would have been perfect for sitting under if I were the size of a miniature Chihuahua.
Petri bowed, sweeping his hand. “This is where the race judges sit.”
I took a seat. Actually, I took three, because gnomes are somewhat thinner than people. Petri tapped on a microphone to gather the crowd’s attention. “Brothers and sisters. We gather to feel alive! And tonight, we honor the presence of Marissa, Bringer of Death!”
The crowd rose to its feet and saluted me with raised fists. And that is where things got strange. The drivers in their monster trucks began to gun the engines. A gnome stepped out into the roadway, a napkin in his hand, and waved it. In a cloud of exhaust and a roar of thunder, the trucks exploded from the starting line.
They tore down the street toward the end, rubbing fenders and slamming into each other like rockers in a mosh pit. They rounded the corner, still knocking bumpers together and losing that beautiful black paint job. “How many times do they go around?”
Petri watched them hit the far straightaway and smiled. “That depends on the road hazards.” As they came barreling around to our side, I watched in horror as a group of gnomes clad in white wandered aimlessly onto the track, arranging themselves like traffic cones. Petri pointed with his flag. “See? Hazards.”
Each gnome knelt in the raceway, curling into a ball.
“Get them off the track,” I shouted. There couldn’t possibly be time. The monster trucks made it back to the near corner and flames gushed from one’s wheel well. The leaders swerved, weaving among the track gnomes so close the monster tires seemed to almost kiss them. About then I noticed the loser. The front wheel had blown out, and it careened straight for the stands, leaving a trail of sparks and flames.
I threw myself behind the railing as the monster truck slammed into the wall and went sailing. It missed my head by a foot and buried itself in the wall behind the stands.
“You’re going to get someone killed!” I yelled.
“Several someones. It’s audience participation night.” Petri reached under his seat and brought out a box. “Normally these only come with a paid admission.”
Around me gnomes were opening their boxes and taking out small, evil-looking bits of metal, sticks that looked suspiciously like disposable wands, and what I’m certain were illegal bear traps. The three remaining trucks slowed as the drivers exchanged gunfire, then came flying around the track like smoking hell beasts.
I opened my box and took out what looked like a flute. A flute with a trigger.
“Awesome!” said Petri, giving me a grin. “Point and click.” Then he looked down, a little disappointed. “I never get a magic missile launcher.”
Around me, gnomes tossed wicked bits of metal onto the track, while others attempted to hex anything that moved. The drivers, in turn, ceased to race with one another, and came full on toward the stands.
I stood, aimed, and then swung the muzzle down.
“Shoot!” screamed Petri.
I squeezed the trigger and nearly had my arm ripped off as it threw out a trail of smoke, blowing a huge crater in the track. The trucks hit it and dropped nose first into the pit, yielding a heartwarming combination of breaking glass and crushed metal.
The crowd cheered, despite the fact that no one won the race. Then they poured out of the stands, wielding spiked clubs and razor whips.
I plopped down in my seat, taking deep breaths. “What are they doing?”
“Sudden death overtime,” said Petri.
And right about then, a fresh wave of screaming burst across the stadium.
Not the screaming of a gnome on fire (there were several of those). Or of a gnome hit by small arms fire (several more of those), or of a gnome smashed by a monster truck tire (unfortunately, only one of those). This was fear. And if the gnomes thought feeling fear was being alive, they were really, really alive. A green hand the size of a beer keg reached up
Petri bowed, sweeping his hand. “This is where the race judges sit.”
I took a seat. Actually, I took three, because gnomes are somewhat thinner than people. Petri tapped on a microphone to gather the crowd’s attention. “Brothers and sisters. We gather to feel alive! And tonight, we honor the presence of Marissa, Bringer of Death!”
The crowd rose to its feet and saluted me with raised fists. And that is where things got strange. The drivers in their monster trucks began to gun the engines. A gnome stepped out into the roadway, a napkin in his hand, and waved it. In a cloud of exhaust and a roar of thunder, the trucks exploded from the starting line.
They tore down the street toward the end, rubbing fenders and slamming into each other like rockers in a mosh pit. They rounded the corner, still knocking bumpers together and losing that beautiful black paint job. “How many times do they go around?”
Petri watched them hit the far straightaway and smiled. “That depends on the road hazards.” As they came barreling around to our side, I watched in horror as a group of gnomes clad in white wandered aimlessly onto the track, arranging themselves like traffic cones. Petri pointed with his flag. “See? Hazards.”
Each gnome knelt in the raceway, curling into a ball.
“Get them off the track,” I shouted. There couldn’t possibly be time. The monster trucks made it back to the near corner and flames gushed from one’s wheel well. The leaders swerved, weaving among the track gnomes so close the monster tires seemed to almost kiss them. About then I noticed the loser. The front wheel had blown out, and it careened straight for the stands, leaving a trail of sparks and flames.
I threw myself behind the railing as the monster truck slammed into the wall and went sailing. It missed my head by a foot and buried itself in the wall behind the stands.
“You’re going to get someone killed!” I yelled.
“Several someones. It’s audience participation night.” Petri reached under his seat and brought out a box. “Normally these only come with a paid admission.”
Around me gnomes were opening their boxes and taking out small, evil-looking bits of metal, sticks that looked suspiciously like disposable wands, and what I’m certain were illegal bear traps. The three remaining trucks slowed as the drivers exchanged gunfire, then came flying around the track like smoking hell beasts.
I opened my box and took out what looked like a flute. A flute with a trigger.
“Awesome!” said Petri, giving me a grin. “Point and click.” Then he looked down, a little disappointed. “I never get a magic missile launcher.”
Around me, gnomes tossed wicked bits of metal onto the track, while others attempted to hex anything that moved. The drivers, in turn, ceased to race with one another, and came full on toward the stands.
I stood, aimed, and then swung the muzzle down.
“Shoot!” screamed Petri.
I squeezed the trigger and nearly had my arm ripped off as it threw out a trail of smoke, blowing a huge crater in the track. The trucks hit it and dropped nose first into the pit, yielding a heartwarming combination of breaking glass and crushed metal.
The crowd cheered, despite the fact that no one won the race. Then they poured out of the stands, wielding spiked clubs and razor whips.
I plopped down in my seat, taking deep breaths. “What are they doing?”
“Sudden death overtime,” said Petri.
And right about then, a fresh wave of screaming burst across the stadium.
Not the screaming of a gnome on fire (there were several of those). Or of a gnome hit by small arms fire (several more of those), or of a gnome smashed by a monster truck tire (unfortunately, only one of those). This was fear. And if the gnomes thought feeling fear was being alive, they were really, really alive. A green hand the size of a beer keg reached up
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