The air in Union Station was new to me, but pleasantly free of the sulfur, tears, and other contaminants I was taught to expect in the godless North. There were even children offering free popcorn. But before I could get the wrong idea, a hobo in a cocktail dress nearly bowled us over as she was being chased by three goons.
Indianapolis really shouldn’t have tried so hard to make it feel like home to us.
The more chivalrous among us took the goons out and we took the chasee with us to get the skinny of what’s going on. I was not prepared when she explained that she was supposed to be sacrificed for the corn. There’s a cult operating that’s been making offerings to Kali, a Hindu death goddess, and it’s been working if the popcorn’s any indication. They’ve been handing out cards with what looks like nonsense songs, but are actually an incantation that’ll up the power of their works. (So much for “godless” North.) It sounds bad, so I did the only sensible thing: I left to go work on cars.
The Brickyard doesn’t just have history. I swear when you look down the road you can see the future of automotive engineering. I aim to make some. Most everyone there was mighty friendly, except for this one fellow that screamed bloody murder and tried to climb the wall out of the track. Seems someone put a kit of bad mojo under his locker, and its aimed at Charlie Brockman, a washed-up driver turned commentator.
This is not how I expected voodoo to meet auto. Gasgas = grisgris? There’s a turn of phrase there somewhere, hopefully we live long enough to find it.