PART ONE: YELLOW FLAG - Caution! Slippery track ahead

  "Not s'dam fast, ya showboatin' prima-donna!"

  Good ol'Marve had a voice like a buzzsaw going through granite, only slightly more jarring. Not even the roar of the engine at top speed could undercut its unpleasantness.

  "You do understand the objective here, don't ya, Marve? It's first one to the finish line."

  "Way you're goin, yer libel to cross it on your ass!"

  "Still counts the same, don't it?"

  Well on his way to his third consecutive Nascar Cup Series victory, Mikey Angelo was in top form, tearing up the racetrack the way he usually did on a sunny afternoon like this one, catching the eye of every pretty lady in the grandstand while still easily a good lap on his closest competition.

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  "Don't get smart with me, kiddo, I been drivin' longer than you been alive. Might behoove you to take some advice for a change."

  "Maybe when I'm dead." Mikey teased him. "But for now, going fast is just far too much motherfuckin' fun!"

  The frequency fluctuated, save for the distinct grating of teeth Mikey could still somehow detect over the open channel. Pretty soon it became blatantly obvious it wasn't ol' Marve's gnawing ego forcing him into radio silence.

  More like the radio itself.

  "Hey Marve, you still with me or what?"

  Mikey fiddled with his finicky headset. Sometimes a good shake was all she needed. "Marve—?"

  A staticky feedback enveloped the signal while Mikey made more frantic adjustments.

  ".c.n't hear you k.d... Y.. ke.p c.tti.'n' in'an'ou.t..."

  The danger, if any, had been left back nearly half a mile by the sharp turn he'd just clipped at 116 mph. So close, there were chips of paint peeling clean off the flaky Chevrolet chassis, which needed a good touching up anyway.

  "Wh.t's a m.tter...?" The gravelly voice stuttered just as #10 and #12 came roaring past on Mikey's right side (still more than a full length behind him).

  "...Mikey god.ammit, you're bre.k.ng up...!"

  Who can say which came first, the airborne projectile or its gleaming shadow, blinding him from reacting on an otherwise picturesque Daytona afternoon.

  "Jesus Mikey, watch out for the––!!!"

  Either way, not even Mikey Angelo's sublime reflexes were up to the challenge that day as it came hurtling toward him like a shiny chrome cylinder-shaped torpedo.

  Upon impact, he spun out of control.