"Wassis?" Jackie demanded, exhausted, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. She slumped to a brick wall where Desdenova had halted to read a hand bill.

"Wheelchair races," he responded. Jackie squinted and leaned over to look at the flier.

"...Unlimited wheelchair races," she noted, her brows knitting lightly, considering as she read.

"We've got a bunch of old wheelchairs and stuff in the barn."

"Yeah, we do," Jackie mulled, slowly pulling the paper from the wall, "Come on. I need a shower, and you have to change."

Desdenova wrinkled his nose, following after his sister once more. He was neatly dressed in an old fashioned dark suit, carrying along his violin, whereas Jackie was in a filthy set of coveralls, with her hair neatly under a red kerchief. They'd paid off the debts from their last prank, and now, they had something to occupy them for a while.

The next morning, after breakfast, Jackie and Desdenova went spelunking through the old barn where many of the cemetery's old vehicles were kept. Most were carefully covered, but plenty of wrecks waited restoration or cannibalization. A haphazard pile of old gurney tables and wheelchairs rusted in a corner.

Jackie and Desdenova picked through the pile, finally extracting a mostly intact electric and a complete manual. They pushed through the pile a bit more before the lights came on. They both turned, regarding the ominous silhouette of a tall, thin man wearing a fedora. Far from being alarmed, they waved.

"Hi Dad! Hi Daddy!" they chorused.

"What are you yard apes doing in here?" he wanted to know, pulling the tarp from an elegant old flower car.

"Looking for a wheelchair to soup up for a race," Jackie replied, curiously watching her father.

"Hn. Well, tell you two what. You come and get this old woman ready for a date, and I'll drag out something for you to work with," Jack replied amiably, walking around the cars and heading towards the back of the barn.

Shrugging, Jackie and Desdenova went to the tack room, taking out supplies to get the car cleaned up and ready for use. By the time Jackie backed the hearse out into the yard, Jack had stacked the parts to a peculiar wheelchair near the door.

"What....what is it?" Desdenova wondered, pulling at the frame and trying to right it.

"One of the neighbor's built it back in the seventies, it's a wheelchair and rice burner motorcycle. Used to get about thirty miles per hour, as I recall. Wear a helmet," Jack replied, rumpling Jackie's hair.

"Me?" Desdenova asked quickly. Jack scoffed dryly, snagging the boy up to noogie him, and kiss his brow.

"No. But you can get Daisy, ride down to Tommy's and pick up lunch. I'll call once you're on the way, they'll have it by the time you get there."

"Okay! I want a beef dip an' fries!" Desdenova agreed, squirming down from his father's clutches to run for the stables.

"I dunno, Dad, this looks more like a little Briggs and Stratton five horsepower lawnmower engine than a Yamaha or something," Jackie mused as she dragged the parts into a semblance of order, "And it looks like it's cracked."

"Hm. Yeah, probably. I got it after he crashed it into a brick wall. Took all day to get all of him out of it," Jack agreed pleasantly. Jackie cackled.

"Well, where can I find another engine?"

"Go look in your Mom's hangar, I'm pretty sure she's got a couple of ultra light motors she never used," Jack mulled.

"Oh cool! I'll go ask! We'll go after lunch!" Jackie cheered, hugging her father before darting off into the house. Jack snickered softly, pulling the pieces of the old wheelchair together.

Good as time as any to start teaching the kids how to weld.

Shar had been downright gleeful when she'd found out about the wheel chair race. She really didn't care about racing or winning, but she sure as hell wasn't going to pass up on the change to mod the holy EFF out of something not meant to be modded out.

Getting the chair had been the hardest task out of everything. She hadn't known where to get one and it took her getting up off her lazy behind to actually locate one. Cheaply. A used chair was far better for this task than a new one. Parting with money on medical equipment wasn't something she wanted to do.

The monster took her nearly a week to complete, but there she was in all of it's glory.

"She's beautiful," she declared, swiping at her cheek to disspell tears that weren't really there.

Only the frame and the foot rests were the same. The front wheels were only decoration and for a little bit of stability. This thing was going to blow apart the moment she hit the afterburner.

The back wheels she'd replaced with racing tires and added in a heavy axel to support the extra weight. She'd welded the hell out of the frame in hopes that it'd hold together at least halfway through the race. There were some decorations like a racing spoiler on the back and a pole with a raccoon tail. It had working lights and a big ass shifter on it that was part decoration, part insanity.

Strapped underneath the rig was a jet engine. She'd briefly considered going with a ramjet, but her limited knowledge on the system lead her to a more basic turbine engine.

