FathomOnline

 

 Fathom July 1997

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Articles

Mark Anderson
Dan Clark
Jamie Reynolds

Haiku

Trevor Rockwell
Peter Morden
Anonymous
A. Bell
Todd Banks
Anonymous
Jennifer Reynolds
Nobu Adilman
Anonymous

Poetry and Prose

Mary Kate Arnold
Anthony Quinpool
Dan Walsh

Artwork

James Matthews
Mitchell Weibe
Siloen Daley
Jamie Reynolds

[PDF]

Dan Clark

 

 

MONSTER TRUCK ACTION
You don’t know who I am, but I know where you live....

January 2, 1997 was the night the mighty-mighty monster trucks rolled into Halifax and tore the Metro Centre apart. The drivers, the trucks, the action. The Virginia Giant, Deuces Wild, Hercules, the behemoths who battled it out for the title to be the fastest red-hot rumbling high tech power plant to ever be tamed by man; they leaped and crushed their way over the field of junkyard Chevy’s. When the flag hit the ground, the pedals hit the metal, and the four wheel drive, 1500 horsepower, alcohol-injected, 572 cubic inch Chevy Big Block motors shook the graves for ten miles. The first round of drag races defined which machine would be the victor: the Virginia Giant stood rod and crank shaft above the rest, as it blasted off into the smoke filled air and came crashing down on its eight nitrogen charged trailmaster shocks, transferring all of its 10,000 pounds of mass through two five ton military axles, with hardened shafts to its 4, 66 inch Firestone Flotation Tires to the junkers below, seconds ahead of its competitors.
     Between events, the audience was mesmerized by the Floobie, the magical flying toy that you just can’t throwaway. Ever.
     Another major attraction that night was Dynamite Allison, the lady who blows herself up. The crowd knew from the programs that Allison was celebrating her one thousandth self-immolating explo­sion–if she survived. When asked why she got into this crazy business, she replied, “Well, the recession, really. But I like hotels, too.”
     The box marked “Dyno-limbo-Lady” was carried out to the middle of the arena. The crowd went wild. Dynamite Allison paraded around the Monster Truck Track where the car-crushing-carnage had just ceased. She removed her red, white and blue cape to reveal a spectacular red, white and blue body suit. She handed her cape to Mr. Deihl, driver of the Virginia Giant, secured a lovely red, white and blue helmet to her head and positioned herself within the box. The box which would soon explode. The crowd counted “3...2...1” and then the briefest moment of silence, filled with excitement and fear, captured the hearts of the audience. The crowd waiting for the explosion, waiting for the Dynamite Lady to explode. It was the quietest moment of the whole evening.
     What followed this absurd calm was an explosion this city had not heard since 1917. When the dust and smoke cleared we saw the Dynamite Lady prone, face down in the dirt, as still and limp as the junkers surrounding her. The paramedics rushed out, the emcee assured the audience that this moment of unconsciousness would soon pass; it was usual for Allison to be temporarily KO’ed. A few seconds later she came to life. She shook her head a few times, stood up removed her helmet realized she had lived through her one-thousandth explosion, pumped the crowd and took a bow. The stadium erupted in cheers. A fine moment for America. A finer moment for North America.
     Down in the pit, the Demolition Derby Crews were making final adjustments to their vehicles, ensuring all the proper safety regulations were followed. In the cars: a battery in the passenger seat, a gas tank in the back seat; two big holes in the hood in case of fire and steel girder side-­impact beams. All the glass was removed from the vehicle. Let me tell you, a lot of local sweat, elbow grease and talent went into making the Demolition Derby a real family crowd-pleaser. The drivers got into position and then the dirt arena rules were made clear: hit someone every thirty seconds or face disqualification–last one moving wins. Gunfire signaled the start of this last event and then the smoke, mud and radiator coolant began to fly. In minutes half the field lay scattered with fallen auto-gladiators; it was hard to see and even harder to breathe. A few destructive, car-smashing, minutes later the event was decided. Some fool had managed to keep his car alive.
     The crowd was driven out into the cool night air by the suffocating, dirty blue and brown haze of exhaust fumes. The exhaust fumes crept upwards along the stands clinging to the crowd, following them into the once pure Haligonian night.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul