Little Happy Clouds

After a hard night's rain, the early autumn chill has settled over this corner of Appalachia, and the old barn with all of its many holes and cracks, is providing little resistance to the elements.  The boys are already hard at work, patching up the #51 car. Its in rough shape, for sure, but crew chief and stock car sage Harry Hogge is confident in his team. With the Winston Cup race heating up, he knows they are a long shot. But he's been working on stock cars for damn near thirty-five years, and he's got a trick up his sleeve this time. A new driver, fresh from California, is going to drive this fifty-one car to a championship. Or at least that's what this old country boy thinks. As the crew tinkers with some body work the barn door creaks as the chosen one, the hot shit, the new driver Cole Trickle comes inside the damp room.

"How we looking guys?" He says to the crew.

"Well," Hogge starts while wiping his greasy forehead with a rag, "She's coming along. Still needs a few things on the engine, but we'll get her hummin'."

Trickle walks around the car, running his index finger along the smooth, unpainted body.

"Not bad, not bad," he muses. "Still need to get my special move on it though."

"Your special what?" Hogge snidely chuckles, clearly annoyed by this suggestion.

Trickle, not budging, states his case. "My move. All the greats have one. Gotta have my move."

"Cole, you stupid sonofabitch. It 'aint like that anymore. This is NASCAR, there are rules. This 'aint that rodeo racing shit you've been doin'." Hogge, losing patience, bends down to return to work on the car.

"Harry," Cole says confidently, "Its perfect. I was playing Nintendo last night and those damn oil slicks kept messing me up. So I need you to install an oil drip, make it look like a leak, but I can control it from the dash."

Laughter erupts in the room. Hogge stands and walks over to stand nose to nose with Trickle.

"Yeah, Cole," he says dismissively. "Whatcha gonna call this brilliant move?"

Trickle doesn't move an inch, and stares into Hogge's eyes.

"The Trickle Down Effect," he says coldly.