"Yea, you bastards! I'm the winner!" Jeromy stood at the top of the track and shot up his hands just as sparks and fireworks signaled the finale of the race. At a low down angle it was a money shot, probably more so than his photograph win.

"Mr. Jeromy! Mr. Jeromy!" Reporters were filing onto the field, all hoping to get an exclusive with their individual networks. He backed up defensively then pulled off his helmet and shook with the roar of the crowd and the intensity of the excited reporters. Years of practice, what could make this moment anymore memorable?

"How did it feel to win the world championship?" A female reporter asked, waving her mic around. Straight to the emotions with the women.

"What do you want to say to the other competitors?"

"What do you want to say to your fans?"

"What's your next step?"

So many questions and Jeromy had not the slightest thought as what to say. He wasn't a man of words, but of speed and power. Cars were his specialty. Not media and all these questions. Where was his manager? He supposed he had to say something to make his sponsors happy. Family friendly. Wholesome.

"Well, uh," he tried to restrain the country accent, "I wanna say it was a da-, eh uh, a hootin' hollerin' honor to just be out here. 'nd whatcha know, I'm gonna take home to my fiance a new championship trophy. Woo!" He cheered and pumped his fists once more. The crowd lost their minds.

"Oh my God! I'm getting married!" His girlfriend yelled above the fierce roar.

Again he was engulfed in the majesty of it all. Lights and cameras were flashing. Through the noise, the firecrackers, and the celebration no one heard or saw the gun go off. The world went silent for an instant and then the noise began again, but the cheers had turned to screams. Happiness had transformed to fear and dread. His jacket became warm and sticky and he reached down to the wetness. It was red. Still the thought didn't process.

"Oh God, he's got a gun!" His fiance cried out.

Everyone was leaving all at once. He reached out to them, wanting to tell them don't go. The celebration wasn't over. He'd finally won. After all he'd done. After all the red tape he'd cut through...

"I knew you would do it you slippery bastard. That car wasn't stock! You shouldn't have won. It should have been me!"

Jeromy turned to answer. How did he know? Who knew? He looked into the culprits face but it was covered in a helmet and splattered with blood. The helmet started to come over the murderer's head but then there was another crack and the lights went black.