sequel preview

This is a preview of the sequel to Racer X; tell mw what you think--too wordy, too much/not enough descriptive text, too slow/too fast...warning, popping ahead, so don't complain

The following story is not meant in any way to challenge any real-world logos, trademarks, reputations, people or the policies of any corporations. It’s a #$%^&^$’ing fictional story with very little basis in the real world, folks, so don’t sue me...

The following story is not meant in any way to challenge any real-world logos, trademarks, reputations, people or the policies of any corporations. It’s a #$%^&^$’ing fictional story with very little basis in the real world, folks, so don’t sue me.

The Race Day

I strolled down the row of racers, the sponsors and the sponsors’ painters, already hard at work on the costumes. I nodded casual greetings to the other racers. Jenny, a longtime friend and former lover, was already getting her logo painted on her belly--a large AT&T logo, plus several other smaller sponsors’ logos.
“You’re lucky to snag them,” I said. “How much for?”
“Three million plus endorsements and commercials. Who’d you get?”
I told her. She laughed.
“That’s going to look REAL good, all painted on your belly and then inflated to about 25 feet across!” I shrugged.
“It’ll pay the bills. Good luck, Jenny,” as I planted a kiss on her belly and went to get painted and inflated.
Mary Baska had already got the CBS logo painted on her belly and was waiting for the paint to dry, while on others I saw various logos—Dupont, Pepsi, Coke, Lucent, and others. Ludmilla, a Russian émigré, was a little down on her luck and was being painted with a giant Pickachu from Pokemon on her belly. I tried not to grin as she refused to meet anyone’s eye, and did my level best to refrain from calling out, “I choose you, Pikachu!” Officials were already checking engines and motors for regulatory compliance when I saw one of the rookies cover something up with a tarp. As he turned to flirt with a racing girl, I strolled over and took a quick peek at what he covered.
Gas pellets—slightly different model than what I used, but not illegal. Ok, if the design is legal but he wants to cover it up then it’s what’s in them that he wants to hide. I looked closer and took a sniff…Damn. For a moment I considered telling him what a fool he was.
Then I considered narcing him out the officials.
Then I said to hell with it. These are the big leagues; if you don’t know what you’re doing, pal, then you deserve everything you have coming to you. With that, I went on my way as they painted a Dodge logo on his belly and back.

She was there. “Wondered what took you so long.”
“I had business to attend to. Ready when you are,” I told her painters as I clasped my hands behind my back. With that, they proceeded to paint my sponsor’s logo across my belly.
To be specific, Target’s logo. Jenny was right; it was going to look really good when I inflated. As they painted the red and white concentric circles on me, I could see Sandy over to one side chatting with her sponsor (she found one?) and another wiry, whip-thin woman with corded muscles, also dressed in a black rubber suit, also covered with sponsor logos. She seemed determined to not even look in my direction.
Fine by me. I really try not to let personal grudges interfere with a race. Too many other racers do and, well, given the nature of the race, things tend to end tragically.

We lined up in a row, fifty feet apart from each other. Some had riders, some didn’t. All were dressed in the now uniform shiny black rubber bodysuit, covered with painted on logos, all forty of us. I made sure I stayed well away from the newbie—I wanted to be nowhere near him if what I thought was going to happen, happened. We looked up expectantly.
“Racers, inflate!” came over the speakers.
As one, knobs were turned on tanks hooked up to us as the whole line of us started to get bigger…bigger…bigger. Special non-crack paint allowed us to inflate without ruining the logos on us; long-time racers used decals for the long-term sponsors. I relaxed as I felt the now familiar pressure of hydrogen slowly filter throughout my body, removing every single wrinkle on me, letting it swirl inside me, filling me, bloating me, swelling up my belly first, then moving down to my hips, my arms and legs, my hands…I was some thirty feet long with a belly twenty-two feet across, firmly tethered to the ground. Some 50,000 cubic feet of gas was in me.
“Attach motors!” came the command, then “controls, check!” followed fifteen minutes later by “ground lines, stand by!”
I looked around as I took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. Professional training not withstanding, I always feel nervous. Those that had riders were already mounted while the rest of us waited nervously…
“Tethers up!” The command sent us all to a uniform 20 feet in the air.
“Racers, start your motors! Three…two…one…” A starter’s pistol caused all the tethers to drop, and we were free. I immediately clicked two more capsules into my mouth, sending another 20,000 cubic feet of hydrogen into me and reveled in the sound of my motors revving and sending me higher. I gloried in the feel of the gas pressing against every square inch of my body as the internal pressure in me mounted and powered my motors. I was happily ascending to 15,000 feet when a weird whining sound struck my ears.
Rookie boy was in trouble. He was traveling without a rider (which was just as well) and the whining sound was the props of his motors going full tilt. Even at this distance I could see smoke starting to come from his motors.
Idiot boy had filled his capsules with a rare type of gaseous nitroglycerin, a dangerously unstable but powerful fuel. It’s great if you only take one…less great if you take a lot, because then the motors overheat and turn white-hot…damn. His motor klaxons are going off now.
Motor klaxons are a type of shorthand for racers. It doesn’t happen often, but since we are filled with hydrogen, motors do overheat and you can’t always call out to people. Klaxons are a way of saying “Excuse me, I’ve gone from being a potential bomb and turned into a real bomb, so please stay clear of me, I’m about to explode. Thank you.”
Racers were flying everywhere now, trying to get away from dumb-ass and his illegal fuel (and probably cussing him out to themselves). Meanwhile, “Dummy” was trying to turn sideways to the wind in a futile effort to cool the motors. I could see his form, a large black shiny form, what was he thinking, oh, wait, there…yes, I could see sparks coming from his port motor, shortly followed by the starboard one…damn, now sparks were flying everywhere and everyone has got clear of him…yes, there’s the fire on his port motor now, he’s finished now…for a brief moment, I saw him barrel roll in a last attempt to put out the fire, saw his Jelly Belly logo painted across his front…
And then a white-hot explosion of light and sound, followed by a rather impressive shockwave.

.