Sam Sitler's Blog

Last fall, a writer friend challenged me with a writing prompt. “What if there was a car thief who traveled through time?” Within six months, that challenge was the novel, “Racing Through Time”. When writing a story about time travel, you often wonder what the future will hold. If you want my predictions of what the world will look like in 99 years, or even what I thought it would look like a month and a half ago, read the whole book, available from Amazon.

But for this week, let me introduce you to Devin Walpole, a California car thief from the year 2124.

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Chapter 1

Devin breathed heavily as he approached his target. All this way, and he was about to hit the jackpot. Years and years of searching, and he would have the only one of its kind left in existence.

The white Ford GT gleamed under the fluorescent glow of the parking garage. Based on the Le Mans-winning race car from the late 1960s, this specimen was one of just over 4,000 built between 2005 and 2006. The white paint was complimented by twin blue stripes arcing from the front bumper to the rear of the car – America’s racing colors.

Devin held out his phone and opened his radio frequency app. He had developed it some years before. The app, Radio Bestie, scanned for radio frequencies in the vicinity, then it would decode them and tell its user exactly what each one was.

“AM 790, 97.1 FM,” the app read as it decoded signals for radio stations.

“MySubaru59X0239BH314DGN09, STELLDODCHA4HD482SU9006LFDS4, GMT9002C5942JY6547TO058”

– vehicle identification numbers. Those VINs refreshed to something more readable after a couple of seconds: “2022 Subaru Outback Wilderness, 2021 Dodge Challenger SRT Demon, 2013 GMC Yukon XL Denali.”

Devin huffed as everything but his GT popped up on the app. Might make sense. Records show the car was bought brand new in July 2004 and never seen on the road again after August the same year. Now it was July 2025. Twenty-one years of sitting, but whoever owned it kept it in pristine condition. If it sat for twenty-one years without so much as being turned over, it was more than likely the battery was dead.

Devin checked his records again. The plates were correct: “California OFP8576”. The VIN was good too. The records showed that the owner, a Mr. Simon Wu, was deceased as of June of 2025, leaving no heirs. Nobody would miss it.

Radio Bestie brought up no more results.

“Well, old ways are still the best ways,” Devin thought to himself.

Devin reached into his backpack and pulled out a lock pick. He did a once-over to check for anyone coming. Solid. The coast was clear. He crouched down and began picking the lock. Careful to not break it, he jiggled it around long enough to hear the click. It was perfect. He pulled the handle, and the door swung open. No way to hotwire it either. At least not yet.

Devin opened the cover on the midship-mounted 5.4-liter supercharged Ford Modular V8. He pulled a battery charger out of his backpack and hooked it up to the battery. Within seconds, the dash lights came on. He opened Radio Bestie on his phone again. There it was: “FOMOCOGT1FAL53I54VKSA8VH7”. Within a couple seconds, it was confirmed: “2005 Ford GT”.

With the battery fully charged, Devin lowered himself down into the driver’s seat, slinging his backpack onto the passenger seat. He opened up another app – another one of his programs. “My CarKey” worked with Radio Bestie by connecting with the key fob’s radio signal. Essentially, if one had both apps, they could start and drive their car without taking their car keys with them. He selected the code for the GT. This took him to a menu screen that looked like a generic car key fob – buttons such as “lock”, “unlock”, “open trunk”, and “panic”. Doing a final once-over, he selected “engine start”.

For the first time in months, the big V8 roared to life. Devin felt like he was in a massage chair as the big mill vibrated the whole car. This was it. He was going to be the proud owner of the last Ford GT. He packed up his gear and buckled up.

Devin knew it was too easy. Before he could put the car into gear, a Huntington Beach police cruiser pulled up with its lights on. Must be security for the parking garage. The officer stepped out of the crossover-turned-squad car. He was a big rock of a man, a colossus who seemed to be chiseled out of stone by a Greek sculptor. He began to approach Devin in the GT. Not today. Devin had come too far and had put too much research into this car for it to end like this. He slowly let off the parking brake and held the clutch down. The officer had left just enough space. As soon as he was far enough away from his squad car, Devin jammed the GT’s transmission into first and mashed the accelerator, leaving two lines of burnt rubber and a big cloud of smoke. The officer rushed back to his car and called in the theft.

Devin threw the car around a corner, climbing up to the next level. This was not the place to drive fast. It wasn’t long before the police officer was on his tail. He powershifted into second as the surface flattened out onto level three.

“HB 866, I’m in pursuit of a white Ford,” the officer radioed. “California plates Ocean-Frank-Paul-Eight-Five-Seven-Six. He’s ascending up the Park-N-Stay garage on Beach Boulevard.”

Devin’s moves clearly confused the officer. Why would he ascend the parking garage? There was nowhere to go. Devin shoved the transmission into third before downshifting back to second for a corner, then ascending the ramp to take him to the fourth level of the garage. Devin loved the perfect balance the GT had – all the weight perfectly placed between the two axels. This car was built for the track. It was almost a crime for the dearly departed Mr. Wu to just leave it sitting here for twenty years.

“HB 866, copy. Do you have a description of the suspect?” came the dispatcher’s voice.

“HB 866, suspect is a white male, 5’9” with, um, brown hair, late teens-early twenties.”

Devin drifted around a blind corner, nearly missing a senior citizen backing out in his Hyundai Santa Fe. The officer wasn’t so lucky. The oblivious senior kept backing up, right into the officer’s path. With a heart-attack-inducing crunch, the police cruiser clipped the Santa Fe, but the police officer never backed down.

“10-50 in the Beach Boulevard Park-N-Stay, level four,” he radioed. “Late-model Hyundai Santa Fe. Continuing pursuit.”

“All units, be advised, there is a 10-50 the Beach Boulevard Park-N-Stay, possibly connected to the stolen vehicle. Please report.”

The driver’s side headlight assembly dangled from the Explorer as its driver kept the suspect in his sights. He would not give up, no matter what got in his way.

“I have no idea what this guy is doing,” the officer radioed dispatch. “He keeps going up and up. He’s trapped. He must have a death wish or something.”

“Then just keep on him,” the dispatcher radioed back. “We’ve reported the car stolen, but I don’t think anyone will miss it. The RO died last month and left no heir. All the same, go after him. Whoever stole that car is definitely a person of interest.”

Level five. Level six. Level seven. Devin was running out of road. As soon as he reached level eight, he fumbled around in his backpack for another tool. He found it right before he had to downshift again to climb to level nine. The tool itself looked like a car phone charger with a digital screen and a USB plug. He plugged it into a cigarette lighter, and it lit up with a bunch of numbers. It was his ticket out. On the screen was the date: 07/21/2025. He started fiddling with it, only to run out of room and needing to downshift. “06/10/2125”. Not it.

“He’s headed to ten,” the officer radioed. “This is it. I’ll have him cornered.”

The tenth level was in the open air. It was now or never. Devin mashed the accelerator. He had found his setting on the device. Third gear. Fourth gear. Fifth gear. His speed climbed as he passed 100 miles per hour.

“Oh my gosh! He’s going to kill himself!” the officer yelled to his dispatcher.

When it looked like the GT was going to smash into the wall, it disappeared into thin air. Not a trace was left behind.

“Um, dispatch,” the officer radioed as he slid to a halt, “please schedule a psych eval when I get back.”

“What happened?”

“You would not believe this. I would not believe this. No one would believe this. That car just vanished right before my eyes!”

The officer hung his head on his steering wheel as he heard the sirens of his back-up wailing ten stories below. This was unbelievable.

“Ocean Ten, please report to the precinct,” the dispatcher radioed.

The officer punched his steering wheel as he put the Explorer into reverse. He cursed out loud as he spun it back around and drove downstairs. There would be a lot of paperwork, which meant a long night. Not to mention, he would undoubtedly be put on leave, if not for the impossible disappearance of his suspect, but for continuing pursuit after causing a collision.

“I need a drink,” he thought to himself as he made his appearance on the fourth level.

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This week’s chapter is the third from Rumble Road’s 2024 sequel, “Back to Rumble Road”. I started writing this book in August 2022, shortly after publishing the first book. It had never intended on writing a sequel, but I loved the characters I had created so much that I wrote one. It took over two years, and that’s evidenced by life changes that happened during the writing. I switched jobs during that time. This particular chapter was written when I drove school bus and was actually based on true events that happened to me and other drivers during that time. Later on in the book, yours truly makes an appearance delivering welding supplied.

“Back to Rumble Road” follows small-town mechanic, Brian Collins, as he leaves home and embarks on a rally career with old friend, Clint Larson.

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If you drove school bus, this may awaken some latent PTSD, so please read with discretion.

Chapter 3

The atmosphere at the bus garage was even darker as Brian checked in for his afternoon route. Drivers were waiting for the last second to start their pretrip inspections, dreading what the afternoon held for them. Brian took a minute to clear his mind for what should have normally been a pretty mind-clearing job. He had to get everything off his mind if he was going to deal with his living nightmare of a route.

