ZWEEEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEET ZWEEET! ZWEEET!
The pit crew furiously backed off the bolts from the wheels, preparing to replace the tires on the Chevy two-door Camaro.
ZWEEEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEET ZWEEET! ZWEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEET ZWEEET! ZWEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEET ZWEEET! ZWEEET!
All four wheels were off and being replaced with new ones and fresh tires. Meanwhile, other members of the team checked the hoses, fluids, and filters.
ZWEEEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEET ZWEEET! ZWEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEET ZWEEET! ZWEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEET ZWEEET! ZWEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEEEET! ZWEEET ZWEEET! ZWEEET!
The Chevy was ready. Bud, the crew captain, looked up expecting the driver, young Aaron Benson, to be ready to slither through the driver's side window, crank the engine, and burst out.
"Where's the kid?" he shouted.
"Still in the office – with the old man," replied Clarence. "As soon as he popped out of the car, the old man came over and took him off. I thought he'd be right back, but I haven't seen him since."
BAAAAMMM! The door from the office was slammed open, and Aaron Benson hobbled rapidly towards the Chevy, carrying his helmet in his right hand. The old man was right on his tail. The young driver's hair was disheveled, his eyes were red, and he had streaks in the dust on his face from tears that were still draining. As he got to the driver's side, instead of jumping up and sliding through the window, he did a strange thing. He opened the door, and hurriedly, but gingerly – and way-too-slowly for a race – eased himself down into the seat. A grimace flashed across his face as his backside rested on the seat.
Then, ARRRMMM, the engine was cranked, and as the car pulled out, the old man was standing at the left, pointing straight at young Aaron. The young man nodded his head as he was seen shifting his weight on his bottom sitting on the seat of the car.
John Benson was the old man. At 55, he was a strong, towering figure: 6'4", 240 lbs, of muscle, with steely gray eyes, and thick, still-dark hair – only beginning to edge in graying. He had been a NASCAR driver – a fierce competitor and successful driver – for 31 years, before retiring in favor of his now-24-year-old son. Aaron, a slightly smaller, slimmer version of his Dad, at 6'3", 200 lbs, with dark blue eyes and dark, almost-black hair. The boy had been driving for 3 years now, with some surprising successes for a youngster.
John was proud and pleased with his son – until just recently. Something in the boy's demeanor and attitude had seemed to change, as Aaron became self-centered, arrogant, and mouthy with everyone on the team. He had become almost insolent in his demanding, demeaning, and disrespectful attitude and speech. John had waited, hoping that the home-training and example of his wife and him would surface again in Aaron. He hoped that this was a temporary flirtation with self-inflated pride.
But just before the race began, Aaron had come – late – to the pit, demanded from the crew answers to whether the car was ready for him, and cursed at two of them as he jump-slid in the drivers-side window, to take off for the beginning of the race. Even before Aaron could start the engine, however, John had strode quickly over to the side of the car and shouted to his son:
"THAT'S IT, SON! I'VE TOLD YOU TOO MANY TIMES ALREADY! YOU'RE NOT GETTING ANY BETTER, AND YOU'RE NOT GETTING AWAY WITH THIS! WE WILL SETTLE THIS – AND SETTLE YOU DOWN – AT THE NEXT STOP!"
AAARROOOOM. Aaron cranked the engine and took off. The old man just stood there, quietly, watching his son drive off.
Aaron had run for an unusually long time, without a pit stop, when he finally pulled in. As he had hoisted himself up, and swung his legs through the window, pulling his body and head after, the old man had come up to stand right in front of him. As soon as Aaron's feet had steadied on the ground, and he stood fully up, he was staring up into the face of his father.
Without uttering a word, the old man had grabbed his son's left arm and began pulling him rapidly away from the car, towards the office. The old man had then grabbed the door with his left arm, pulled it open, pushed Aaron quickly through it, and closed it hard. He had turned the deadbolt lock, ensuring that no one else would enter.
The noise of the crew working on the car, had mushroomed. John then had pulled out a small wooden chair and sat down. He still had a grip on his son's left arm. Aaron had pulled off his helmet, still holding it in his right hand. Suddenly, John Benson had reached over with his left hand and replaced it on Aaron's left arm, and with his right arm and hand, the old man had reached up and grabbed the neck of his son. Then, in a sweeping pull, he hauled the young driver over his knees, bobbling the young man forward until his feet barely touched the floor.
