(Longplay #55) (Amiga) Road Rash (Part 2 of 2)
1LEVEL 3
Mugen Mountain Mania (Sierra Nevada): 0:06
Stillen Coastal Blast (Pacific Coast): 6:02
LEVEL 4
Neuspeed Stampede (Grass Valley): 12:20
Falken Forest Fight (Redwood Forest): 19:32
Oakley Tree Thrashers (Sierra Nevada): 26:36
NOS Camino al Infierno (Palm Desert): 33:31
Brembo Beach Bomb (Pacific Coast): 40:22
LEVEL 5
Recaro Redwood Rampage (Redwood Forest): 48:49
Pirelli Prairie Prix (Grass Valley): 56:56
Weld Rey del Desierto (Palm Desert): 1:05:00
AEM Sierra Enojada (Sierra Nevada): 1:13:02
Momo Maelstrom (Pacific Coast): 1:21:31
Outro: 1:29:58
DESMO
Coda – Ma Che Te Ne Fai?
Lounging on the couch, Natasha stared at the cover of the advance copy of her brother’s book. She heard that Pio was in the process of translating and elaborating upon his thesis, but actually being able to read it made the reality sink in. At least, that was evident from the cover. One half was the Ferruci fox, a triangular reinterpretation of the Velocci crest that exuded aerodynamic aggression. The other was of their father, the balding head and grimace not unlike that of some long forgotten Roman stoic. Valentin Velocci: Paradoxes of a Paragon, the title read, the font a perfect mimic of the company’s.
Natasha knew from her last visit with her brother that he was able to win over a reporter from the Wall Street Journal as a co-writer. Fluid writing and English translation aside, she regarded the final draft with as much apprehension as anticipation given the background of the project. On one hand, rebuffing the image he spent years concocted on such a level was long overdue. On the other, more reflexive side, it seemed strangely slimy to air Valentin’s dirty laundry at the same level. As furious she was at him for his transgressions, Natasha rationality was at odds with her loyalty.
Still, even though it was the size and shade of a brick, she was enthralled by the analysis within. Natasha knew about the history of how Valentin had acquired ownership of the company, a frequent boast he made at countless corporate banquets. After so many decades in use, it evolved into a running joke workers used when their boss was out of earshot. Such adamant proclamations, they argued, had to be a front for something.
What she didn’t know about, however, was the exact reason why he was so loathed along the assembly line. Compared to his legion of administrative sycophants, the reception from the factories was mixed at best, scornful at worst. Largely because Valentin had regarded the union’s leader like a spike in his spine, Natasha hoped that it was merely a case of a strained relationship between labor and management. The more she read into her story, the more she recognized the patterns on display.
“During the twilight of my MotoGP career, Fiore Luccione was a common refrain amongst the mechanics. Apparently, my father had doubled down on her when trouble arose from the manufacturing division. Let it be known that they were quite justified to demand better parental leave arrangements and a pivot from their sluggish COLA rates, given that growing coffers and elite perks were dominating gossip on the line.
“Souring matters was how he regarded Luccione’s demands, recognizing them as prime advertising fodder. It’s scarily easy to brag about having an enviable benefits package, even if only the barest minimum of investment was granted. Eerily, the way my father crooned about being a union ally and how exemplary she was as a labor leader was reminiscent of the way he treated me. The core difference, however, was that Luccione was having absolutely none of his flattery. The campaign backfired horribly, and reports of dysfunction in the company were becoming increasingly corroborated.
“His attempt at turnabout, funnily enough, was the moment he drove the final nail in his coffin. Remembering about the last time he dealt with a nuisance in the workplace, he went back to Corriere della Sera almost four decades later with ‘evidence’ of another revelation. Luccione, he alleged, was a Soviet spy and had the paper trail to prove it. Unimpressed with his hastily forged letter and testimony from her union members about her glowing adoration of Lech Walesa, it was hardly surprising that the journalists there had the papers on standby when Pio turned his investigation to their offices. My father was cogent enough to coordinate a smear campaign, but clueless enough to self-incriminate.”
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