Bus driving jobs lie on a spectrum of excellent to absolute living hell. Various factors like school district, schools, and bus company combine into the quality of the job. Brian had received the short end of the stick, going with a job that scored on the low end of the spectrum in all categories. The district he drove for did absolutely nothing to improve educational quality or the working conditions of their teachers. Teachers in the schools gave little concern to behavior, oftentimes encouraging the behavior or giving into parents’ demands. To top it off, the bus company was more concerned with money, often forcing drivers to take buses out that were not fit to drive. There was a union, but even that was a scam that focused more on their bigger markets in Portland, ignoring the smaller shops in the Mid-Willamette Valley while charging more and more in union dues.

Brian put Clint’s job offer into a locked compartment in his mind and clocked in, retrieving his keys from a box located behind the front counter. He walked out and began his abridged afternoon pretrip. His bus was a 2006 IC Bus RE200, a rear-engine relic of a bus that should’ve been retired ten years before. How they kept it running day in and day out had always mystified Brian. Despite his credentials, he was never allowed near the garage; nor was he allowed to turn a wrench on his bus, even when he knew the problem.

As Brian turned the key, the bus struggled to life, almost as if it were begging Brian to kill it. That was believable. Three times, already this year, the bus developed a coolant leak and began overheating. Brian would responsibly shut the motor off and wait for assistance. The mechanics would then swear up and down once the bus was returned that the problem was fixed, but he would find an empty coolant reservoir every afternoon. He did a quick check of the interior, duct tape replacing the seat upholstery in many places as the company forced him to continue without the fire-retardant material.

“If only OSHA came through,” he thought, “they’d shut this place down in a heartbeat and fine the boss out the wazoo.”

Brian finished inside and shifted his focus outside, checking his lights and the structural integrity of the body. He ran to the supply shed and grabbed a gallon of antifreeze. He would dump it in while he was checking the engine.

Within ten minutes, Brian had finished his inspection and pulled out of his stall. He pumped the brakes a couple times on his way out to make sure the bus wouldn’t pull to the side, and he made his way to the school.

After a short drive, Brian found himself lined up in front of an elementary school. It was a quick trip through a newer housing development – ten minutes max. This was a rowdy group, but they wouldn’t be too much for him to handle.

The teachers began loading the kids. Everything seemed to go as normal. Brian got on the P.A.; demanding children take their seat so they could go. Go time came and went, but the administration would not let the buses go. Brian poked his head out the door and asked a teacher what was going on.

“Route 18 is missing a kid,” responded the chunky middle-aged woman.

“Why are we being held back?” asked Brian.

“We can’t release you until everyone is on board,” came the answer.

Brian sighed and took his seat back in his bus. He closed the doors to ensure no one tried to make a break for it. The longer he waited, the louder the voices. Children can’t sit in a crowded, stuffy, and stationary bus for very long, and Brian knew it was unreasonable for them be expected to do so. About fifteen minutes after scheduled departure, the teachers finally turned the buses loose.

Brian turned out onto the road, trying to keep it together. He divided his time between watching the road and watching the student mirror.

“Sit down back there. Out of the aisle. If you can’t sit down, we’re going to pull over. Don’t make me move people.”

“Shut up,” came some of the replies. “The bus driver’s kidnapping us!”

One particularly portly fifth grader stood up and did a little salsa dance in the aisle before sitting down. Brian had enough. He pulled over and secured the bus, applying the parking brake and taking the keys with him. He walked to the back to confront the miscreant.

“Congratulations,” he began, “you just earned yourself a new seat assignment.”

“Make me,” the child spat back at him.

“I mean, we could just wait here until you decide to move like I asked you,” said Brian. “I get paid by the hour.”

“But you can’t do that,” the child said smugly.

“Oh, I can, and I will,” said Brian. “Maybe you should read the rules. If you don’t move, everyone will know it’s your fault we’re late.”

“Come on, Rylan,” said a peer, “sit down.”

“Sit down, Rylan,” another student said.

This time, peer pressure won the day. Rylan followed Brian to the front where he took a seat in the front row. The rest of the short run was quiet.

Now twenty minutes late, his stress levels were rising. He called dispatch, but there was no answer. He called again.

“Route 20 to dispatch.”

Nothing. He tried two more times and gave up. A few moments later, the private channel notification beeped on his CB.

“Route 20, what’s your ETA to your next stop?”

“You’re kidding me!” he yelled to himself. Brian picked up the radio. “I’m almost there. The other school held me back.”

He pulled into the bus loop for a middle school. This group was even more out of hand than the grade schoolers. The mob crowded the curb over the yellow line. Brian crept slowly watching his mirror as to not hit any students. He shut the bus off, the middle schoolers crowding the closed door like brain-hungry zombies. He ran to the back to check for any students and left belongings and hurried back to the front. He opened the door, and the mob poured in.

Fifty-six middle schoolers could fit safely on his bus, but he knew there were more. He tried to control the chaos as they piled into the seats, hanging out into the aisle. He had tried to convince the bus company to add a second bus for this group, but safety was the last priority though they preached it first.

Once the last student was confirmed on, he fired up the engine, now a half hour behind schedule. The bus pulled out into the road, Brian shouting more warnings to the students through the P.A.

“Guys, no eating. Hands inside. Seriously, this isn’t preschool.”

The smart-Alec students responded by speaking in baby talk. Brian made his first stop, offloading a couple students. He pulled away and continued down the road, coming to a stop at a railroad crossing. He put on his hazards and opened the door.

“Guys, railroad crossing.”

No dice.

“Hey, we can’t go unless we have absolute silence.”

Forget it, he’d address the issue after he crossed the tracks. He shut the door and proceeded, only to catch red blinking in his peripherals. He heard the guard land on the roof of his bus just in time for the afternoon Amtrak to speed by mere inches from his windshield. Shaken, he proceeded once the crossing arms lifted. He found the first safe place to pull over and secured the bus. Big mistake.

The first safe place was right around the corner from the next stop, within sight of some of the waiting parents.

Brian stood up to address the mob on his bus. He grabbed the P.A. and began his attempt at a speech.

“This is why we don’t talk at the railroad crossing.”

Nothing. The shouting from the mob continued.

“Excuse me.”

No such luck. His voice was drowned out by the shouting. He turned up the P.A.

“Hey, listen up.”

Somehow, over the rabble, Brian heard a knock on the door. He looked to his left and saw a parent mouthing incoherently.

“Mom!” shouted a student. ‘The bus driver’s kidnapping us!”

Just what he needed. Just another entitled kid with an entitled parent. More parents and bystanders started crowding around the bus.

“Hey, let our kids off,” shouted a parent.

“I can’t, we’re not at the stop,” said Brian.

“Bull!” the parent shouted back.

“Route 20 to dispatch,” Brian shouted into the radio. No answer. “Route 20 to base.” Still nothing. What were they doing around there? “Route 20, emergency!”

“Copy, route 20,” came an annoyed voice over the radio.

“I have a bit of a situation,” he began. “I stopped at a railroad crossing and couldn’t get my kids to stop talking. I nearly got hit by a train, and when I pulled over to take care of the situation, I couldn’t get the crowd under control. Now I have a mob of angry parents demanding I let their kids off. I’m not at the stop.”

No reply. Angry parents continued pounding on windows. Rebellious children tried opening the windows to jump out.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” said a parent to a particular student who had troubled Brian all year.

A few of the more tender and well-behaved students began crying.

“Blast it, why don’t you guys answer?” Brian said to himself through gritted teeth.

“Just let them off,” the dispatcher finally responded.

Brian opened the door, the flood of children at the group stop rushing the cab. Parents reached for their children, some of them crying.

“You’re out of a job, buddy,” snapped one particular parent.

The nightmare seemingly over, Brian pressed on. He completed the stop and started on his way to the next.

“Bus driver,” came a nervous voice from the middle of the bus. “Mr. Collins.”

“What’s wrong,” asked Brian through the P.A.

“I don’t feel so good,” the girl responded.

“Come up front and get the trash can. I won’t write you up for standing.”

“No, it’s not that,” said the student. “My chest hurts and it’s really tight. I think I’m having a heart attack.”

A heart attack at thirteen? Stanger things have happened. Brian once again pulled over, luckily not in sight of the next stop. He secured the bus and rushed to the student.

“Here,” he handed his phone to an older boy, “I’ve dialed 911. Tell them we’re Bus 91, Route 20, and we’re having a medical emergency. A student is complaining about some chest pain.”

The student did as he was told. Brian ran to the front to relay the news to dispatch or any other driver that would hear, for that matter; then, he came back again to be with the student.

“Relax,” he encouraged her. “Help is on the way.”

Soon enough, an ambulance and firetruck pulled behind the bus, and an EMT stepped to the door.

“I need your permission to enter, sir,” he told Brian.

“Certainly.”

The EMT stepped on and approached the student.

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“My chest hurts. I think I’m having a heart attack,” said the girl.

The EMT checked her vitals for signs of anything.

“We did just come through a bit of an incident,” explained Brian.

“Is that so?” asked the EMT. “Might just be a panic attack. Can you get a hold of the parents?”

“I’ll try,” said Brian, “but our dispatch doesn’t like to answer.”

“Just try just in case the parents come looking for her,” said the EMT.

Brian went back to the driver’s seat and again attempted to contact dispatch.

“Route 20, emergency… again,” said Brian.

