"Well, you won't have Christijan Albers to kick around anymore," yelled the driver as he stormed out of the Spyker offices.

The office staff snickered, and one wag replied by saying "That's right, and our refueling rigs are celebrating as we speak."

Albers walked a short distance from the Spyker building and sat on the curb, head bowed. "I don't understand," he muttered. "It's not MY fault my sponsorship money didn't come through. Did they have to fire me for that? Aren't I the best offroad driver in F1?"

A dark man stood above Albers, silhouetted against the noonday sun. "Csakugyan? Neked van nem sikerul," said the man, who looked vaguely familiar.

"I know you, don't I," asked Albers. "Why do you speak Hungarian?"

"En vagyok kerlelhetetlen halal, ugyel vmire teged. Eljossz?" The dark man extended his hand to Albers.

He took the gloved hand. "You remind me of..."

The dark man raised the visor of his helmet. "Would you like fries with that?"

Albers screamed.

All that was ever found was Albers' driving boots, smoking on the sidewalk, and next to them, the letter Z carved into the concrete.

Posted by: Wonderduck at 01:44 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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