“AS THE DAYS GO BY..."

"Benny in the Bin continues to provide your premium radio ente-"

“God, would you cut the radio crap already?! You’ve been blabbering all morning!” Innea, Mitch's ornery second in command, shouts from across the field. Her hands busy tightening a tire on Mitch's car.

Benny and Bin turn from their crude audio console, shooting a glare at the short statured Cloak.

“Innea, I’ve got a lot going on, and radio hosting is the only thing keeping me sane, so no I will not.” Benny shouts, slamming his fists on the table.

The frazzled radio hosts compose themselves, readjusting their headset as Bin clears his throat.

“My dearest apologies for the interruption. Benny's world might be ending, and my sanity withering away, but we've got more great music coming up as we continue to get things going here at Pigeonburg Speedway! Thanks again for tuning into 104.7 Benny in the Bin!”

As he mutes his mic, Bin slowly raises a switch increasing the volume of the up-beat 80’s song. He peers over his shoulder, reveling in Innea’s annoyance of the now loud sound.

Innea rolls her eyes, trying to ignore it as she tightens the last bolt on the last tire. She gets up, admiring her work. Mitch's lime green Lamborghini has been upgraded with large, thick-treaded dirt tires, fit for a dirt race. Innea reaches behind, sliding the tire iron into her old, worn backpack.

Innea’s bulky, oddly shaped backpack has been with her through thick and thin. She’s had the green rucksack with her since she first joined the Cloaks, and while it’s been through the ringer with scratches, patches, and other messes., Innea’s scrappy nature has been able to keep it together. She’s even upgraded it with various features (such as a built-in water-cooler, reusable parachute, air-conditioning, etc.). It’s that thrown-together nature that bothers Mitch to no end, but Innea never cared. It’s the only way she’s been able to survive this life.

Innea stretches, yawning as she reaches for her water pack mouthpiece and takes a sip. Her and the radio hosts are both set up on top of a small hill overlooking the remnants of Pigeonburg Speedway. The field is full of tall strands of grass, and a patchy outline of what used to be a racetrack. Most of the surrounding structures- the concessions building, the small press box above, and the bleachers, have all fallen into disrepair. The smell of wet, rotten wood permeates the clearing below as Cloaks slowly trickle in.

Innea smiles at the sight and readjusts herself to a more assertive pose.

“Alright you nitwits!” her high-pitched, scrawny voice shouts, catching the attention of the members. They all look up as she continues shouting.

“Don’t just stand around, we’ve got a racetrack to build!” Innea points at a group of three, “I want you guys to get started on the west straightaway!”

She points at another group, “And I want you bimbos to get started on the bleachers!”

The various Cloak members quickly get to work, her whiny drill-sergeant tone rings in their ears. Innea smirks, crossing her arms as she lets out a chuckle.

“Yeah, that’s right! You guys are listening to me no-”

“Stop.” Mitch shouts from behind. The Cloaks look up, frozen as they wait on their leader to continue. Innea’s face turns from confident bravado to total fear as Mitch takes a step-in front of the second in command.

Mitch gives Innea a peeved look, before turning back to his Cloaks.

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He then repeats every order Innea had previously given, even down to giving the same Cloaks the same task. Innea’s face slowly turns to a soured frown as she watches on.

As Mitch finishes, he plops down into a seat at the desk next to Benny and his radio set-up.

“Hey Benny, Bin, start running more ads on the race. I want as many people here as we can get.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bin mumbles, his head falling into his propped-up elbow.

Mitch reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out his book.

It's huge, requiring two hands to hold. The leather exterior is more than worn and torn, and the spine is bent to near shreds. It looks as if it's been read hundreds of times.

Every vowel analyzed. Every consonant scoured.

The Cloak leader leans back, propping his feet on the fold-out table as he opens up to a spot in the middle, and begins reading. Innea approaches Mitch, casting a shadow over him. She crosses her arms, gawking at him.

“I was handling it y’know.” she utters bitterly annoyed.

“Yeah, that is the problem. You were handling it Innea.” he says dismissively, still reading.

Innea looks down in contempt.

“So says you.”

Mitch looks up at Innea.

“Excuse me?”

She shrugs her shoulders, throwing her hands up. "I mean, C'mon I’m just saying, do you realize how stupid this is right? We have the numbers, and resources to kill Blake- hell, anyone, right here and now, and yet you wanna play some stupid game with thi-...”

Mitch cuts her off, standing up as he jerks his arm towards Innea. She is lifted off the ground. She doesn’t fight it, but instead gawks at him.

“You aren’t scaring me with this, you idiot.”

Mitch then begins twisting Innea upside down. As her head slowly turns towards the ground, Innea panics, and she begins to squeal.

“Hey wait! Stop! You know I get really motion sick!"

Mitch ignores her plea, as he brings her face-to-upside down face.

”We do things my way, do you understand? I have my reasons, and I won’t let you question my methods.”

"Alright, fine! Just let me down, you idiot!"

Mitch reluctantly abides, throwing her to the ground. Her feeble body slams into the ground, Innea yelping in the process.

As she goes to get up, Innea clutches her stomach, letting out a sick 'euck' as she barfs.

Mitch ignores her, as he lights his hand, creating a little fireball. He twists the little ball around his fingers, letting it relax him. To him, it’s like smoking a cigarette, or sipping a scotch.

Mitch takes a deep breath as he looks down to the Cloaks.

The group of Plant-Cloaks are all decorated with Earthen accents- plants in their hats, flowers in their cloaks, etc. They hold their hands out, waving their hands in a circular motion. Wax on, wax off style. The tall grass below slowly withers away, dying as it fades to dust, and leaving a dirt path. The Cloaks then begin patting the air, pushing a gust of powerful air to the ground. This in repetition pats the track down, hardening the dirt surface.

On the outer perimeter of the oval, Fire-Cloaks continue setting up large torches. Their flames atop continue to burn regardless of weather.

Mitch smiles, looking on. A ghost is being resurrected right in front of him. He looks down at the old, rickety sign. Mitch picks it up, dusting it off before slamming it down into the soft soil below.

Pigeonburg Speedway is reborn!