Brian got lucky this time.

“Hey, I have a student named Abcde Perry. She’s having a medical emergency. The EMT is here, and he’s going to take her to the hospital. Can you notify her parents?”

The dispatcher sighed. “What’s her name again?”

“Abcde Perry.”

“I’m not finding an Abcde Perry on your student list.”

“Try the school. They just throw these students on.”

“There’s no Abcde Perry. There’s an Aaron Perry, an A-B-C-D-E Perry, an Abigail Perry…”

“A-B-C-D-E, that’s the one,” Brian interrupted. “It’s pronounced ‘Absidee’.”

“Calling now. Proceed on your route whenever you feel safe.”

“We’re good to go,” said Brian to the EMT.

“Okay, Abcde,” started the EMT, “We’re going to take you and your sister to the hospital with us.”

“What’s her sister’s name?” asked Brian.

“Molly,” she replied.

“Okay, thanks.”

The EMT led the girls off the bus, and Brian started it back up again.

“Route 20 to dispatch.”

“Go for dispatch.”

Finally, the messages were getting through.

“Abcde’s sister, Molly, is going with her if you could notify the parents.”

Brian continued on the route. He was now an hour late, and he was stressing. This was not his day. It would only get worse.

“Bus driver,” came another nervous voice behind him.

“What’s up?”

“You missed my stop.”

“Um, no I didn’t,” replied Brian.

“I’m supposed to get off at Fishery and Blackwelder.”

“Fishery and Blackwelder? Dude, you’re on the wrong bus! Route 20 to dispatch.”

Again, the dispatcher answered with a huff.

“Go for dispatch.”

“Hey, I have a student that got on the wrong bus.”

“Where does the student go?”

“Fishery and Blackwelder.”

“Do you have a name?”

“What’s your name, bro?” he asked the student.

“Kevin Wallace.”

“His name is Kevin Wallace.”

“I’m calling now,” answered the dispatcher.

Brian continued on his route, slowly emptying the bus. The rowdiness had disappeared after the scare at the second stop, but the stress was more and more palpable.

“Dispatch to Route 20, I left a message. Just go there at the end of your route.”

“10-4.”

Brian had nearly emptied his bus. By now, it was past 6. Parents were livid. He couldn’t look. After dropping his last regular, he drove to Fishery and Blackwelder. If he imagined his day getting worse, he was right. Parked in front of the house was a Linn County Sheriff’s cruiser. Brian turned on his student lights and brought the bus to a stop, opening the door for the student.

“Sir,” the deputy said to Brian as he approached the bus, “I’m going to need you to shut down your bus and step out.”

What was going on? He hadn’t broken any laws. If anything, he had followed the rule book to the letter. Ever the law-abiding citizen, Brian complied.

“You have the right to remain silent,” began the deputy. “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them?”

“Yes,” said Brian, “but what’s this all about.”

“You kidnapped my baby!” yelled the mother.

“I what? No. Did you not check your voicemail?”

“I don’t have voicemail.”

“Then what? Are you serious? I told dispatch to call and say he had gotten on the wrong bus, and they said they left a message.”

“Are you satisfied, ma’am?” asked the officer.

“No,” she answered, “I want him arrested for kidnapping.”

“Why would I want to kidnap your child?” asked Brian. “Lord knows, I want to unload them as quickly as possible. I can’t monitor sixty-five kids every day and make sure they’re on the right bus. He’s a big boy. He should’ve known.”

“How dare you speak of my baby like that!” she shouted, lunging at Brian.

“Okay,” said the deputy, coming between them, “clearly there hasn’t been a crime committed here. Mister Collins, can we have your contact information just in case we need a statement later?”

“Sure,” answered Brian.

“Once we’re done with this, you’re free to go.”

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Here’s a little something from my current work-in-progress: “Blameless”. If anything does, this will be the book that gets me arrested the second I step off a plane in Manchester.

Today’s special post is just a little snippet - the introduction to Part One of the eventual four parts of the novel.

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Part 1

Love and Hate

It was a cold morning in the harbor. Old Man Hutchins was in the doghouse again – something about his drinking problem. The old lady always thought he’d knocked back a few too many up at Fat Terry’s. He could take care of himself. He was not drunk. He was perfectly sober. He even told her as much.

“I’m soberly perfect, stupid broad,” he slurred as she slammed the door on his back.

Reggie Hutchins owned a small fishing boat he’d docked in the harbor. It wasn’t much, but it was the perfect place to hang after a night of drowning his liver if his wife didn’t want him at home.

Reggie managed to climb aboard without falling in – a true miracle these days. Perhaps Sybil would let him back home if he brought dinner with him. Luckily for him, he kept a pole and some bait inside the boat.

Within twenty minutes, he stumbled back out on the deck and took a seat. He cast his hook into the harbor and settled in with a bottle of Chang’s. It was another five minutes, and there was no movement from the line. Old Man Hutchins drew the line back in. After a few attempts, one that nearly impaled his right cheek, he successfully launched the hook and line back into the harbor.

A miracle! The line went taut. Even through his drunken haze, Old Man Hutchins could see it. He started to reel in his prize. Bugger was heavy, that was for sure. Had to be a marlin. Did they even live all the way up here? He’d hooked one in Baja years ago, but never here.

It was strange. The fish wasn’t putting up a fight. Oh well, it was his lucky day. In short order, the fish banged up against the hull. It was time to lift it up out of its home and into his.

Hutchins began reeling his catch up the side of the boat. His heartrate increased as he’d finally see the trophy he had won.

Old Man Hutchins let out a scream of terror as he finally came face to face with what he’d caught.

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Before you read, this chapter, “Sleeper” was not meant to be what it became. It was supposed to be a fun street racing story about a guy who modified the most boring car and kicked butt in illegal street races. It only became a story about abuse, specifically in the IFB; but not the typical abuse story where the doctrines of the IFB are ridiculed, deconstructed, whatever it is you want to do with it. It takes the naming of the IFB (Independent and Fundamental) literally and deals with the individuals who give the movement a black eye. What happens in the many situations where dads and men in leadership do actually do the right thing? That is what’s at the heart of “Sleeper”. How far will a father go and how seriously will he take his biblical mandate to protect his family? What will it cost?

This week’s chapter is lifted from about 1/3 of the way through the novel, as I wanted to really get at the heart of the story and what it’s all about. Sorry, no racecars this week.

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Chapter Eight

Liam and Elizabeth had agreed to keep their announcement on the down-low until she started showing. Max was Elizabeth’s hardest pregnancy, and she had developed gestational diabetes. Liam had faced down a teen pregnancy and the dregs of the criminal underworld, but he had never been so scared when his Elizabeth became so sick when she was about to have Max. Even so, her doctor had assured them that thirty-one was more than a healthy age to have children. The news was just more fuel for Elizabeth to feed them more rabbit food and to get Liam moving more. She reasoned that because he wasn’t spending the whole day in his car anymore that he should be moving as much as possible.

Liam’s first Sunday back at church felt awkward. He had prepared his lesson two weeks in advance, but it was a subject he had never expected would come from the curriculum. At least, the central idea of the text was something he never thought would need to be brought up.

The narrative of the new quarter was going through the latter part of the life of David. This week, the students were being introduced to three of his children: Amnon, Tamar, and Absolom.

Liam opened his Bible and read the first twenty-two verses of II Samuel 13: “And it came to pass after this, that Absalom the son of David had a fair sister, whose name was Tamar; and Amnon the son of David loved her. And Amnon was so vexed, that he fell sick for his sister Tamar; for she was a virgin; and Amnon thought it hard for him to do any thing to her. But Amnon had a friend, whose name was Jonadab, the son of Shimeah David's brother: and Jonadab was a very subtil man. And he said unto him, Why art thou, being the king's son, lean from day to day? wilt thou not tell me? And Amnon said unto him, I love Tamar, my brother Absalom's sister. And Jonadab said unto him, Lay thee down on thy bed, and make thyself sick: and when thy father cometh to see thee, say unto him, I pray thee, let my sister Tamar come, and give me meat, and dress the meat in my sight, that I may see it, and eat it at her hand. So Amnon lay down, and made himself sick: and when the king was come to see him, Amnon said unto the king, I pray thee, let Tamar my sister come, and make me a couple of cakes in my sight, that I may eat at her hand. Then David sent home to Tamar, saying, Go now to thy brother Amnon's house, and dress him meat. So Tamar went to her brother Amnon's house; and he was laid down. And she took flour, and kneaded it, and made cakes in his sight, and did bake the cakes. And she took a pan, and poured them out before him; but he refused to eat. And Amnon said, Have out all men from me. And they went out every man from him. And Amnon said unto Tamar, Bring the meat into the chamber, that I may eat of thine hand. And Tamar took the cakes which she had made, and brought them into the chamber to Amnon her brother. And when she had brought them unto him to eat, he took hold of her, and said unto her, Come lie with me, my sister. And she answered him, Nay, my brother, do not force me; for no such thing ought to be done in Israel: do not thou this folly. And I, whither shall I cause my shame to go? and as for thee, thou shalt be as one of the fools in Israel. Now therefore, I pray thee, speak unto the king; for he will not withhold me from thee. Howbeit he would not hearken unto her voice: but, being stronger than she, forced her, and lay with her. Then Amnon hated her exceedingly; so that the hatred wherewith he hated her was greater than the love wherewith he had loved her. And Amnon said unto her, Arise, be gone. And she said unto him, There is no cause: this evil in sending me away is greater than the other that thou didst unto me. But he would not hearken unto her. Then he called his servant that ministered unto him, and said, Put now this woman out from me, and bolt the door after her. And she had a garment of divers colours upon her: for with such robes were the king's daughters that were virgins apparelled. Then his servant brought her out, and bolted the door after her. And Tamar put ashes on her head, and rent her garment of divers colours that was on her, and laid her hand on her head, and went on crying. And Absalom her brother said unto her, Hath Amnon thy brother been with thee? but hold now thy peace, my sister: he is thy brother; regard not this thing. So Tamar remained desolate in her brother Absalom's house. But when king David heard of all these things, he was very wroth. And Absalom spake unto his brother Amnon neither good nor bad: for Absalom hated Amnon, because he had forced his sister Tamar.”

