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Race Wars — Episode 101

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 02/19/2013

Race Wars

Episode 101 – The Contention

Kenny:  This doesn’t seem very legal, Dickie.

Dickie:  That’s because it’s not legal, Kenny. Now, come on.

(Second-year NASCAR driver Dickie Gillette and his younger brother and crew chief Kenny Gillette are sneaking through the bowels of the Daytona International Speedway in Daytona Beach, Florida. A group of Asian men are waiting at a back gate and the Gillette boys wave them in, hauling a large wooden crate behind them covered in mysterious Asian characters…)

Mr. Kim Chi:  Do you have the money?

Dickie:  (squints)  You got the stuff?

Mr. Chi:  Yes. It is here in crate.

Kenny:  Y’all know kung fu?

Dickie:  (hands over wad)  Shut up, Kenny. Here’s your cash. It’s in American currency, not yen. Hope that’s okay.

Mr. Chi:  We are not from China. We are from North Korea.  (counts wad)  It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Gillette. Happy racing.

Dickie:  You’re goddamn right, happy racing.

(The North Koreans exit the Speedway and Kenny helps Dickie drag the crate toward the Lord’s Racing garage…)

Dickie:  Is North Korea the evil Korea; or is that South Korea?

Kenny:  I thought they said they was from North Carolina. What’s in this, anyway? It’s heavy as all get out.

(Safely in their team’s garage, Dickie cracks open the crate and it emits a green glow…)

Dickie:  Primo North Korean nuclear plutonium. I’m winnin’ the 500 this year if it’s the last dang thing I do.

Kenny:  Do you mean to tell me North Carolina’s got the bomb?


Meriweather:  Mr. Lord, I am willing to pay you above market price for this Speedway. You’ve seen our offer and I guarantee you’re not going to see any better offers anytime soon.

Cliff:  For the last time Mr. Meriweather, the Daytona International Speedway is not for sale.

(Cliff Lord, Florida real estate tycoon and owner of the Speedway and the Lord’s Racing team is in his skybox office overlooking Daytona with New York investment banker Webster Meriweather…)

Meriweather:  I wish you’d reconsider, Mr. Lord. This is an exorbitant amount of money my partners and I are offering. You’d be the richest man in Florida.

Cliff:  Young man, I am already the richest man in Florida. The Speedway isn’t for sale; because racing is my life. I love this sport more than all the money in the world.

Meriweather:  Let’s be honest, Mr. Lord. Stock car racing isn’t really a sport. It’s just a bunch of hopped-up rednecks driving in circles. You’re willing to give up all these riches for that?

Cliff:  I will bid you good day, sir.

Meriweather:  Mr. Lord, if you’d just list–

Cliff:  GOOD DAY, SIR.

(The investment banker exits the skybox and Cliff Lord looks out over his quiet race track…)

Cliff:  (dips)


(The Gillette Brothers are driving toward their mother’s trailer park in West Daytona Beach. Dickie Gillette swigs a can of Gator Beer as he steers his brothers’ pickup truck, careening from lane to lane. Blue lights flash in the rear view mirror and Dickie reluctantly pulls over, tossing the empty beer can out the passenger side window…)

Kenny:  Aw c’mon, Dickie. You splashed me.

Dickie:  (glancing in driver’s side mirror)  Oh goddammit, it’s that piece of trash… (cop taps on door with is baton)  …Sheriff Knotts! How the hell are ya?

Sheriff:  Dickie, you were drivin’ pretty recklessly back there. You been drinkin’?

Dickie:  Oh c’mon, George. You know drinkin’ and drivin’ is illegal.

Sheriff:  I do know that, Dickie. I do know that. Mostly because I’ve arrested you on it upwards of twenty-eight times since you turned fourteen.

Dickie:  Sheriff, Kenny and I are just tryin’ to go see our mama.

Sheriff:  How is ‘ol Mama Gillette? She still in Shady View?

Dickie:  Yeah, I’m hopin’ I can win a few races this season and get enough money to move her outta that park.

