BULLSEYE

Burning Fists

With my same arrogant air but face deep-set with concentration, I approached the rule-committee. They did not look up when they heard my feet clatter upon the road of grey rumble. They did not even look up when I moved my sinewy face with the precise attempt to look at them fixedly. Eventually, I got annoyed with this idiocy. Straightening myself up, I coughed loudly and sarcastically. The officers looked up then, squinting in the blaring sun. They each had the same haircuts, the same outfits. It was enough to unnerve any racer.

"I'd like to-,"I stated, shifting my weight from leg to leg awkwardly. I closed my eyes tight, hoping to clear my buzzing mind, opened them.

"I'd like to continue racing. Tell the gents that the Fabulous Hudson Hornet is back for the season," I added, foolishly. To rash even for my own liking.

Alas my eyes only flew open wider - my heart coming to a shattering leap and then a halt - as the men broke down into hysterics in front of me. Cynical, as if some indiscretion had been played blatantly upon them.

"Doc Hudson come back for the season?" one jeered. Laughing as if there was an inside joke and I was the punch line.

"Is this a joke?" The same one asked, eyebrow quirking upwards. I leaned one burly hand against the desk's head, my face as serious as it could ever had been.

"Do I look like I'm joking," I snapped bitterly. The three identical officers shook their heads in precise unison. One of them leaned forward, opening his hands wide as if welcoming a new friend, however he knew his true aims were to mock me even more but this time using lavish questers. I waited for his remarks.

"You crashed," the man pointed finally. Not a hint of remorse nor pity in his voice.

"You span out on the side of the road, your car was a mess. Your body mangled-,"

"Yes, I'm well aware of that sir. I was there," I shattered the man's voice coarsely. He was talking to me as if I was a damn imbecile.

"I was the one who crashed it,"I reminded him darkly. But the officer's guards only furrowed, his facial features became tight. His eyes were narrowed into slits made of an alloy of anger and determination.

"Then you are aware that when you span out you scared a group of tourists out of their damn minds," the man continued to lull. His breath stunk of cigars, card games, scrunched pieces of paper and a thousand empty pen cartridges. I scrunched my nose in disgust which was not a good look for me.

Nevertheless I restrained from telling the authoritative man that whilst they may of been scared, I had braced myself for death.

"Because of that," the man continued. Putting a wispy finger on a piece of accursed paper and jotting something down upon it. His handwriting cursive with far to many curls for my liking.

He looked up at me again then - taking a deep breath so that his chest rose heavily then plummeted back down - and it was as if I could detect something like pity in his iris's.

"Because of that we can no longer allow you to race. You're history. Move over for the next rookie standing in line,"he finished.

I closed my eyes, it was as if I had been struck with a sword and I was slowly letting that cold iron blade sink in. At first it was nothing just a sharp tang, an overwhelming coldness that splashed down my back and on the crooks of my neck. Then the blade kept on digging in and I realised that the blade could not averted. Then came the anger, gut-wrenching, pitiful anger. Anger that blew any benevolent thought out of my mind.

I wanted to scream, I wanted to make my way over to the other side of the table and etch my name in. I wanted to tell them that it could not be all, that it was not fair, that if I came back now it would be the comeback of the year, the breakthrough that would hit the news, I wanted to tell them that I could beat any other racer here without even blinking an eyelid. But at the very moment I got the nerve to do anything like those things, the men scraped their chairs back. They hustled their acidic yellowed papers into their hands. They went away like fear fleas from the tip of an already burnt out wax. It took all the willpower I had not to run after them.

On the contrary, I turned back towards the carport. A park full of racers, a family that I had just been coldly disowned from. My fists pulsed at my side with rancid anger. I passed through the barrier of Smokey and Weathers without a single turn, their breaths lashed against my barren skin. Alive when mine was dead.

I reached the car then did the only thing that I could think of doing, the only thing that felt right at that exact moment. Lazily, I drew my booted leg up towards the car wheel. And hit it.

I hit it with such an impact that it almost convulsed on my first shoot, the heel of my boat dug into a thin layer of the concrete, tearing it apart. Pain retched throw my leg as if a bolt of lightning. It trembled up into my chest and burnt in my heart but I did not care. I struck out again. Again.

In seconds, two muscled hands grasped around my battered shoulders. They attempted to pull me away, to give me confinement in a war of hearts. I almost let those two icy hands take me but then I saw the blue fabric , the mottled blonde hair. I span around, fists still clenched - ready to strike out once more if only to derive a little pleasure.

Strip stood facing me, his eyes fixed with concern, his blonde hair had became a bird's nest upon his pasty head.

"Don't be rash," he lulled. His voice soft, full of pity and wide eyed wonder.

"Calm down," I span on my heel then, looked up and peered dead set into Weather's placid eyes. He had just unknowingly gave me a match and lit a fire in my heart. It was unfortunately to great a fire to be ignored.

"Don't," I spat and I could see Smokey go starry-eyed from behind Strip but in all honesty I really couldn't care any less.

"You dragged me here," I continued. My voice repulsive, coated thick in delirious rage.

"You gave me hope, you made me want to race again. You just gave a child a match and watched him burn. And now I have nothing-,"I insisted. Knocking my shoulder rudely against his skin, letting my bone burn against his barren flesh. I drew away almost instantaneously and continued spitting childish hate.

"The last thing I need is you standing over me telling me what I can and can't feel," I hissed. With that I turned my icy back upon my two friends. My suit was a ruin, crumpled, attaining layers of blood, spirt and dirt but I didn't care.

Behind me, I could hear Smokey lay one hand on Strip's ready-to-break shoulder.

"Leave him be King,"I heard my best-friend say. His accent flourishing which either meant that he was worried or sad. For once I didn't care about that either.

I just went back to beating the King's '1970 Plymouth Superbird'. Not caring if it was incredulous nor rash. Not caring if all I got out of it was a battered leg the next morning. I did it anyway, savoured the pleasant kick as my foot hit the tyre and - for a second - my anger was replaced with cool, hard determination. Then it was gone. Leaving me to go through the process all over again.