Liam looked up solemnly from his Bible. He had read the account many times. He had heard it growing up in Sunday School. The older he grew, the more disgusting it became to him. He took a deep breath and prayed. He prayed for more guidance than he had ever prayed before. Even with the vagaries in the biblical text, Liam knew this lesson had to be taught with delicacy. Sexual assault is a touchy subject, and he knew there was a very thin line when it came to adolescents; but this was what the Bible said, so this is what he had to teach.

“Show me your friends, and I’ll show you who you’ll become,” Liam began. “We all fall into temptation, right? How many of you are homeschooled?”

About three quarters of the class raised their hands.

“How many of you know where your mom keeps the answer keys? Danny, put down your hand.”

Fewer, yet still a good portion of the class raised their hands.

“It’s pretty easy when Mom’s back is turned to look in the answer key. Maybe, she’s left the room. If anybody asks, I am not giving you ideas. Get your minds out of the gutter. But you guys desire the answers, right? But what is that? What are we doing when we cheat?”

“Sinning?” one child answered.

“Close, but a bit more specific.”

“Stealing,” replied Jael smugly.

“Jael’s right. In our story, we find that Amnon wanted to marry his half-sister. Well, that’s a big problem. Can anyone tell me why? Come on! It’s right there!”

“You can’t marry your sister,” Jael replied again. Liam wished he could wipe that smug look off her face.

“Correct, you can’t. Amnon knew this, but he had a friend. Jonadab comes to Amnon and says, ‘Bro, come on. You’re the king’s son. Don’t you know you can do whatever you want?’ in so many words. Well, Amnon says, ‘Yeah, you’re right. I am the king’s son,’ and he does what he did. He took Tamar for himself.” Liam started to feel sick trying to fight back the strong feelings he had for this crime that had been committed over three thousand years ago and still present it appropriately for his audience. “Tamar tried to get him to stop,” he trembled, “but he did it anyway. When he decided he wasn’t interested anymore, he threw her out. Afterwards, she went to her brother, Absalom’s, house. When he asked her if she had been with Amnon, she told him what had happened. They both went to David.” This is where Liam finally let his disgust seep out onto his face. “And he did nothing. Let’s read on.”

Liam looked again into his Bible and read the next eleven verses, “And it came to pass after two full years, that Absalom had sheepshearers in Baalhazor, which is beside Ephraim: and Absalom invited all the king's sons. And Absalom came to the king, and said, Behold now, thy servant hath sheepshearers; let the king, I beseech thee, and his servants go with thy servant. And the king said to Absalom, Nay, my son, let us not all now go, lest we be chargeable unto thee. And he pressed him: howbeit he would not go, but blessed him. Then said Absalom, If not, I pray thee, let my brother Amnon go with us. And the king said unto him, Why should he go with thee? But Absalom pressed him, that he let Amnon and all the king's sons go with him. Now Absalom had commanded his servants, saying, Mark ye now when Amnon's heart is merry with wine, and when I say unto you, Smite Amnon; then kill him, fear not: have not I commanded you? be courageous, and be valiant. And the servants of Absalom did unto Amnon as Absalom had commanded. Then all the king's sons arose, and every man gat him up upon his mule, and fled. And it came to pass, while they were in the way, that tidings came to David, saying, Absalom hath slain all the king's sons, and there is not one of them left. Then the king arose, and tare his garments, and lay on the earth; and all his servants stood by with their clothes rent. And Jonadab, the son of Shimeah David's brother, answered and said, Let not my lord suppose that they have slain all the young men the king's sons; for Amnon only is dead: for by the appointment of Absalom this hath been determined from the day that he forced his sister Tamar. Now therefore let not my lord the king take the thing to his heart, to think that all the king's sons are dead: for Amnon only is dead.”

Liam looked up again from his Bible. His class was a mix of awe and complacency. He figured the gears were turning for some of his students.

“Because Amnon chose to listen to his bad friends, he died. Because he chose to pursue and give into his temptation, he lost his life. As we’ll see later, King David’s unwillingness to take care of the problem made it worse. I believe Brother Wong talked about David’s sin with Bath-sheba last week, right? Well, that sin snowballed into more sin. Yeah, God forgave him, and David restored his relationship with God; but that didn’t save David from the consequences. Because of that, David’s house was never whole again. He suffered from a broken home, and this is the first sign of the after-effects of God’s judgement. As we go on throughout this series, we’ll see Absalom’s reaction. He had already killed Amnon. Now, I don’t think anybody here wants to marry their sister, but like I said earlier, you are tempted in other ways. You copy out of that answer key. You start acing every math test for some reason, but you don’t know the material. Let’s say you realize you’re wrong, and you ask forgiveness. Happy day! God forgives you. Then, the day comes when you need to use a certain mathematical formula, but you don’t know it because you cheated for the answer. God is ready and willing to forgive us, but that does not free us from our consequences. David repented and got right, but he suffered the consequences of his sin for the rest of his life. Amnon had time and space to repent, and he didn’t. I firmly believe that this lack of repentance cost him his life.”

Liam scanned his class again. The wheels were turning. They were getting it.

“Amnon had no excuse for what he did,” Liam explained. “People like Amnon are scumbags, to put it mildly. He knew what he was doing.”

The first bell rang right as Liam spoke the last word.

“Guys, listen, we’re almost done. Sin will take your farther than you want to go. It’ll leave you longer than you want to stay; cost your far more than you want to pay. Let’s pray.”

Liam closed the lesson. He had never experienced such an awkward silence while he was teaching. He was sure that his students hadn’t truly grasped the magnitude of what Amnon had done, but he may have scared them into keeping their eyes on their text books and off of the answer key. Liam decided to finish off the session with their traditional sword drill.

During the main service, Liam kept himself scarce from Frank Rudd. For some reason, he felt off about the man, more off than he usually felt. He quickly retrieved Danny from junior high church and walked briskly to the car.

Elizabeth preferred this version of Liam to the one she saw two weeks ago. He was frazzled, yes, but not angry. She clutched his hand as he shifted the Highlander into drive. It was their Costco date with Dan and Cat, and they would have a visitor.

As the family met Dan and Cat in front of Costco, Liam spotted a familiar face. Arlo had come home. Skinny, bespectacled Arlo. The kid was almost an exact copy of Liam at twenty, only less muscular. He also wasn’t a kid either. He was now in his third year of Bible college. At the time Liam had slept with Elizabeth, Arlo looked up to him like a god. He was even more excited when he found out his idol would be sharing a room with him. That all came crashing down some years later when he came of age and learned the truth of what Liam had done. He then determined not to become like Liam. He embittered himself against his former role model; instead, Liam was the example of what not to do. A lot of good it did him. He was the top of his class and leaps and bounds ahead of his peers; but he was a loner. It worried Dan and Cat. He never talked to a girl unless he absolutely needed to. It’s not like they expected him to be engaged by eighteen, married at nineteen, and fathering a child at twenty either; but they hoped he would have somebody in mind. They had never seen a man so focused on his task that even the prettiest girl in school wouldn’t even turn his head. Instead of his face buried in a phone like most people his age, he was buried in some kind of book. In college, Arlo had gained a reputation of being stand-offish and almost unfriendly. Unbeknownst to the poindexter, he had garnered a few silent enemies during his time away.

Liam embraced his baby brother. It was cold. Arlo half-heartedly returned it. He was still bitter.

Dan and Liam took their usual spot while their wives took the children on their customary lap around Costco. Arlo remained quiet as Dan and Liam began their usual discourse.

“How’s the new office?” Dan opened the conversation.

“I’ve never had a view like it,” replied Liam.

“I still can’t believe how fast it all happened,” Dan continued. “What was it? A week?”

“Thereabouts,” said Liam as he stuck a straw into his blended mocha. “Obviously, God had His hand in all of it. I never thought God would move so visibly.”

This comment piqued Arlo’s interest a bit. Even with his Bible college courses challenging everything he believed about life and the Bible, he still held some unshakable moral ideals and codes. If the math wasn’t mathing for Arlo, it was wrong.

“Are you sure it was God?” he asked his big brother.

