"Dang. Darn near got fifty laps in and ain't been no crashes yet."

"Yea, that's right, Clyde. Sure is a boring race."

"Yea, maybe we needs to bring one of then there missile things. We could make a crash then."

Meanwhile, down in the pits, racer Dwayne Collins was telling his pit boss, "Look at all those vultures. They're just waitn' for someone to crash."

"Well, Dwayne, really no other reason to be here. Watching cars running around a track is about as exciting as watching slobber dry."

"What do they want? Maybe I should drive the wrong way until I get hit?"

"Well, Dwayne, I think they'd love that. You'd be the newest hero. Course, you'd be dead but ..."

Up in the stands Clyde got all excited.

"Lookee there. Almost had us a crash right in front of us."

"Clyde, almost don't count none. Besides, right in front of us is a mite too close, ya know what I mean."

The race was amazing. Going into the final ten laps there were no accidents. This was racing history in the making. The fans were booing, of course, but who could hear them over the roar of the engines. The promoters didn't care since they had the money.

Clyde's buddy finally got disgusted with it all and spit a long, brown stream of tobacco juice out onto the track. That was disgusting in itself. It also caused the first car to hit it to slide sideways and get hit by the next three cars which in turn took out the entire field...almost.

Burt Burton was last in the field and stopped before he slammed into the pileup. He sat and watched and realized he had the only car running. Wow! He was going to finish someplace else besides last. Just snake through all the wrecks and he wins! Wow!

Then his car stalled and refused to start.