ismenin | Hobart Drizzle and Other Matters

Hobart Drizzle - see below.

Well, I'm still here! If this does not greatly surprise you, then it should! :D

Today I went to get Sauron - my little scooter, black and menacing - out of the garage to go to the shop/store/whatever, when the metal plate of the inspection pit gave way under me, and I landed on my arse in several inches of filthy water at the bottom of the pit. Yes, it was the pits, before anyone else says it. Grins.

Amazed that I was not a) dead, b) suffering several broken bones, and c) had not peed myself, I yelled for help, and the nice lady next door went and got Rich out of bed and, long story short - I had my head glued back together at the local hospital. Sheesh! I've been super-glued!

All I was worried about was that I wouldn't make to TOM in Cardiff on 26 April!

So I wrote this to cheer myself up.

Unbetaed; would not dare to give this to LSR. Really I wouldn't!

Inspired by the Mortified Community Players version of the Jason Smith epic "500 Miles to Indy", and an hysterical fic written by

telstar109, who suggested that I write more, cos I wanted to read more. Thank you for the nudge, my dear!

Linkie thing to the YouTube clip of this wonderful production, starring our very own Lij as HOBART DRIZZLE. If you haven't seen it - go NOW - the story will make no sense unless you've seen it!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VR2Fm-_IRM

As I said - Pit Stop: Caesura

He stood in his garage and stared lovingly at the newly souped-up, ready-to-go Blue 1986 Isuzu Pup Pick-up that was his very first vehicle, and thought over the week's happenings. The Lamborghini and Aston Martin parked either side of it meant nothing to him compared to, this, his first love.

He smoothed her hood, and spared a sigh for JJ Logan, the hot, blonde driver who had been - for two hours and seven minutes - his first love. Or maybe, considering the last phase in the previous paragraph, his second.

Since that suspicious day, Hobart Drizzle had become a name to be reckoned with in the racing world. Only Lewis Hamilton was better known, and Lewis had come second to him in the Monaco Grand Prix only the week before. The Indy 500 had been left way behind, and Hobart, three years on from his first victory against his evil arch-rival, Emile Spoto, was rich. Richer, in fact, than Emile could ever have dreamed of being before he lost his entire fortune investing in a failed Siberian pickled strawberry factory. He was now a cushion-renter and hot-dog salesman at the Indy track, and strangely enough, he enjoyed it.

So rich was Hobart that he bought his Mom a new dishwasher as soon as the old gas one had broken down, and Kenwood Spackle, their handy-man neighbor had shaken his head and said to Hobe's mother, "Cardantua, my dear, it's past repair." It was past repair.

He had paid $40.89 dollars without blinking, for her to have the fence mended, and brushed off her protestations at paying for her to have a pedicure every three months, now that her bunions were playing up more than ever.

"Gee, Hobe," his mother had said, the night before, slicing him a generous portion of meat-loaf and heaping green beans onto his plate at dinner. "Even your blessed father, when he was alive, could only manage to give me a hand-knitted saucepan, now and then, to show me his love and devotion. I am overwhelmed."

"Keep your whelm for those that deserve it, Mom," he had blushed over his banana. "Nothing is too good for the family of Hobart Drizzle."

Hobart had repeated this remark earlier that morning, as he handed his sister, Euphrosyne, the keys to a pea-green second-hand Mini Minor - only two careful owners - for it was her eighteenth birthday.

"Gee, thanks, Hobe," she gushed, gazing at her new gift with annnnalloyed admiration. "No one has ever given me anything half as nice before."

"Shucks!" he blushed. With forty million dollars prize money put safely in the bank that year, alone, he could afford to splash out a little.

"Look!" renounced Hobart, opening the door of the vehicle, "I got real acrylic leopard-skin seat covers for it, too, and two pink fluffy dice to hang from the mirror. "Plus", he grinned at her in accumuled triumph, "a pine scented air freshener in the shape of Keanu Reeves!"

Euphrosyne's cup ran over, and she burst into tears of joy. In fact she was, for the first time in her short life, more than jovial.

*****

Hobart brought himself back to the present, for someone had coughed behind him. It was Dom Monotonos, his left-front-wheel specialist. Hobart was always glad to see Dom; he cared for that left-front-wheel more diligerantly than any mechanic he had ever had. Nothing was too much for it.

Dom polished the wheel trim to a brighter gleam than any other man who had cared for that wheel. The nuts were tightened to perfection, and not a speck of mud was allowed to sully the tread on that tire.

In fact, Hobart was seriously thinking of giving the right-front-wheel into Dom's care, too, as its main tender, Morten Viggoson was leaving his team to become a bee-milker in Missouri. But all that was for the future, because Dom coughed again, and Hobart turned his attention to the shy young man standing beside him.

"Hi there, Dom; you look frantic," Hobart observed, noting the light sheen of sweat adorning Dom's brow.

"No, not really, Mr Drizzle," Dom corrected, before sinking to the ground in an anguished, panting heap. "It's just that I ran all the way from Maggie's Nipples, Wyoming, to bring you this slice of Sean Ass's wedding cake. He promised it to you, I understand."

"So," spat Hobart, his skin turning a light puce color, or maybe more crimoson - it's hard to tell without a color chart - "he's living in Maggie's Nipples, now, is he? I hope he and what's-her-name are very comfortable."

"Christiana Wonderduster, as was, Mr Drizzle - and yes, they seem to be fairly happily placed, there, so it seems to me."

"A nipple each, I have no doubt," but the illusion passed Dom by. He was not an educated man like Hobart. Or us.

Hobart cast a speculum over Dom. He looked a nice sort of guy, if you ignored the limp, and he had all his own teeth, which was more than Sean had ever had.

"Do you like sassafras and pancakes, Dom?" Hobart queered. "My Mom is making oodleberry pancakes - and muffins tonight, too," he offered as a clincher. "Fancy nibbling a couple?"

"A couple of what, Mr Hobart?" asked Dom, going pale. He was not the brightest bulb in the box.

"Balls!" ejaculated Hobart, with glee. "She's making meatballs, too!"

Dom nearly fainted from joy, but as he was still lying on the floor, he didn't bother. He allowed his knees to tremble violetly, instead.

"They're my favorites. Mr Drizzle!" whispered Dom.

Hobart held out his hand and helped the trembling Dom to his feet.

"Come on: it may be we can find you something more exciting to nibble when we get home."

"Mushrooms!" Dom thought, his mouth watering, and followed Hobart into the adjoining house. It was going to be quite a night!

*And yes, there is a place in Wyoming called Maggie's Nipples.