Last Ditch

Chapter Six:

*Note: Inspired by "Envy and Arrogance", I have decided to make a soundtrack for this story. Hit on each **** for each scene's appropriate music.*

****

It was the big day, the day of the Apple Cider Classic 300, the biggest race of the Sports Car Club of Equestria season. Many racing teams from all over Equestria would come to take home the gold, the three most-known ones being "Dynasty Racing", owned by Fleetwood, "Roush: Equestria", owned by Westside, and "Apples To Apples Motorsports", owned by none other than Granny Smith. There were others, indeed, but none were as consistent in winning as these three, or as competitive.

"Alright, team," said Fleetwood, straightening his helmet, " This is our chance to show Westside and Irvan what we're made of! Wait, where's Wilcox? He's NEVER late! Come to think of it, I haven't seen him for DAYS!"

****

Just then, Spike heard the honk of a horn.

"Hey, Fleet!" Mel yelled, "check this out!"

Everyone turned to the entrance of the parking lot to see a red Plymouth Fury wheezing over to their pit box. It was heavily rusted, but a '58 Fury nonetheless.

The car drove into the garage where they were holding their before-race meeting. The car was coughing out more clouds of blue smoke than Eldorado's Coupe Deville, which Spike had only seen once.

The overstyled bucket of bolts got to through the enterance, but Fleetwood blocked the way.

"HEY, BUDDY!" he roared over the chug of it's ancient V-8, "GET THIS HUNK OF SHIT OUT OF HERE BEFORE YOU POISON US!"

The car shut off, and the door creaked open to reveal Wilcox in full racing gear.

"This," he said proudly, "is my dusty, rusty, trusty, lusty Plymouth!"

"What do you think you're doing, Wil?" Fleetwood laughed. "you can't drive that leaky, creaky, never-even-a-bit-sneaky, freaky old thing in this race! Even if it was fast enough, remember the rule we had around the shop?"

"No fat chicks?"

"NOT MY DATING RULE, YOU IDIOT, THE CAR RULE!"

Mel stepped up, and recited the rule:

"All cars that enter the shop premisises must have an engine, suspension, or chassis built by General Motors," he said proudy, having always followed the rule."This also applies to "Dynasty Racing"'s track events in which they enter."

"It's alright, Mr. Brougham, Wilcox said cheerfully, "her suspension was in too bad shape, so I put some Goodwrench coils in her, now she rides like a cloud!"

"You're beginning to sound like Mel, man!" Snails chuckled.

"Wilcox," Eldorado grunted, "you can't drive that pile in the race! We already are bucked cuz of that new team Rarity and Irvan started, and I don't wanna be takin' no more chances!"

"Please, Mr. Eldorado!" he begged, similar to how a young colt cries for a toy, "PLEASE let me run in the race! This old girl may not look much-"

"But it still isn't much!" Snips ridiculed playfully, and the garage burst into laughter.

Wilcox ignored this, and continued.

"She has SWEET take-off, and can drift like a Mazda! Not to mention that this car came with an aftermarket speedo that goes up to 250 MPH! Please! If we lose because of me, I promise that i'll do Snips' and Snails' work for the rest of the time I work here!"

"You already do," Spike said jokingly.

"But, anyway," Wilcox started again, "even if I do come in last, it won't matter! Fleetwood has bought us all cars that can actually corner almost decently for the best time ever, and Spike has been taking those driving lessons from Fleetwood's uncle Grenville! We're bound to win!"

"Alright," sighed Fleet, finally giving in, "you've convinced me, you can drive your leaky, creaky, never-even-a-bit-sneaky, freaky old Plymouth in the race."

Wilcox cheered, jumped up and down in a Pinkie Pie-ish fashion, and blew the Fury's horn triumphantly. He settled down after he saw Eldorado give him a sharp glance, and Spike rolled his eyes.

****

"Okay, back to what I was saying before Wilcox got here." Fleetwood paused to light another cigar. "As you all know, Spike is going to be racing with us this year, due to the fact that he has a bone to pick with Mr. Irvan over there. Spike, just to let you know, there are three classes of car for this race: Sports Cars, Muscle Cars and Hotrods, and RV's. You'll be driving our Sports Car entree. Dad, you'll be driving the "Bootlegger Special", that Chevy Confederate Roadster we made together back in the '70's."

"I'LL GIVE 'EM HELL!" the Eldorado cried, waving the Confederate cavalry saber he carried for luck.

"Dad," Fleetwood groaned, "put your saber away, you'll scare the spectators! Snips, Snails, you'll drive the Chevy Camper Van I got from me and Derpy's divorce."

Snips and Snails high-fived each other, happy that they would get to partake in the race at all this year.

"Mel, you will be pit crew alone this year."

Mel adjusted his Autocar cap humbly.

"I'll be driving my GM LeSabre against Westside. Wilcox," he finished, with slight hesitation in his voice, "You will be... driving your Plymouth. Any questions?"

Just then, an announcement came over the Sweet Apple Acres Raceway's loudspeaker.

"ATTENTION RACEGOERS!" the announcer yelled, deafening feedback screaming over the voice at some points, "THIS IS GRANNY SMITH SPEAKIN'! ALL DRIVERS PROCEED TO THE STARTING LINE FOR THE EVENT!"

"Well," Spike sighed, "So much for questions!"