs traced an unmistakable profile amid older, grizzled and gritty citizens who had lived on the grounds for many years.
With the banner spread wide, its motto could be read by everyone: ‘An Appeal To Heaven.’
The limber, GOTL waif called out forcefully, to begin their contest.
“PUNCH UP THOSE BATTERIES, EVERYBODY! LET’S GOOOOOOOOO!”
Lincoln pondered his coffeemaker for a moment, then swore at the glass carafe. His taste for a morning beverage had dissipated.
“Screw making a pot of black, I need a fucking drink instead!”
One oversized bottle of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond remained in his liquor cupboard. He rummaged past bags of dog treats and cat chow, to find the container. Then, twisted the neck wrap until this sheath of plastic came loose. He took a long, fiery pull of 100-proof liquid, until the wash of brown juice made him cough and stagger around the kitchen.
“That hits the bullseye! Damn, what a rush!”
A warning had been issued for the entire park, to keep children and pets sheltered-in-place as the Tesla Qualifier commenced. Yet some had seemed to ignore this advisory, with reckless indifference. So, as the group rolled past Lincoln’s prefabricated hovel, stray kids and animals scattered. A motorized whirring of electric engines made his ears tingle. Loose stones skipped and bounced in every direction.
Then, one of the angular transports hit a pothole near the mail shed. It swerved and flipped into the empty field that fronted their park on the southern edge. Landing on its left side. Inside, an anonymous pilot pounded his fist on the dashboard.
Bottles of Bud Light had been stationed all along the race course, in galvanized tubs full of crushed ice. This availability of refreshments soon had the crowd turning mellow and giddy. They cheered at each speedy pass of the competitors.
Townshend Lincoln raised his middle finger in defiance. Yet no one seemed to notice this gesture of dissent. Everyone was in a mood to celebrate.
The second casualty came as Linn spun out while trying to navigate his own corner at speed. Something that he thought would impress his beloved spouse and confidant, Haki. This sent the new Cybertruck sliding into a storage barn by his ratty trailer. Plywood sheeting and trim pieces filled the air. His yard became a muddy, furrowed plot of debris. The final impact left him sitting upside-down, facing in the wrong direction. Suddenly, the inertia of other participants stalled. The improvised race course turned into a parking lot.
Mrs. Speck wailed tearfully upon witnessing this early finish.
“Honey, are you okayyy? Those other drivers were dogging your tail I think! Stupid, stupid people! I hate stupid peeeeeeeople!”
Lincoln chortled while watching from the crest of his disability ramp. His face was red, and burning, from multiple shots of bourbon. Down the street, a commotion started as entrants debated the cause of this accidental interruption, vociferously. Blows between residents quickly began to fly.
Aimes Hefti laid the blame on a lack of skill at the wheel, and too much exuberance.
“Y’all can’t hack keeping yer ass on the pavement, I see! There’s more to steering one of these tanks than just rolling around like a kid on a tricycle! Go sit in yer lawn chair, dude! Let us real men have our fun!”
Linn was indignant, and offended. His jowls swelled and turned sweaty.
“You’ve got a big mouth, like that drunk at Lot 13! Shut up, commando!”
Aimes took great exception at being compared to the contrarian loner who was a pariah in their park. He righteously stomped his bootheel, and leaned forward for a better angle of attack. A clenched fist caught his opponent square in the jaw. This sent the erstwhile, community organizer backward, on his butt. His trousers were visibly scuffed and torn.
“OOOOOOOOFFF!”
Haki wrung her hands and trembled. Her chubby knees knocked together, under a long skirt patterned with summer flowers.
“Honey, I think he’s right! Let someone else get the gold trophy! It’s time to call it a day!”
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