Sheriff:  The way you were drivin’ today, you’ll be lucky if you finish a race. There’s a reason they call you “Into The Wall Gillette.”

Dickie:  Because they’re bad at makin’ nicknames?

Sheriff:  Because your drivin’ is shit.

Dickie:  Well George, let’s just say I got a secret weapon up my sleeve this season.

Sheriff:  Oh yeah? It got anything to do with that box in the back all covered in hieroglyphics?

Kenny:  (leaning over)  That’s a present for our mama!

Dickie:  Shut up, Kenny.

Sheriff:  (smirks)  What is it? A mummy for your mommy?

Dickie:  Sure is, Sheriff. Another case solved by the DBPD. Bought our mama a dead Egyptian pharaoh. Now if you’ll excuse us.

Sheriff:  Get on outta here. And next time, try better to conceal the open containers.

(Kenny makes a loud rattling as he shifts his feet; empty beer cans up to his ankles…)

Kenny:  Recyclin’ Day.

(Dickie peels out, muttering “pig” under his breath as the Sheriff adjust his hat/crotch and spits…)


Margie:  (hollering from upstairs)  Hank, where the hell did you put Smoochie’s leash?

Hank:  (hollering from downstairs)  You know I never touch that dang dog. Why would I touch it’s dang leash?

Margie:  Well, how the hell is Marta gonna walk Smoochie without her leash?

Hank:  Doesn’t that poor lady do enough around here already? Why you gotta make her pick up that dog’s crap too?

Margie:  At least somebody in this house does some work! Just sittin’ around in your little man-cave all day.

(Ten-time champion NASCAR driver Hank King sits in the first floor game room of his sprawling Daytona Beach mansion, looking out over the rolling tide of the Atlantic. He glances down at the dog leash tucked under his recliner and smiles…)

Hank:  (staring back out at the ocean) (sighs)  I hate that damn dog.


(The Gillette Brothers pull into Shady View Trailer Park in West Daytona Beach, park the truck and begin lugging the North Korean nuke towards their mother’s trailer, where Mama Gillette is rocking on the front porch…)

Dickie:  I hate that damn Sheriff. Thinks he’s so cool, ’cause he’s got a big hat. I could get a big hat if I wanted to. I could get the biggest damn hat this town’s ever–Hey Mama!

Mama:  What you boys got in that big box? You buy your mama a present?

Dickie:  We sure did, Mama. But you can’t open it just yet. We need to store it under your trailer for a bit. No peekin’!

(Mama Gillette smiles as Kenny and Dickie shove the nuke under their mother’s trailer…)

Mama:  My boys. Always thinkin’ of they mama. You boys want some lemonade?

Kenny:  I reckon I could drink a glass.

Mama:  (heads inside)

Akeem:  Gillette. This is a trailer park, not a U-STOR-IT.

(Dickie turns to see Akeem Ngwake, a towering Nigerian and park manager of Shady View…)

Dickie:  (scowls)  Akeem, you sonuvabitch.

Akeem:  (glowers)

(Both men break into broad grins and embrace. Kenny tries to get in on the hug, but is pushed away by Dickie. Hours later, the three men are on their fourth lemonade and vodka. Mama Gillette is passed out in her rocking chair as the men laugh and watch the sunset…)

Akeem:  You seem quite confident you can win the Daytona this year, Dickie.

Dickie:  Akeem, it’s in the bag. Let’s just say I’ve got a secret weapon. (winks)

Akeem:  I take it your “secret weapon” has something to do with that mysterious box you’ve hidden under your mother’s trailer.

Dickie:  Just gotta keep it here ’til race day. Away from the prying eyes of any NASCAR officials.

Akeem:  You know Dickie, a cheater never prospers.

Dickie:  It’s not about cheating, Akeem. It’s about taking a tactical advantage. Hank King’s reign at the top is coming to an end if it’s the last thing I do.

(Akeem smiles and finishes his lemonade…)

Kenny:  Akeem, did you hear this about North Carolina acquiring the bomb?

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