“Arlo, I don’t deserve a thing I have,” Liam explained. “It’s only by God’s grace that I am where I am today.”

“I just don’t see how God blesses sin,” continued Arlo.

“We’ve been over this thousands of times, baby brother,” Liam groaned. “God didn’t bless the sin. You know I had to sacrifice everything to get where I’m at. God didn’t bless the sin, but He did bless my sacrifice. How many times do you read your Bible through a year? Two or three? Do you skip Romans 8:28?”

“No,” retorted Arlo.

“Then quote it for me,” Liam challenged.

“’And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose’,” Arlo quoted, “but that’s not what it means.”

“Then what does it mean, since we’re homiletically challenged?” Liam shot back.

“It’s about God helping His people out with their problems, not about God turning their sin into blessing,” Arlo rambled out.

“Maybe wanna take your Genesis class again,” Liam continued. “I seem to remember reading Genesis 50 where eleven men did something horrendous a few chapters earlier only for the conclusion that God meant it for good.”

“You can’t, you can’t,” Arlo stuttered, as if the hard drive that was his brain was crashing and needed rebooting.

“How much was tuition?” Liam jabbed.

“You two,” Dan mumbled shaking his head. “Liam, I think he’s had enough.”

“Hey, Arlo, I still love you, little brother,” Liam conceded, “but you need to get your head out of the clouds. I feel like you’re falling into the trap of using the Bible as a text book. Rather, use it as your daily bread. Know what I like to do? I like to put myself in the shoes of the people it was written to, that way, I actually know what’s being said.”

Arlo, was frozen cold. He was soundly beaten again. It had been eight years, and he still never let it go.

After Cat, Liz, and the kids were finished checking out, Dan and Cat treated the family to their customary pizzas and Costco dogs. Then, it was back to church in Port Orchard for choir practice.

Liam was reclining in his office chair in the soundbooth when a text came through. He looked at the readout. It was Jorge. Liam decided to take a chance and open the message.

“GOT IT. WHEN CAN U COME BY?”

Liam typed back a response, “First thing tomorrow.”

That should’ve been sufficient. As soon as choir practice was over, Liam ran his soundcheck. This time, it was the teen choir. A gaggle of about eleven or twelve teenagers mounted the choir loft. The girls, as usual, were enthusiastic. The boys, on the other hand, were barely able to croak something that sounded like notes. It just sounded like an off-time, slightly flat monotone A below middle C. The lone exception was Jeremiah Rudd, who was clearly there to impress his new girlfriend – that new girlfriend being Wendy Anderson, Liam’s daughter and princess. Jeremiah constantly glanced Wendy’s way as he belted out the anthem. It almost made Liam sick.

The service passed like a blur. He was still thinking about everything that had gone on in the last two weeks. His baby girl was dating a young man, and he had been promoted. His wife revealed they were expecting their sixth child, and he was the proud owner of a brand new Lamborghini Revuelto. Even with all the blessings, some of Arlo’s words and ideals still returned to him. Was all of this God’s blessing? He had worked his butt off for fourteen years to make sure Elizabeth and any children she had could live comfortably without worry of being on the streets or ever going hungry, but what about how he had gotten the money? Sure, working for Grant Wilson paid big bucks, but the house was almost entirely paid for through illegally obtained money. That cash came from illegal street racing. Nobody but he, Jorge, and God knew what he was doing on his work trips. At least, that was over. No more trips for Liam. No more illegal street racing. The racecar had earned its retirement, and Liam had everything he needed or wanted.

As Liam pulled the Highlander into the driveway that night, he had no way of knowing he was far from being done. Overall, spirits were high, higher than they were two weeks prior. There were no awkward conversations in the car. Liam had successfully avoided Frank Rudd almost all day. For the first time in what seemed like months, Liam felt like he could relax for a little bit as his children went to bed one by one, leaving him alone with Elizabeth.

After kissing Wendy on the forehead, Liam relaxed on the couch and turned on the television. He wanted to zone out, something he hadn’t done in months. As the screen turned on, he found the sports channel. They were just wrapping up the weekend’s sports highlights. So, this was what it was like?

Elizabeth ran into the kitchen and started making popcorn. Soon enough, the heavenly smell of buttered popcorn filled the living room. It was a darn good thing the kids were asleep. Within another minute, Elizabeth emerged from the kitchen with a large bowl of popcorn smothered in butter, garlic, salt, and pepper. As she took her seat next to Liam, she turned on her puppy dog eyes. Liam knew what it meant: she wanted to watch something, probably some garbage television about some fat narcissists in the South or some thin narcissists dating other thin narcissists. Liam couldn’t resist, especially if she was going to guilt trip him with the popcorn. He handed the remote to his wife who then excitedly found her preferred programming: narcissists with dwarfism.

Liam began to tone out the television as he occasionally took a handful of popcorn out of the bowl. All of a sudden, his relaxation was interrupted by the piercing shriek of his ringtone. Both Liam and Elizabeth jumped, Elizabeth nearly spilling the bowl of popcorn before Liam was able to answer the phone.

“Yeah,” Liam said on one end of the line. “I said tomorrow. Fool, it’s ten at night.” Liam glanced at Elizabeth, seeing the worried expression on her face. “Okay, I’ll run over. Better make it quick.” And he hung up the phone.

“What’s wrong?” asked Elizabeth.

“Something at work,” replied Liam. “Can’t go into too much detail, but I won’t be long.”

“Please be careful,” Elizabeth pleaded.

“I’ll be quick,” said Liam as he kissed Elizabeth on the top of her head. The scent of mango from her dry shampoo filled his nostrils. He wished he could stay.

Liam rushed downstairs into the garage and pulled out into the darkness, heading straight for Gorst and Jorge’s garage.

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Please enjoy the opening chapter of my second novel: “Fire & Thunder”

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The Final Four

And the rocket’s red glare

The bombs bursting in air

Gave proof through the night

That our flag was still there

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free

And the home of the brave?

The crowd cheered as the ten-gallon-hat-wearing bearded pop country star finished his heavily stylized acapella rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner. Three F-22s from Luke Air Force Base nearly drowned him out as he neared the end of his song. The crowd settled into their seats as forty drivers settled into their cars.

Chad Helton swung his right leg over the door of his Ford Mustang Darkhorse. Well, it wasn’t exactly a door, but it was where the door would’ve been had it been an actual road car. Swinging his left leg over into the window opening, he slid into the driver’s seat. With some assistance from his crew chief, he buckled the six-point harness that would keep him glued to his seat for the next three to five hours.

“This is it,” the crew chief told him. “Just get out there and get at it.”

“That’s it then?” Chad chuckled. “Come on, Larry, you can do better than that.”

Chad was in the final race of his rookie year, and it was one for the books. The baby of five children born to an Oregon grass seed farmer, Chad wanted to distinguish himself from his siblings by choosing a completely different career path. After cutting his teeth racing go-karts as a young child, he got into racing local dirt tracks in the Pacific Northwest by the time he was a teenager. His big break came at sixteen when he was spotted by an ARCA team owner. From there, he rose up the ranks, winning race after race. This culminated in an ARCA West championship. Then it was on to the NASCAR Truck Series when he was eighteen, winning Rookie of the Year and the championship. By this time, he had secured an agent named Ace Valdez. He was eager and ready to move on. His second year in NASCAR was spent with a new team in the Grand National Division. They were a small struggling team, but Chad really brought them together. After an impressive regular season with six wins, he entered the playoffs and ran well. A small mishap on the last lap at Phoenix cost him the championship, but he vowed he would be back. The team owner had made the decision to bring his operation to the Cup Series, NASCAR’s top flight, and Chad came with. This was his third and final year with a yellow stripe on his rear bumper. Effortlessly, Chad kept the number 28 Ford Mustang up front. His career highlight came after winning Daytona twice, Talladega once, and Darlington twice all in the same year. With nine regular season wins, he was leaps and bounds ahead of anybody in playoff points, able to relax a little if that was in his wheelhouse. Relaxation when there was racing to be done was not in his wheelhouse.

The regular season of the Cup series consists of twenty-six races. Each race is divided into three stages, save for the Coca-Cola 600 at Charlotte, which is four stages due to its length. Playoff points are awarded at the end of each stage with race wins automatically entering drivers into the playoffs. At the end of twenty-six races, the top sixteen in points battle it out over four rounds throughout the last ten races, each round lasting three races, with the bottom three competitors eliminated. The season concludes in a final round at Phoenix Raceway, where the top four drivers have one final shot. Even though only four cars are eligible to win the championship, a full field of 36 to 40 will race for bragging rights, experience, and money.

So here Chad was, one of four drivers eligible to win the NASCAR Cup Series championship. The playoffs were tough, but he made it a habit to pull through and at least win the final race of each round. Nicknames varied that season from “Wunderkind”, “The Ghost”, and “The Invisible Man”, but the name that stuck during playoffs was “Mr. Eliminator”.

For the final time this year, Chad brushed back the bushy thick brown mop from his icy blue eyes, both of which he had inherited from his Sicilian mother. He scratched at the beard he had grown over the last ten weeks, itching to shave it tonight. He never liked it anyway. It never grew in right and came in patchy, leaving an unsightly bald spot on the right side of his lower jaw; all thanks to the eighth of Kalapuya blood he had inherited from his father. For the next three to five hours, his head would be encased in a helmet, completely closed off to the outside world, making the prospect of an itchy beard even more uninviting than it could already be.