Shar didn't add in straps or belts or anything, just in case the thing went airborne or there was some other reason for her to bail early.

When the race started, Shar'd probably be among the last to leave the starting line as the jet needed time to warm up and get going. She'd rumble slowly down the course until she'd reached optimal mix on the jet and she'd be able to punch it.

Air mixed with fuel ignites and the real fun started when 500lbs of thrust literally rocketed the chair forward. It only had enough fuel for a ten second burn, but hopefully that'd be enough residual energy to get her to and across the finish line.

She wouldn't be able to steer, arm herself with paintballs, or anything else like that, but she successfully did not blow herself (or anyone else) up*, but there was no way that thing was going to function after a single run.

http://i.imgur.com/RXdQ9mp.jpg

(*Dice were rolled to determine this. I was sort of hoping it would have gone kablooey)

The welds were critical enough for Jack to take over from the kids. It certainly was not because he enjoyed building all sorts of horrible abominations before god and man. He simply wanted to make sure his daughter got through the race intact.

Jackie, meantime, mulled over the specifications for the small ultralight aircraft engines her Mom said she could use. She drew a few performance curves, and ended up calling the manufacturers, who seemed bemused at her intended modifications, but willing to give advice.

Granted, much of that advice was on the line of 'don't do it' and 'can I speak to your parents or anyone around there who isn't insane"' but the Wright Brothers didn't get their craft into the air because they got the heebie jeebies from well meaning critics.

Desdenova cheerfully drew the design as it was being built. Starting with the original wheelchair frame, the seat was lowered and raked back. Two old Suzuki dirt bike frames bolted to the outer chair. Two 27 inch spoke wheels with dirt bike tires were mounted to rear dropouts of the bike frames. A cage was built around the entire vehicle, taken from a crashed ultralight.

The dirt bike frames were bent together to a prow before the chair, where a small radial engine and propeller were installed. Under that, a smaller wheel was bolted to stabilize the vehicle. A second motor, in line, mounted under the chair and provided rear thrust from another propeller.

"What about brakes?" Desdenova asked as he watched his father and sister rigging the controls for their push-me pull-you horror.

"Pfft, brakes, it's a race, Des," Jackie replied with a scoff. Jack beamed proudly.

"That's my girl."

~Later Still~

Jackie got in practice with the English wheel, forming sheets of metal scavenged from the air field's junkyard into a Mad Max-esque cowling around the push-pull wheelchair. She added a pair of stubby canard wings just behind the front engine to help control the beast. Also hopefully to keep the wheels on the black part.

Desdenova cheerfully worked up a few keen 007 effects while his father and sister worked on the craft.

The front engine, then the rear fired up obediently, going from a quiet sputter to a steady whine. Jackie clapped her helmet on and quickly climbed into the cockpit. She grinned and gave a thumbs up to her brother and father as she directed the wheelchair turned racer to do a few turns around the back runway. It scooted across the dirt and tarmac easily, and though it skittered somewhat on the turns, it was fast and solid.

Jackie coasted the abomination back to the hangar and beamed. She quickly went through making adjustments.

"How about 'My Little Nightmare'?" Desdenova suggested. Jackie pursed her lips.

"Too easy. 'Pushme-Pullyou'."

"Too hard to say. 'Alice's Tea-Cup'."

"Hm," Jackie mused, leaning back on her heels as she tightened a few bolts. She grabbed a spraycan of silver paint and neatly hosed 'Jabberwocky' across the panels. Desdenova nodded.

"Then you can dress up as the zombie White Queen."

(The Jabberwocky will look mostly like a wingless ultralight with a wheelchair seat and wheels and a cowling cobbled together from old Cessna skins.)

~RaceDay~

Both engines fired up obediently, and the moment the proverbial gates were down, Jackie launched the Jabberwocky with the others. She fired off confetti and glitter bombs as she worked to keep the overdressed wheelchair on the ground and up with the rest of the racers.

The Jabberwocky skittered over the curves and flew and thumped over the rough spots, which accidentally set off her array of spider web launchers. Fake spiders and webs for all! Including her. She mouthed several impolite words and wiped the glow in the dark stuff from her face.

Finally, she caromed around a corner, and went howling past the finish line. The Jabberwocky's skin was starting to come off, but hey, at least it made it all the way through! Jackie hooted gleefully.

Thorn was in it. True, she was in it for the crack! but she paid her entry fee, rolled her 'chair out to the line and then...

