The World Grand Prix Collateral Committee

Witness 01

"What is this? Francesco thought this was an interview!"

The "interview" room seemed more like one of those interrogation cells the FBI would reserve for terrorists. Shadowy corners. A long horizontal mirror on one gray, stone wall. A chill, though there was no visible ventilation. A metal desk with a manila folder and lamp, the only source of light. Many machines plugged into one tiny power strip. A projector suspended in the middle of the ceiling.

It was definitely not a place Francesco Bernoulli, given this information, would have chosen to go. He had half a mind to speed back to his five-star suite across the street from this agency. But a dark blue SUV had already rolled into the doorway, practically breathing down Francesco's rear wing.

"Please calm down," the SUV said. "We won't take long here. Now, for the recording, park within the rectangle."

Duct tape marked out a parking spot on the far side of the desk. Grumbling, Francesco rolled into place. The SUV parked on the opposite side, allowing a small forklift to drive in behind him.

"Thank you for coming today," said the SUV, laying a tire on the manila folder. "Seeing your busy schedule, we were not able to contact you for a sooner appointment. And we didn't want to abduct you, due to your celebrity status."

"Abduct?" Francesco repeated with a gulp. "Like-a aliens? Are you not a spy agency?"

That was the only reason he had come. The World Grand Prix- the ultimate championship title- had been ruined by Axlerod's villainy and a rumored international espionage plot. So when the accused espionage organization, C.H.R.O.M.E., reached out to Francesco's team, seeking to get his perspective on the events, he agreed to come in. It seemed only fair; they wanted answers from him, and he wanted answers from them.

The SUV's frown deepened. "Yes. Yes, unfortunately, we are. You will call me Dave."

"Dave? As in David?"

"Just Dave is fine." Dave slid the folder to the forklift. The forklift took it and skimmed it while Dave turned back to Francesco. "Now, let's begin. How well do you recall the World Grand Prix?"

Francesco had been asked about the WGP many times in the past few weeks, but it never got easier to answer. It did get easier to act nonchalant about it. "Oh, very well. It had its highs and lows. Francesco won in Tokyo, but everything went downhill from there...."

Even though his hometown was still his most loyal fanbase, he was humiliated to have lost on his home course. But he couldn't even stay frustrated at Lightning McQueen over it, because almost all the other racers had gotten into a massive pile-up. The wreck dominated the headlines; the only thing that could have caused this many mishaps was the new fuel, Allinol. When given the choice, Francesco and his team decided to not use it for the London race.

"That's-a when everything went wrong," Francesco sighed. "Francesco was in the lead, yes? Cruising-a toward victory! But then... ZOOM!" He thrust one of his open wheels forward, to emphasize the speed he had witnessed. "McQueen and a tow truck flew past, almost destroying Francesco! He had no hope to catch them! And he said, 'What is-a happening? This is a bad dream!' But he did-a not wake up!"

It was then that he noticed the forklift jotting down everything he said on a notepad. He paused, wondering if he needed to repeat himself.

"That's it?" Dave pressed. "That's all you saw?"

Francesco furrowed the top of his windshield. He had tried very hard to block that race out of his memory, but it had proven quite stubborn. "No. A few minutes later, Francesco was almost hit by a purple comet! WHOOSH! Straight-a from his nightmares!" He shuddered, remembering his own scream. "He cannot-a go three seconds without looking over his rearview mirrors ever since. Francesco tried to get larger mirrors, but the women did not like them. And Francesco must please his fans, no?"