“Drivers, start your engines,” came a command from a gray-haired, pudgy man from the infield.

Chad flipped his battery and fuel pump switches on and turned the ignition. The 5.8-liter V8 roared to life amid a chorus of 39 other V8 mills.

Larry Truman was a crew chief with some fifteen years’ experience. This was his first year in Cup as well after spending the previous fourteen in the Truck and Grand National Series. The old man shared a chemistry with Chad few driver-crew chief combinations had. He knew how to talk to Chad. He knew what it was like to rush from bottom to top quickly. He knew success and failure. He had worked for this day, and he was on his guard. Fifteen years of trying, and he was going to be a Cup Series championship-winning crew chief.

Larry closed the window net on the stock car, sealing Chad inside. The Mustang Chad drove was anything but. A tube chassis caged the driver in while a 5.8-liter Ford FR9 V8 sent power to a five-speed sequential transmission, powering the rear wheels. Over the chassis, a carbon fiber and sheet metal composite body was blanketed. The front clip and rear decklid matched a road Mustang, but beyond that, it was just like any other Mustang, Camaro, or Camry out on the track that day.

The forty stock cars lined up two-by-two behind a stock Toyota Supra with a strobe light on its roof. Forty V8s rumbled as the Supra led them out onto the track. The time to let loose was near. It was just a matter of a few parade laps as the cars zigzagged around, warming up their tires for much-needed grip.

“Sixteenth,” Chad thought to himself. “I’m better than this.”

It was true. He was consistent all year, but yesterday, he was off during qualifying. For some, sixteenth was a respectable place to start, but not for Chad.

“Okay, I know you’re in a bad spot,” came Larry’s voice over the radio. “Just hit your marks and fall into that inside lane as soon as possible. Remember, you have 312 miles to work your magic.”

Chad took a deep breath. Seven rows ahead of him, an official in the flag tower waved the green flag. Row by row, the stock cars gunned it. Chad tried for it, but the driver in front of him spun his tires.

“Come on!” Chad shouted.

“There’s an opening coming up behind you,” a second voice chattered through his radio. “Take it in three, two, one…”

Chad swooped down to the left, falling in line with the inside lane.

“Thanks, Hawk.”

Scott “Hawk” Hawkins had been an aspiring driver several years before. Barely making it to the Cup Series, he struggled to even qualify. He found a home up above the track in the spotter’s perch, owing to his keen eyesight.

Chad kept to the rear bumper of the number 99 Camaro. He knew he couldn’t stay there long. Phoenix Raceway is a strange track. Its asymmetrical tri-oval layout proves a challenge to every driver. The turns and backstretch are narrow, allowing for close action that tests a driver’s skills. The frontstretch is a tri-oval turn with a wide apron that extends the racing surface several lanes. There, drivers have the choice of staying high in the banking and keeping momentum going into turn 1 or cutting distance and going hard on the brakes. Chad chose the latter.

The Mustang charged ahead, passing five or six cars.

“Opening!” shouted Hawk. “Take it now!”

Chad moved to the right, cutting off the number 54 Camry.

“Idiot!” the driver yelled at his crew chief. “’Mr. Eliminator’, I’ll eliminate his butt.”

“He’s racing for a championship,” came the driver’s crew chief’s voice. “Just keep pushing.”

Chad was oblivious to the scene behind him. He kept the leaders in his sights. Scooting up close to the outside wall, he shot down the backstretch. Before he made it to turn three, yellow lights on the catch fence began blinking. The leaders in front of him slowed down.

“Tower’s called a caution,” Hawk’s voice came from the radio.

“What’s going on?” asked Chad.

“Fifty-one was running slow again,” Hawk answered. “Thirty laps in, and that kid’s already out.”

“How does he still have a ride?” marveled Chad.

“Nepotism,” was Hawk’s response.

The remaining thirty-nine cars lined up behind the Supra as they passed the wreck of what was the 51 Ford. Chad’s spine tingled as he observed the yellow stripe on the former rear bumper of the Mustang. How could this be the same rookie class?

“Hey, the leaders are pitting,” said Larry. “Come in. We can make up some of that position. Just fuel. I think our tires are good until the end of the stage.”

“Where am I, Hawk?” Chad said.

“You’ve made it up to seventh,” Hawk replied.

“You guys ready?” asked Chad.

“Did you have to ask?” chuckled Larry.

Chad followed the leaders onto pit road as the back markers stayed out. One by one, the cars broke off from the pack as they slid into their pit stalls. In the 28 Tom Morris Ford Dealers Mustang, the radio was abuzz with chatter as Larry got his men into place.

“Three, two, one.”

A single crew member jumped the wall, carrying an eleven-gallon fuel can. He plugged it into the fuel tank. Within five seconds, he had emptied its contents and retreated back over the wall.

“Go, go, go, go, go!” Larry shouted.

Chad tore out of his pit stall like a bat out of Hell. To his amazement, the other competitors were barely behind. Some had taken tires. Ahead of him, the number 20 Toyota was just making its exit. It would be close. He moved to the right to clear the yellow and black Camry as he crossed the pit road line.

“You beat him!” Hawk cheered into the radio. “Looks like you’ll start ninth, but those guys will have to pit before the stage ends.”

Chad caught up to the pack zig-zagging behind the pace car. He held his breath as he waited for the flag to drop. One by one, the other cars joined the pack, lining up behind him. After two more laps, the green flag was dropped. Chad gunned it, driving his nose mere inches from the car ahead of him.

The laps began to wind down for the first stage, and the leaders began to pit. Chad was busy battling the 91 Chevrolet for position, and they were catapulted into the lead. Chad ducked low as the two raced side by side coming to Lap 75. He wanted this stage win. Chad bombed back up into the low banking of Turn 1 right up on the door of the 91. They dueled around the turn and through the backstretch. Again, Chad cut it low against the apron in 3 and 4, staying there through the dog leg. He downshifted, giving himself a small burst of acceleration to carry his Ford across the line first. The green and white checkered flag waved. The first stage belonged to Chad Helton.

“Okay, let’s bring it in when pit road opens,” Larry instructed Chad. “That was a good run. Just remember to save it for the rest of the race.

The Supra darted out of its stall and onto the track, its strobe light a beacon to the thirty-nine remaining cars. They lined up behind it, parading around the track. As pit road opened, nearly everyone, with the exception of a few gamblers, ducked down into the pits. Chad slid his car into his pit stall, and a carefully choreographed dance of tire carriers, tire changers, and a fuel man began. As soon as the Mustang entered the pit stall, five men jumped over the wall. Mike Rogers and Quizz Jones were tire carriers. Another couple carried air impacts with one of them also carrying a jack. They were Josh Lopez and Kyle Franklin. The fifth who stayed on the driver’s side and fueled the car was Dan “Noodle” Lee. He was the character of the pit crew. What started out with everyone calling him “Dan” turned into the childish “Dan Dan” until someone made the connection with “dan dan noodles”, and everyone just started calling him “Noodle”. Like clockwork, the four crew members jacked the car up, removed the wheels, and attached the new ones within seconds. Their job on that side done, they rushed to the driver’s side where the tire carriers already had their load in possession. The car was jacked up again, the old wheels removed and the new ones placed. With a couple good hits with the air impacts, the single-lug wheels were secured to the car, and they let it down. The whole operation took less than thirteen seconds. As soon as the wheels hit pavement, Chad gunned it out of there.

The race off of pit road was just as intense as the race on the track. Thirty-five cars jockeyed for position at 45 mph. The pit exit bottlenecked at the end, so it was very tight. Unfortunately for Chad, the number 22 Ford barely edged him out.

“You’re back in sixth for the restart”, Hawk informed Chad.

“You got this,” Larry reassured him. “Just take it easy this stage. They know what you can do. Save the car for the third stage, and let us work everything out for now.”

Chad needed not say a thing. He gripped the wheel as he watched the lights on the pace car three rows ahead go out. The little Supra ducked back into the pits, and the number 1 Chevy led the field to the green.

Larry was right. Chad was no slacker, but he held back and saved precious tires and fuel throughout the stage. It was lucky for him too. The stage went caution free. The strategy was a wise gamble. Naturally, holding back would cost positions, but the savings made up for the position. Not even halfway through the stage, the leaders began to pit, allowing Chad to make up the position he lost. Chad passed much of the field as they sat in the pits. Their quick stops were no match for his triple-digit speeds. By the time much of the field had cycled through green flag pit stops, Chad was in the lead again by Lap 60, lapping much of the field.

“I think we have a good cushion for pitting,” said Larry. “Bring it in now. Two cans of fuel and four tires all around.”

Chad brought his Mustang in, and some of the others who hadn’t pitted followed him in. Again, his crew performed their dance around the car. 12.9 seconds was sufficient to service the car and get Chad back out sitting in the top ten. Chad now had the advantage on fresher tires. Fifty-four laps later, the green and white checker waved over Chad as he crossed the line in fifth. Not a bad effort for not giving it the beans.