Well then started the adventure of cajoling, convincing, and bribing her engines to cooperate. A team of speedsters, definitely. Suped up, most assuredly. Squirrels, oh hells yeah. Giant squirrels in truth, each and every one of them large as huskies, and bristle tailed ready to go.

Sadly, they scattered at the commotion at the jump, tangling their traces and nearly strangling themselves and each other, as well as dragging the teal painted racing chair all over the path behind the line. With some work, and a lot of easing, soothing, and some shouting in Squirrel, they got themselves righted and bolted off down the course.

They might never cross the line, but she damned sure had a mighty fine time of the run.

Plus it was for an awesome cause, made it all the sweeter.

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To the news of the race, Garrison didn't hesitate to hop on board. The old man came running (a little bit like Gumby) into the shop, using his foot to pull the creeper the big guy was laying on out from under the car.

The Nephilim grunted, disturbed from his work fixing up the undercarriage of the vehicle as he let the metal tools fall to the cement floor with a clatter. "Morning, Garrison..." He raised a brow above those aviators, dark brow peeking from behind the lens.

Another grunt came from the big guy as Garrison bent down and slapped the flier in his face. "Dude..." he swatted at the flier, all but tugging the sheet of paper from the old man's hand. "Not necessary, the hell's got you all riled" Cool it before you have a stroke." He pushed himself into an upright seated position, with the flier no longer smothering him, he could look at it.

Garrison said nothing, but was grinning like an old fool as he crossed his arms over his chest. Seems his walk to town for coffee had been eventful.

Hidden molten gold hues scanned the paper, blinking a couple times as he registered what Garrison was silently going on about. "....Really?" He looked up at his boss, arms falling over bent knees.

Garrison, stubborn as a mule, lifted his chin and didn't let that goofy grin fall for even a moment. "Get your work done quick, boy. We've got a lot of shit to do." There was no questioning Garrison when he had his mind put to something, and this was one of those times.

A shake of the Nephilim's head before he tossed the flier aside. "You got it, Geezer." A chuckle and he was getting back to work.

____________________________________________ http://img13.deviantart.net/1b30/i/2007/274/5/1/m__shadows_by_allaboutorlando.jpghttp://static5.comicvine.com/uploads/square_small/0/77/824892-whistlerla.jpg Photo credit goes to Matt Sanders and Kris Kristofferson. (Hex and Garrison)

It had been a lot of work, a lot of crap talking between the Nephilim and the old man, with intermissions of his ol' lady where he insisted he needed a break. But by the time of the big day, they'd managed to soup up a motorized chair (one that Garrison insisted wasn't his, Hex didn't believe him), in a way that only suited the gang bangin' biker.

https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/c0/de/82/c0de82fca0cf132e6b4af395496492fd.jpg Credit image unknown other than Caters News Agency. Found on Google.

They'd managed to rig up the chair with the front of an old bike Garrison had lying around, made a few adjustments with the engine of the chair as well as a couple investments of NOS. Not enough to blow him up, but the thing should pick up some speed. Or have him flying off the track and getting into one hell of a crash.

As he rolled the bike-chair off Garrison's beat and battered truck, he was already wearing the Garage's threads to show representation of his work place. But to Garrison, it seemingly wasn't enough.

The old man came around the truck and slapped a big sticker on the back of the chair that was industrial sized. "Come on, man. The shirt isn't enough?" Chuckling, he shook his head. Garrison wasn't one to waste time.

A shake of that oil stained finger to the Nephilim, the old grump chastised him. "Don't waste an opportunity, boy. Question me, I'll boot my foot up your backside and punt you into next Tuesday." A roll of the Nephilim's eyes and he was off to set up for the race. "I'll get set up, you deal with the donations and fees." He could hear the old geezer's grumbling a mile away.

With proper representation of "Full Moon Automotive We Don't Do Anything Half-Assed!"

With any luck, things would run smoothly. Though if he got the chance, he'd probably head for some 'good luck' affection from the long legged woman that he tried to convince to wear a cheerleader outfit. "But, babe! You've got the best legs for it!"

There were two things that dictated Andy's involvement with the race: 1. It's for a good cause. 2. Souped up wheelchair race"

She was in, without a doubt. With plenty of ideas popping into her head looking at the flier, by the time the big day rolled about, she was ready to rock.

After entering and paying for the entrance fee, she was golden.

Rolling -literally- up to the race with The Tank, she wasn't all that concerned with winning though it would definitely be a bonus. The goodhearted redneck was all in for the charity. Didn't stop her from giving it all she had though.

