<div class="floatleft">(http://i48.tinypic.com/krr0m.jpg)<br/>(http://i50.tinypic.com/r8uslw.jpg)<br/>(http://i48.tinypic.com/1ikft5.jpg)</div><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="bbc_u">GM Post</span> -Feat. Morgan Davis &amp; "Morrison" &amp; Terry Desmares</span><br/><span class="bbc_u">Locations</span>(in order)<br/>-The Stage<br/>-San Francisco crew - pits<br/>-The Finish Line<br/>-Blaire's Car<br/><span class="bbc_u">Date &amp; Time</span>-9th May '06 - 9:49pm<br/><span class="bbc_u">Tag</span>- Cowboy, Pietro, Jason, Jaime, Blaire, OPEN & All<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><hr/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;">9:49 PM</span></div><hr/><br/>As most of the crowd present was persistent - anxious - agressive with their laughter - passionate; they were hobbyists. There were only about wo dozen people who knew the shadow work behind the stage, the rest were only spectators.<br/><br/>The informed sections watched the starting line with close attention. The master of the country roads & the hero of the city were face to face, and they looked like they were giving each other tips on how to cut the others brake line properly. Miyo was horrified. She didn't fully understand why. She dismissed Pietro quickly when he inquired about his intrusion. She wasn't sure if she should tell Pietro about the race yet. She wanted to speak with Adrian first. "I'm cold. That's all." Her voice was shaking. She wasn't even trying to hold it back. He had had nothing to do with her frustration. Blaire had affected her deeply.<br/><br/>The area shuttered as the starting line cleared. Blaire had been called over by Jason, and Pietro walked away as well. Unspoken street cars were all that remained, cramped together on the road. The space opened up- two or three men with headsets instructed all of them to get off of the road west of the 'Highway 1' street sign, and two hundred meters east for safety.<br/><br/>Cowboy and Parker were on the north side of the road, west bound, the shoulder was small there. Closer to the starting line, near Blaire's car- there was a small section of guardrail that extended into the forest, making space for almost eight cars to fit in the fifty meters in-between the extension and the starting line.<br/><br/>Desmares' VW was on the other side of the road, and his entire team had arrived to the track first, at almost Eight o'clock. The entire southern side of the road had a 15 foot shoulder for a three mile stretch. They had laid out cones to mark their territory.<br/><br/>There were cars swerving and parking within and around the real drivers, but the groups were all clearly designated, Parker was waving at his crew to identify himself as the road finally made itself available to him, and most of the spectators had moved east. They waved back comfortablt. He made a short remark to Cowboy, leaning against his truck without thinking about it. His voice was muddled by his cheeseburger. He'd had bloodier pieces of meat before. A fast eater- and a bit of a slob- he had to put his hand in front of his mouth to avoid embarrassment, "I drive the orange civic." He pointed to his car, proud and lost in the pleasure of his food at the same time. Michael was a self proclaimed hero, and his sad ego was under a sick delusion. But he was a pleasure to talk to. ... He swallowed his food and paused, "for the local team, the North Stars."<br/><br/><hr/><br/><hr/><br/>About 70 meters east of the 'Highway 1' sign- Two small vans were parked near the trees, off of the concrete and into the grass along with Morgan Davis' Imprezza, Brett Carson's Integra, and Uno's Spyder. Each car was parked under portable lights, it was an intimidating sight, especially for the North Stars. Aurora Lee's shadowed vehicle was parked away from the lights, but nearbye. It was the only machine in their 'road-side pit-area' that didn't have it's hood up. Miyo had set up the San Francisco crew with a variety of handy utilities for the event. She had paid a respected garage in San Francisco to send three mechanics to Navarro for the race. Further, she had made it a personal task to stock the vans with tools and generators for charging batteries and powering the lights. There were four of them planted on the ground, large industrial shop lights- bright enough to blind. Morgan Davis was leaning deep into Pietro's Mitsubishi. He had been instructed not to change anything, but he wanted to look over the bosses car personally to make sure that everything was the way it was expected to be.<br/><br/>The three mechanics that Miyo had sent up with the team were hard-working discreet men in their late twenties. Their pay was under the table, and they were excited to be on the grand stage. They were all dressed in red jumpsuits with oil stains on them. Brett and Morgan were each wearing black racing suits. Together, they looked like a professional pit-crew. Carson was leaning up against his car, naturally, bragging about the rev limit on his Integra. One of the young mechanics was listening intently as he replaced the back left tire of the car. Davis could here his teammate rattling on and on about 'his piece of shit.' e laughed as he checked the timing and the integrity of the Spyder. The other two mechanics were replacing Morgan's air filters- a task he had designated them with only twnety minutes before. They were nearly done. The small driver was interupted by Miyo, who had suddenly appeared on his hip as he was leaned into the engine. His fingers almost grazed a fan inside. "Hey, Morgan."