“Bring it in for fuel,” Larry instructed. “Go for right side tires.”

The whole field came down pit road as they prepared for the final leg of the race. Clint slid into his stall as his crew jumped over, barely missing his front tire carrier. The crew jacked the right side of the car up as the wheels were once again switched out. His fuel man rapidly emptied the contents of his can. The crew cleared the way, and Chad gunned it out of his stall, only to be blocked by the number 33 Chevrolet, another rookie, this one making a limited start before declaring for next year. The Camaro had entered his stall at a bad angle, blocking Chad’s way out.

“Get him out of the way!” Chad shouted.

Too late, the car was lifted, and the crew was working on it. Precious seconds were wasted as they took their time changing the tires and refueling.

“You gonna change his oil too?” Chad taunted.

The Camaro was let down, and its driver took off, but not before Chad was able to gun it and cut him off.

“Okay, you’re a few spots back from where we wanted you,” said Larry. ‘Don’t worry about it. You have 122 laps to work through the field.”

Chad lined up in 23rd.

“Take it easy, Chad. You have plenty of time. Don’t let him blow it for you,” Larry reassured his driver.

Chad’s world slowed down as his own heartbeat became audible to him over the roar of thirty-nine engines. His reverie was ended as the green flag dropped. The cars took off like jets. Chad elected to hold back as he followed the bottom line around the track.

“Caution!” Hawk said sharply into the radio.

This wasn’t just an unskilled rookie spinning his car. Across the frontstretch, several cars jockeyed for position, going nearly six-wide through the dog leg. The bottleneck at Turn 1 turned out not to be the deal breaker as they fought their way to maintain position. The turn proved too much, and a pileup ensued. Ten drivers’ nights were ended as their mangled wrecks either limped or were towed back behind the wall.

“Looks like we’re under a red flag. Might wanna shut it off,” said Larry.

Chad shut his engine down as his Mustang sat crookedly on the dog leg of the frontstretch. The temperature inside a stock car is already nearly unbearable. An air hose is attached to the driver’s helmet to supply some fresh air and slightly cool the driver down, but with no air being generated by the car moving, it was useless. Chad began to choke on the hot, stale desert air as he waited for the cleaning crews to finish their work. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the lights on the catch fence changed from red to yellow, and the Supra emerged from the pit road. The remaining twenty-nine cars fired up their engines and lined up in position behind the pace car.

“Pit road is opening next time by,” said Larry. “Why don’t you stay out? You have a hundred to go. They’re bound to get desperate and wreck this close to the end.”

Chad watched as several cars ducked into the pit lane as he stayed out, gaining several spots and reeling in the Supra.

“Perfect,” Hawk commented, “we’re in fifth.”

Chad swung his car left and right, heating up his tires adding some much-needed grip. His eyes narrowed on his twelve, longing to see the green flag drop and make his way to the front. He didn’t know what the points situation looked like. He had no idea whether or not he was ahead of the other three championship hopefuls or behind. All he knew was he was going to win thar race, that way, it wouldn’t matter.

The green flag dropped, and Chad gunned it once again. Crossing the start/finish line, he swung down into the dogleg, making his way to the front row and cutting off the leaders. First was his. Lap after lap, Chad grew his lead, but soon he had another problem. His lead began to shrink as the competitors behind him with fresher tires pressed their advantage. Within seven laps, the second-place car was on his rear bumper, and he was one of the Championship 4.

“Come on!” Chad verbalized. “Someone, mess up!”

Chad’s wish was granted as the right rear tire of the number 23 Toyota blew, sending him careening into the wall. The yellow flew, and the number 20 Toyota that had been tailing him backed off as the Supra once more took to the track.

“Bring it in for a quick splash of fuel and left-side tires,” Larry instructed. “We’re gonna gamble this one to the end. Give it all you got as soon as you get out of here.”

Chad brought his car in. As he slid into his stall, the crew jumped over, wasting no time. They rushed like their lives depended on it. The car was let down, and Chad darted out of his stall.

“Kyle, did you make sure that rear wheel was tight?” Larry asked the rear tire changer.

“I’m pretty sure I got it,” Kyle responded.

“Okay, it looked pretty quick,” Larry responded. “Keep your fingers crossed and pray we got it.”

Chad re-entered the track behind a pack of gamblers. He knew he could make it to the end and win this thing. Again, everything went silent. This was it. It would be flat out from here to the final lap. This was his championship to win. History would be made tonight, and nobody would get in the way of that. If they wanted it, too bad. All other competitors would have to get out of the way or be mown down by his Mustang.

The green flag dropped, and the symphony of V8s resumed. Chad wasted no time making his way back to the front, utilizing the dogleg to make his passes. One by one, the laps ticked down until Chad finally made a pass for first. It wasn’t easy. The number 20 Toyota knew how to make his car three lanes wide. He wanted that Cup trophy, but Chad wanted it more. He found his opening and forced the Toyota to check up in Turn 1. Using Turn 2 to slingshot, he hugged the outside wall of the backstretch, using every bit of aerodynamic advantage he could find. The vacuum created by his car and the wall cut down the wind resistance, boosting him forward.

In quick succession, the laps wound down, but the Camry never left Chad’s rear bumper. The advantage would soon be lost with two to go as Chad noticed the rear of the car rattling.

“Guys, the car’s vibrating like crazy,” he snapped into his radio.

“Come on, Kyle!” Larry shouted, then he turned back to his radio mic. “Do you think you can make it last?”

All or nothing,” said Chad as he gritted his teeth.

Chad fought the car around the track, silently praying it would hold together. The Camry, on fresher tires, made his move around the outside, making the final lap a drag race. The crowd stood on their feet as the two drivers engaged in an all-out battle around the tri-oval track. Through Turns 1 and 2, the cars remained neck and neck. They gained speed through the backstretch, the Camry taking the advantage with fresher tires, but Chad bombed it down into Turn 3, regaining his position.

Out of Turn four, Chad cut it low again, but the tension was just too much. The weak old tires on the right of the car gave, and he blew the right rear. The rear of the Ford kicked out, slowing just enough to give the Camry the advantage to cross the line first.

The rear of the Mustang slammed into the wall as the car crossed the line. The force of the impact bumped the already-loose left rear wheel off, sending it bounding toward the infield; a path cleared for the loose projectile. Dead in the water, Chad shut his eyes, hoping his Mustang would be seen and avoided. With the coast clear, he let down his safety net. As quick as the remainder of the field returned to the pits, the driver of number 20 Toyota Camry performed his victory burnouts while a red Toyota Tundra emerged from the infield and hooked itself to Chad’s Mustang.

As Chad stepped out of his mangled Ford, he took stock of what had just happened. To his relief, an ambulance arrived to take him to the infield care center. He needed this. He was in no state of mind to talk to the press until he had had some time to cool off.

After fifteen minutes, he was declared free of concussion or other injuries and released from the care center. Outside, the press had gathered like a swarm of mosquitoes. Chad was still speechless.

“Why can’t they just interview the winner?” he thought.

“Can you tell us what happened?” asked one reporter.

“Tire blew,” came Chad’s curt reply.

“Can you tell us what happened leading up to it?” asked another reporter.

“Look, you have a guy in Victory Lane who was there for the whole thing,” said Chad. “He has a much more interesting story and can probably tell it better than me. Good night, folks.”

Chad fought his way through the mob to the hauler and took refuge inside until they figured out he wasn’t going to talk. The herd of reporters pressed around the MorrisSport hauler, ignoring the poor sap in Victory Lane who had just won his first championship. The interest in Mr. Eliminator was just too much, no matter what he did.

To get things kicking, I figured I would try to frequently post excerpts from my work. So, for our first taste of what I do, we’re taking it back to the Summer of 2022 and an ill-fated street race between a Demon and a Charger.

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Chapter 1Part 1

It was a brisk May Oregon night. Along a sparsely-traveled highway, a mule deer happily grazed on some roadside blackberries in the overgrown shoulder. With simple animal pleasure, he consumed his late-night snack, ever vigilant for the predators likely lurking in the fields and hills surrounding the lands he knew as his home.

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It was another quiet night for him. That was until the peace was broken by a pair of V8 engines tearing through the veil of silence. Snack time was over. It was back into the brush for him, just as a pair of high beam headlights pierced the darkness and the twin engines passed with the most eerie Doppler Effect.

The drivers paid little mind to the woodland creature as they pushed their vehicles to their limits. On the right was a sleek late model Dodge Demon. Above the roar of the 392-cubic-inch engine was the ghostly whine of a supercharger. Exceeding 800 horsepower, the car was a monster. It took on the very personification of a demon, desiring to eat up the road and anything that got in its way. Its custom khaki gray body panels reflected a smooth, mercurial light as it glided through the narrow Oregon highway. The rear wheels barely gripped the asphalt as the axle was overpowered for the racing the driver was doing.

