((Author's note: This story is based in the factual Cannonball Baker Sea-to-Shining-Sea Memorial Trophy Dash.))
It was a dark night as a collection of racers had come together to commit one of the most dangerous, insane and all-around illegal races in American History. One of the racers, a team of two grungy looking rednecks and a smart guy, were working on what looked like a 1967 Chevy Camaro behind Pierside Joe's, a honky-tonk over by Gotham City Waterfront.
"Hey, Dun'! Give it a little gas, will ya, che'? I think I got dat motah tuned up somethin' good!" one of the grungy mechanics perked up from behind the hood, revealing an older fellow, a cigarette sticking out of his mouth, his hair in a messy pompadour, a 3-day beard . . . kinda looked like a Hell's Angel. That's my friend Arell L'amour. He and I've been pals for a long, LONG time.
"Yeah sure! Just lemme make one sliiiiight adjustment into the computer." "Dun'" chirped, working on some sort of computer thing in the car. His real name was Norville, but everybody called him Dundee. No particular reason why . . . I don't think. I always called him Dun'!
"Why stop now?"
Well, when Dun' gave it the gas, the engine roared to life, the exhaust blowing a hammock around, sending a guy in jeans, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, a grease-stained Skynyrd T-shirt, trucker cap and boots into Gotham Bay. THAT . . . that would be me. I'm C.J. Benoit. Your narrator for this group of psycho- err, Cannonballers. Yeah!
"Ooh-ho-ho, that's rich. We're off to a REAL good start. Doesn't the race start in a half hour?"
Pierside Joe's: Gotham City, NJ.
Time: 2330 (11:30 pm) EST
Time: 2330 (11:30 pm) EST
It was a dark night as a collection of racers had come together to commit one of the most dangerous, insane and all-around illegal races in American History. One of the racers, a team of two grungy looking rednecks and a smart guy, were working on what looked like a 1967 Chevy Camaro behind Pierside Joe's, a honky-tonk over by Gotham City Waterfront.
"Hey, Dun'! Give it a little gas, will ya, che'? I think I got dat motah tuned up somethin' good!" one of the grungy mechanics perked up from behind the hood, revealing an older fellow, a cigarette sticking out of his mouth, his hair in a messy pompadour, a 3-day beard . . . kinda looked like a Hell's Angel. That's my friend Arell L'amour. He and I've been pals for a long, LONG time.
"Yeah sure! Just lemme make one sliiiiight adjustment into the computer." "Dun'" chirped, working on some sort of computer thing in the car. His real name was Norville, but everybody called him Dundee. No particular reason why . . . I don't think. I always called him Dun'!
"Why stop now?"
Well, when Dun' gave it the gas, the engine roared to life, the exhaust blowing a hammock around, sending a guy in jeans, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, a grease-stained Skynyrd T-shirt, trucker cap and boots into Gotham Bay. THAT . . . that would be me. I'm C.J. Benoit. Your narrator for this group of psycho- err, Cannonballers. Yeah!
"Ooh-ho-ho, that's rich. We're off to a REAL good start. Doesn't the race start in a half hour?"