<br/><br/>He breathed slowly. He stood up, his short frame was only a finger or two above Miyo. "You scared the shit outta me, what are you thinking?" She had been unnaturally stern.<br/><br/>"Where in the hell is Adrian?" She was pissed, and Morgan was not expecting this, he had something else to focus on. He breathed heavily and sneared sideways. A rag was hanging from a loop near his waist, he snatched it quickly to remove the oil from his fingers.<br/><br/>"not sure. I saw him this afternoon. He came into the shop and got his gear ratio's adjusted for more acceleration." He knew he was talking to, but he was answering much more than he had needed to, her impatience was already showing, he smiled as he pushed her buttons further. "I told him how hard it would be with such a specific machine but he wanted to try it, took 'bout 4 hours but we-"<br/><br/>She interrupted him, and he smiled wider. "Well shit. He's cutting it a little close isn't he?"<br/><br/>"Not really, Pietro's running the dead start. What's your deal, you're acting like he stole your purse, or something." Miyo raised her eyebrows and scratched the side of her head. Her small counterpart was right. But that had a problem all to it's own. 'Adrian needs to show up.' Miyo just stared at Morgan instead of speaking, the wind was absolutely still. The sound of power-drills and manly-chatter filled the air. 'He may get in a wreck, but at least he has a chance to win. Pietro is in over his head, and it's all Morgan's fault for losing four races in a row in San Francisco.' She couldn't say anymore.<br/><br/>"If you see him, tell him to use his radio... or Yours" Miyo reached across and grabbed Morgan's radio off of his breast pocket. She held up her own and tossed the other one back to Davis. He caught it with a shit-passive grin on his face. Miyo charged East away from the starting line, she couldn't face the figure heads again.<br/><br/><hr/><br/><hr/><br/>Morrison was dressed in a pair of black jeans, a black sports bra, a dark red wind-breaker and a pair of straight black nike's. She looked like she might have been a newscaster, or a lost jogger. Her heavy camera was hanging from her neck at the finish line of the track, thirteen miles down the stretch from the social fireworks that were rattling off to the east. She had her flash off, there was plenty of lights from the large street-fixtures above the road, not to mention hundreds of headlights pointing in every direction. She had walked from the middle of the track, where her black civic was parked. Her hair dangled in front of her face as if she didn't need her eyes to take a picture.<br/><br/>A guardrail split her from the active road. The finish line had almost three times as many people as the starting line. Morrison hadn't been at the 'Highway 1' sign in over two hours. Three memory cards were full, and she was happy with most of what had led up to the race. She could see for almost two miles up the hill to the east, and the zoom on her camera was fantastic. She hoped to see a couple late comers drive in from the ocean side of the track, dramatic entrances were always better than lazy entrances. So far, the only super-star car she had seen was Aaron Shepard's 180sx, but that was almost an hour ago. He had traveled west down the track and a civilian speed. He disappeared after that. He was one of the several faces that she was looking for.<br/><br/>Priest had told her to watch out for Lisa Yamata, she would be inside of a Mazda Rx-7. She was supposed to be faster than Farone's Bugatti. 'I'll believe it when I see it.' Priest was always right, or oddly prophetic. She had been in contact with him for two years. He had led her to every race since, and she didn't even know his real name.<br/><br/><hr/><br/><hr/><br/>Terry Desmares had let some dust settle since his arrival. He had had a few drinks of water, he had instructed his team to blockade the cones, and calm down. He was nervous, and it was rubbing off on the rest of the North Stars. Only Joseph Coder was confident enough to laugh all the pressure away.<br/><br/>He looked east to see the garage that San Francisco had brought with them, and the powerful cars that were lined up next to each-other by the starting line had him trembling. He didn't want his shaking fingers to be seen, so he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. He was dressed in grey carrhart trousers, and a black t-shirt underneath his stained flannel and wool coat. He looked like a factory worker from Texas, a dumb kid without a future, an old football player. He approached Blaire, and Jason slowly, as if he were walking closer and closer to a fire. He was in speaking range over the music when he nodded and raised his hand to offer a welcome hello. Coder and Parker each watched him approach the enemy with sharp eyes.<br/><br/>"Welcome to the Navarro Pass, guys. I'm Terry Desmares. This is my team's home course. I've seen you out on our roads for a couple of weeks now. Do you like it out here?" He got to the point fast, he was even more polite and even-keeled than Miyo had been. His intentions were brutal, though. Unlike Miyo- Desmares had the heart of a fighter, and the spirit of a bull. He wanted to hunt these drivers down and swing past them at the end of a straight-away. He wanted to show how much hard work had gone into his technique. He wanted to prove to himself that practice was enough.<br/>