To the left of the Demon, a sleek burgundy 1968 Dodge Charger R/T miraculously kept pace. In lieu of the demonic whine of a supercharger, the Charger emitted a low, effortless growl as the 440-cubic-inch mill sent over 600 horses to the rear axle. The shining burgundy paint with a black vinyl roof and dog-dish hubcaps betrayed the appearance of an elegant piece of automotive artwork, fit for a formal black-tie event, hiding every bit of power it could make. Instead of leaving the old warrior stock, her owner had torn into her innards. The 440 Magnum was a stock block, but the crankshaft, pistons, and rods were all forged billet. The clutch marrying the mill to the A833 4-speed manual transmission was forged, allowing quick and precise shifts between the forged gears, all ending in the t-shaped Hurst shifter held in the driver’s right hand. The limited slip differential allowed for efficient cornering on the hilly back roads of the Oregon countryside. The Mangnaflow exhaust system efficiently disposed of the engine’s waste, providing a heart-pounding soundtrack of growls and roars, almost making the old Charger alive. The only visual cue that this old bird was a racer was the twin vertical stripes covering the rear quarter panels and continuing over the deck lid.

With every turn, the two Dodges ran neck-and-neck. Clint Larson was sweating heavily. He knew he shouldn’t have taken his dad’s old Charger racing, especially under these circumstances. This was not the way to honor his father’s memory, but it couldn’t be helped. He had been insulted one too many times, and now was the time to prove himself.

Clint was a youthful fellow, all of nineteen years old. His formerly clean-cut hair was becoming shaggy, encroaching over his ears and the nape of his neck. Normally clean-shaven, he sported a three-day-old five-o’clock shadow. His small frame of 5’7” didn’t exactly make him a matinee idol.

Clint was homeschooled as a youth. Through the circumstances of life, he was all but isolated from many of his peers. Those he found in his church group were even stranger and more awkward than he was. Owing to that fact, he never really socialized. He was an outcast, too weird for the outside and too normal for his small group.

He did have one friend though: Brian. Brian Collins had similar interests to Clint. That kind of thing happens when you grow up with just one friend. Both were interested in motorsports. Clint’s father, Philip “PJ” Larson, had been an amateur stock car driver with dreams of making it to NASCAR, racing superstocks and late models on weekends at his local dirt track. Brian’s father, Jim, was his crew chief. Though their aspirations of grandeur had ended early as both had decided their families were first in their lives, they remained good friends, eventually going into the automotive repair business together. Brian was level-headed and a genius. He built racecars as a hobby and could almost rebuild an entire engine from scratch without any measuring tools – just by feel and sound. He was the voice of reason for Clint. But Brian wasn’t here tonight, and Robbie Means had gone too far.

Robbie Means had the most coincidental name. He was what passed for the town rich kid in their small city of roughly 1700 residents. Cocky and stuck-up, he was also somewhat handsome – at least that’s what he felt. There was no way girls flocked to him based solely on his money or the fancy cars he drove. Nearly everything Clint hated, Robbie checked off those spots. He was the one who had insulted Clint’s father for no good reason. Clint saw no other option but to defend his father’s honor and challenged Robbie to an old-fashioned race from their town of Brownsville to Portland International Raceway. Very little thinking had taken place between the two of them. It was a testosterone-charged decision between the drivers. Brian was not there to be the voice of reason for Clint. Instead, he was at home being responsible.

At eleven o’clock, they met on the main street of Brownsville. It would be about an hour between the two points. As the signal was given, they peeled out heading west toward Interstate 5. Clint was the ultimate driver in every sense of the word. He was fearless behind the wheel, which had nearly landed him in trouble many times, though he kept a clean driving record. The two muscle cars made the sharp right turn for I5 northbound, but it was Clint who had the advantage. Robbie was all talk and no skill. He braked early, allowing Clint to send it into the on-ramp, downshifting into second and then mashing the gas pedal, power shifting to third and then fourth, unused fuel igniting in the exhaust pipe and exploding in a spectacular backfire out the rear of the car.

On the straight, the Demon had the advantage. She was built for the dragstrip. Clint was smart though. He kept his eye on his rearview mirror, blocking Robbie’s speed advantage. As they approached the city of Albany about ten miles up the freeway, they never paid attention to the median. Little did they notice the silver Dodge Charger of an Oregon State trooper sitting on a rise just before an overpass crossing a short line railroad. They blew past the trooper. It wasn’t even a question. He flipped on his lights and gave chase. His call for backup reached the Albany Police Department and Linn County Sheriffs, and they all joined in on various freeway exits.

It was a possible advantage for Clint. A couple miles north of Albany, he exited the freeway to the safety of the windy roads of the South Salem hills, a Linn County sheriff cruiser on his tail. Soon, the deputy in his sleek Ford Explorer Interceptor would be out of jurisdiction. That was no problem for him. It wouldn’t be his arrest, but he'd still have help from Marion County and State.

Robbie followed Clint off the freeway. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. What were they thinking? They weren’t. As they wound through the country roads north of Jefferson, a Marion County deputy joined the chase. The heat was on, and fast. The freeway soon loomed back in front of them. It was a roadblock. Clint sent it into the road that ran alongside the freeway. Desperate, Robbie tried to mirror Clint’s actions. He failed and entered the corner overspeed. The Demon was exorcised. The left rear tire burst under the weight of the G-forces, throwing the Challenger into a roll. Pieces of the former muscle car flew as the airbags deployed, cushioning Robbie in an automotive bounce house.

Clint continued north for a time. That was until the Oregon State Police had set up a roadblock two miles away. He tried a 180, but they were on his tail. It was over. He was trapped. A little insult had grown into a felony. Instead of defending his father’s honor, he had just lost the only part of his father he had left.

The officers crowded around the old Charger, their guns trained on its occupant. Clint knew it was over and raised his hands in surrender. A young hot shot of a state trooper ripped the door open and threw Clint to the ground, cuffing him.

Two miles south, paramedics from Jefferson were responding to Robbie’s wreck. A humiliated Robbie was extracted from the hulk of metal that was once an $85,000 racecar. He was placed on a gurney to which he was promptly cuffed and then loaded into the back of an ambulance. Perhaps a little cruelly, state troopers laughed and congratulated each other as Robbie’s cries of pain emanated from the back.

“My arm! Stop! I think it’s broken!”

Clint was quiet the whole way to the Marion County Jail. What could he say? He knew he messed up. There were no excuses. His mind was racing with everything that was going to happen. He knew what they did to cars that were involved in street racing. It was a shame, a waste of money, he knew. Why crush a perfectly good car when someone else could do some good with it?

The thought played over and over like an album on repeat until they reached the jail. Without a word, Clint was frog marched into the detention center and left for the night. He wasn’t going to get any sleep.

For Robbie, the night was far from over. In the emergency room, it was assessed that though he would make a full recovery, surgery was needed to reset his right arm that went flying as his Challenger rolled. After an extended stay at the Salem Hospital, he would be transferred to a cell at the Marion County Jail unless bail was posted.

If there was one bright spot to the night, no one else was hurt, and the only property damage that occurred was to Robbie’s Demon.

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Thanks for reading Samuel’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

When you think of great novels and car guys, those two things don’t necessarily go together - much like oil and water. My purpose of writing has evolved into blowing head gaskets, so to speak - turning reading and turning wrenches into a forbidden milkshake. Whenever I go to my local library, I often find myself leaving empty-handed. As a gearhead, it’s frustrating when all there is is smut and mysteries (Though a good Andrew Klavan mystery does help fill that void a little.).

In late 2018, I made a bet with an author friend that I could write a narrative that would make a NASCAR race interesting.

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Blowing the Head Gasket

When you think of great novels and car guys, those two things don’t necessarily go together - much like oil and water. My purpose of writing has evolved into blowing head gaskets, so to speak - turning reading and turning wrenches into a forbidden milkshake. Whenever I go to my local library, I often find myself leaving empty-handed. As a gearhead, it’s frustrating when all there is is smut and mysteries (Though a good Andrew Klavan mystery does help fill that void a little.).

In late 2018, I made a bet with an author friend that I could write a narrative that would make a NASCAR race interesting. I had the bare bones of “Fire & Thunder” a couple months later, but it went nowhere for several years. In 2021, I got inspired one night to write about an illegal street race between a 2023 Dodge Demon and a 1968 Charger, and thus began my first complete novella, “Rumble Road”, released in August 2022. Fast forward to 2024, and I finally finished “Fire & Thunder”. From there, I never stopped.

1. Why this, why now

So, why come to Substack? Well, 99% of Facebook groups say “No soliciting”. Just existing and using hashtags on social media can only get you so far.

Additionally, my writing is moving beyond literature for car guys. I recently rebranded from Motorsports Novels to High-Octane Novels. It broadens the scope while still staying true to my roots.

2. What kind of community are we expecting

This Substack isn’t just for gearheads. I mean, it is targeted for this group. But I aim to reach more people - people who are tired of smut and spice. People that want to read mature, realistic, and sometimes gritty novels but not deal with vulgarity and scenes that in all honesty amount to the “P-word”.

3. What to Expect

For now, this Substack will be free. I’m not sure what all to expect. Possibly as this community grows, I’ll share more. I know that I will be sharing excerpts from my novels as well as news for upcoming books.

4. What are you waiting for?

Subscribe, and you will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. Let’s blow that head gasket of petrolheads and bookworms and created that forbidden milkshake.

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This is Samuel’s Substack.

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