In her style.

Meet the Tank:

https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/eb/f9/28/ebf928c73ef466a02c5675629f0340a2.jpg

What was once a motorized wheelchair, was now a robust machine with a heady engine and caterpillar tracks, she wasn't in it for speed.

"Didn't you read the turtle and the hair" Slow and steady wins the race!"

You bet she didn't have any problems with those hills and rocky terrain, even if she did truck it at a steady speed of 15 mph. She was blowing confetti (to stick with the theme was the colors of her chair) the whole ride there.

Even if she lost, or was the last to cross the finish line, she did it with good sportsmanship. After all, she was in it for the charity.

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Josie did not want to miss the race, however scheduling conflicts with a matinee performance of Onegin at Shanachie presented a potential problem for her. Nevertheless, she left a note for her brother Isaac a few days before the race, with the hope that she could talk him into going in case she could not make it there. In addition to the note, she followed up with a phone call as soon as she left the theater after the show. "S'goin' on Josie?"

"Did you get my note and see the flyer I left you about the Wheelchair Race on Saturday?" Josie chirped brightly into the phone as soon as she heard her brother answer. "Mm." Isaac began digging through a mess of papers to locate the flyer Josie left for him. Josie knew her brother's particular verbal shorthand well. The sound was a non-committal grunt of a maybe at best. She heard him sigh into the phone and then heard the rustling of papers that she knew were haphazardly stacked under the makeshift paper weight of a mason jar.

"Please Isaac?" Josie coaxed as she sensed her brother's hesitation. "I'd hate to miss this. The proceeds from go to the Rhy'Din Children's Hospital. It's outdoors, so you could probably bring along Boomer too. I have a matin"e that day and then another evening performance. I don't think I'll be able to make it there in time for the actual race. I thought you could go with my donation just in case I have to miss it' Oh and will you see if they are going to have a video of the race" I definitely want a copy if they do! We can go out for drinks after the show and you can tell me all about the race! My treat?"

(written in collaboration with Isaac Wheeler's writer and posted with permission.)

The Harker Kids arrived with a strange looking contraption that had been made from a wheelchair that had been taken out of service at Riverview Clinic. It looked more like a rickshaw by the time the trio had gotten finished.

Rick was decked out in something that looked like it was swiped off a NASCAR driver's clothesline. He puffed out his chest and looked at his crew. "Hey, they're starting soon, get a move on!" He took great pleasure in trying to lord it over his sisters that he was driving.

"Pipe down!" Catie said in annoyed tone as she used two wrenches to adjust a few bolts.

"Hey, no messing with the mechanic, little brother!" Maggie had brought along a motor with exactly one horsepower. The black colt was tossing his head. She fastened the straps and buckles of the harness to get him situated between the shafts. "You sure you can drive this, Rick?"

The youngest of the children looked between his sisters with a look that seemed to ask Why me"

Their parents were among the spectators. Albert Hall, their father's lifelong friend, was on kid detail for the day. He did a few safety checks and the Harker Mobile was on its way!

The first time she'd seen the announcement, she had ignored it. The second time, too. Just seeing his name in print was enough to bring up hurtful memories. But every time she passed by a flyer or poster, it got harder to keep on walking.

Finally, the day of the race, Tatum gave in.

She drove out to the outskirts of town, where the race was being held, and parked at the furthest edge of the makeshift lot, where her Chevelle was less likely to be noticed and recognized. Then, after writing out a check for a hefty donation in the name of Whitewood Ranch, which she left with an attendant, she bought a ticket and made her way to the bleachers.

She sat near the top and pulled the hood of her sweater down low to shade her face, hoping that and the big, dark sunglasses hiding her eyes would be enough of a 'disguise" to buy her time to watch the race. Her fingers pulled long, nervous strokes through the length of golden hair tumbling down over her shoulder while the racers took their marks.

Unlike the rest of the crowd, she remained quiet as the racers took to the track and started making their way around the course. In fact, she didn't seem like she was even going to smile"at least until the colored powder and glitter started flying.

It's hard to stay somber when there's glitter in the air.

By the time the race was over, she had glitter in her hair and on her cheeks, and she had bursts of red and blue on the front of her gray hoodie. She'd taken a powder ball right to the heart and she bore its scarlet irony with quiet bemusement. By some minor miracle, she'd only suffered one splash from a nearby water balloon, which left her leg damp.

As the racers started making their way back to greet their adoring fans, Tatum climbed down out of the bleachers and began making her way back to her car. There were consequences to being seen, after all.

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