Page 47 of The Cauldronball Run
"How are you going to do that?"a pixie asked.
"Good question.Will think about this while driving under bridge anyway."
The sound of scraping metal and breaking glass came through the radio, followed by triumphant troll cheering.
"Bridge is now bigger.Problem solved."
The banshee's hearse glided past the entire mess, somehow finding a path through the chaos that no one else could see.Her radio channel remained silent, as always.
"She's going to win this thing," Farrah observed, watching the silent hearse disappear ahead.
Arkansas
Farrah
The Ozark Mountains had turned Highway 40 into a winding nightmare of supernatural chaos, and Farrah was starting to think the ice cream truck might actually be the sanest vehicle in their convoy.
Pop Goes the Weaselhad been playing at maximum volume for the past thirty miles, the tinny melody echoing off the mountain walls like some kind of demented battle hymn.The Mister Softie truck was trapped in the middle of their racing pack, its desperate driver honking frantically as supernatural vehicles weaved around him at illegal speeds.
“The mobile confectionery unit provides excellent cover for our operation.I recommend maintaining current position," Bondo said over a non-secure channel.
"I’m not part of your operation.I was just trying to sell ice cream,” Mr.Softie said.
The pixies' Tesla flickered in and out of existence around the ice cream truck, their dimensional instability apparently triggered by the musical assault.Every timePop Goes the Weaselhit its crescendo, the car would vanish completely, reappearing seconds later in a different lane.
"The music is interfering with our cloaking frequencies," a pixie reported over the CB.
"Turn it off," multiple voices shouted.
"I can’t,” the ice cream driver said."It’s been broken since Oklahoma."
Meanwhile, the centaur was somehow keeping pace on the winding mountain roads, his hooves finding purchase on asphalt that seemed impossible to navigate at this speed.His werewolf partner's pickup truck followed with its hazard lights flashing as they weaved through the supernatural traffic jam.
“Please let me off the next exit,” Mr.Softie begged.
"Ice cream truck plays happy song.We like happy song,” Troll one said.
“You’ll come with us to New Jersey,” Troll two said.
The dragon bikers were having the time of their lives, their engines harmonizing with the ice cream melody in a way that created an oddly stirring musical arrangement.Torch had started breathing flame in rhythm with the tune.
Farrah stared out the window at the chaos surrounding them with a mixture of disbelief and delight.The ice cream truck was now flanked by a flickering Tesla, an RV and the dragon bikers.
And that wasn’t the weirdest thing going on right now. Thundering passe them, going the other way on the highway, was a line of semi-trailers.Chrome grills gleamed and leading the charge behind the wheel of a Peterbilt was none other than Bigfoot himself.
He blasted his air horn and saluted her as they sailed on by the Cauldronball run racers.
Tennessee
Grizz
Grizz had his patrol car pushed to its absolute limit on Interstate 40, the engine screaming like a banshee with its tail on fire.His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, and his badge was gleaming with the righteous fury of a man who'd been made a fool of one too many times.
"That green sumbitch thinks he can outrun the long arm of the law," he snarled to himself, watching the distant taillights of the racing convoy disappear around a mountain curve."Well, Sheriff Grizzley T.Lawman didn't get where he is today by letting' criminals make a mockery of proper law enforcement."
His radio sputtered with updates from various units, most of them useless as tits on a boar hog.
"Sheriff, this is Highway Patrol Unit Seven.We lost visual on the suspects near Knoxville."