Aaron, who had not spoken this whole time – brief, but rapid as it was – called out quickly.
"DAD! WAIT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING! YOU CAN'T DO THIS! STOP IT – RIGHT NOW!"
Without even a mutter, John had then grabbed the waist of his son's tight uniform pants, and yanked them down his hips, pulling them down to the young man's knees. The young driver realized what was taking place, and began to struggle over his father's lap. John had reached down with his left arm, grabbed Aaron's right arm (on which he had been balancing himself along with his left arm), and jerked it out from under the boy, pulling it up and gripping it against the small of Aaron's back. Then, he grabbed the waist of Aaron's boxers, and instantly jerked them down to gather around Aaron's pants as his knees.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Suddenly, the old man had a thick rubber fan belt in his hand, as he brought it down repeatedly against the bare bottom of his overturned son.
Like a hot branding iron applied to his rearend, Aaron had jumped, and jerked, twisted and wriggled, pushed and bucked. He began immediately pleading and begging his father to stop.
"DAD! DAD! NO! STOP! P-PLEASE, DAD! YOU CAN'T – OOO-AH-OWOWW! NO-AH-OWEE-WAY-AH! STOP IT! P-PLEASE! OOOO-AH-OOOO-AH-NOOOOO-AH! YEEEOWWWWW!
The old man only quickened and intensified the spanking as he whipped his son's behind again and again.
WHACKWHACKWHACK! WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK! WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK! WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK! WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK! WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK! WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK! WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK! THWAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWWAAACK! THHWWAAACK! THHHWWWAAAACK!
Rapid-fire delivery, two-minute whipping, and the old man had brought his young son down from the arrogant plane where he had positioned himself for the past several months, to a young boy, pleading, sobbing, and gasping!
"AAIEEYAOOO-AH! NOOO-AH-DAD! P-PLEASE-AH! OOOO-AH-PUH-LEEEZ! YOWOWOWW! UH-UH-AUGH-AH-OOOO! STOPITSTOPITSTOPIT! YEEAIOWOW! DAD-AH-OOOO-HU-AH-DAD! NA-NA-NA-NOOOO-AH-MOOOR-AH! OOOO-UAUGHUH-UH-AIEEEYOW-UH-UH-AUGH-UGHA-OOOOO-AH-OOOO-AH-OWEEE-OOOOO! OOOO-AH-D-DAD! I'M SORRY! I'LL STOP, DAD! DAD! I SAID I'LL STOP! P-PLEASE! N-NOOO-AH-MOOOR-UH-UH-AUGH-UH! N-NEVER AGAIN! I P-PROMISSS! UH-AA OOOO-AH-YEEE-AH-OWW-UH-UH! I'M-UH-SORREEEE! UH-UH-AUGH-UH-OOOO!"
John Benson had let the young driver choke and sob, gasping and bawling, still hanging, dangling over his knees. When Aaron's sobbing and heaving finally began subsiding, John had lifted him slowly up off of his lap. The young driver stood doubled over, shaking and choking, as his sobs became more muffled and controlled.
"Pull up your pants, son, and hurry on out and get going! I expect that this is the last we will EVER see of this behavior! Understand?"
"Ah-uh-y-yes, sir," replied Aaron, and he delicately pulled up his boxers and uniform pants over his blistered behind.
"Good. Then, you better make sure of it, young man, or there's more – and worse – of this ahead! You get my meaning, boy?"
"Y-yes, s-sir!" Aaron hurriedly stammered. One quick, but certain, dose of the old man's discipline had effectively humbled the young man.
WHAUMP!
"You better mean it, young man! Now, get moving!" John admonished, swatting his son's bottom as they walked over to the door. Unlocking the deadbolt, John threw the door open loudly and pushed the young driver through it. As he watched Aaron hurry woodenly over to, and stiffly get in, the car, the old man thought to himself: in almost as short a time as it took the pit crew to make the needed corrections and adjustments to the Camaro, he had delivered to Aaron the adjusting corrections which the young driver obviously needed also.