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Fort Stockton, Texas | Late Spring, the kind where dirt clings to your socks and truth evaporates faster than rain on a tin roof.

If you stood just right inside the old feed barn on County Road 214 and squinted past the LED string lights and “Welcome Investors!” banner, you might’ve believed the future had already arrived.

There it sat—twenty feet long, nine feet across, a custom-built slot car raceway gleaming under hanging bulbs. Curves banked like desert wind. Grandstands packed with hundreds of tiny spectators, painted in every shade of Sunday barbecue. A control station wired into a repurposed church podium, complete with a tablet interface and a red button labeled “DO NOT TOUCH.”

Mayor Goodman touched it anyway. Often.

“This right here,” he declared, arms raised like a televangelist hawking salvation, “is the key to the next great era of Fort Stockton.”

The dozen or so investors—some from Dallas, some from a place Goodman only referred to as “the Gulf Consortium”—looked on, vaguely interested and heavily overfed. Lucinda from Grounds for Divorce had catered the spread. BBQ meatballs, lukewarm slaw, and some kind of fusion churro-Little Debbie hybrid no one dared question.

Behind them, the parking lot shimmered with heat waves and aspiration. On a makeshift easel, a map of the “Proving Grounds Economic Zone” was rendered in thick marker and blind faith. Future sites included Gusherland Amusement Park, Casino de la Frontera, and Mud Hen Stadium 2.0, all “strategically located” around land Goodman just happened to own.

“Once we break ground,” Goodman continued, “we’ll attract national attention. Sports Illustrated. Food Network. Hell, maybe even a Top Golf.”

Hairless B29 stood off to the side, arms crossed, hat low. “You know they don’t put casinos next to cow skeletons and dust storms,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude,” Goodman snapped.

The demonstration began at 3:04 p.m.

Each investor was given a controller. The track’s tablet lit up like a Vegas roulette wheel, chirping enthusiastically as three slot cars snapped into motion—a red #3 Camaro, a vintage Le Mans Ford GT40, and what looked suspiciously like a custom Mud Hens pace car complete with beer decals and a mechanical chicken taped to the roof.

“Observe the elevation changes,” Goodman beamed. “Modeled exactly after the historic Proving Grounds test course, where innovation met asphalt and dreams met… uh, engineering.”

Trixie, wearing a neon pink tank top and leopard-print flip-flops, sauntered up from the concession area and grabbed an extra controller.

“Y’all are steering like Baptists at a bar fight,” she said. “Let me show you how we do it on dollar drink night.”

Her slot car peeled out with surgical precision, flying through the corkscrew turn like a gossipy whisper through church pews.

Lucinda nodded appreciatively. “She’s got the wrist for it.”

One of the Gulf guys, a man named Fadil with a Rolex the size of a trash can lid, leaned in. “How much does it cost to replicate this… miniature attraction in full scale?”

Goodman’s eyes lit up like a W-2 on audit day. “We’re talking millions. Which, thanks to your upfront contributions, we’ll absolutely not mismanage.”

Outside, Angus Hopper pulled up in his 1965 Ford F-100, stepped out, and scanned the scene like he smelled something that had once been food.

“Is that the Proving Grounds track?” he asked the air.

Rusty Hammer, sipping Shiner from a paper cup, nodded. “Or a $400,000 toy built to distract from a $40 million scam. Hard to tell from this far.”

Angus squinted. “Is that a Tilt-A-Whirl in the blueprints?”

“Yup. Next to the pickleball courts and a tax-free chapel-slash-souvenir shop.”

“Jesus.”

“Not sure He’s been consulted.”

Back inside, the race intensified. The Ford GT40 flew off Turn 7 and smacked into a corner grandstand. Tiny painted fans collapsed like dominoes. Cheers erupted.

“Track realism!” Goodman shouted. “Even the wrecks are authentic!”

Delgado, running AV out of the baptismal font repurposed as a sound booth, fumbled for the next video. Instead, the speakers crackled to life with a hot mic recording:

“We get ‘em out here, promise a water ride and churros, then raise the land value ourselves. Call it ‘organic economic uplift.’ Nobody reads the fine print when there’s lights and churros.”

The barn went dead silent. Even the slot cars seemed to stall in place.

Angus let out a single, slow laugh. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Trixie cocked her head. “Play it again. I like how he says ‘churros’ like it’s a spell.”

Goodman scrambled for the podium, face redder than a peppered possum. “That was taken out of context!”

Lucinda crossed her arms. “You mean recorded clearly and played back in public?”

Hairless stepped forward. “You had one job: don’t con the same people twice.”

“Technically,” Goodman wheezed, “this is a different con.”

The investors started gathering their briefcases. One leaned over to Goodman and whispered, “We came here for a tax shelter, not to be on the local news.”

Another pointed at the track. “We’ll buy the model. Ship it to Dubai. Make it an ‘American Motorsport Heritage Exhibit.’ But the rest of this? Not worth the donkey you rode in on.”

That evening, as the sun went down over Fort Stockton, a different kind of party broke out.

Trixie fired up the old PA system and announced the first Unofficial Official Mud Hen Mini-GP. Teams formed fast. Hairless ran security. Lucinda kept score. Sister Thelma reluctantly blessed the pit area—though she avoided the churro table with suspicion. Rusty took over announcing duties, providing colorful commentary like:

“Car #6 taking the inside line like it owes rent money. Here comes Trixie, hot on the throttle, looking meaner than a substitute teacher in May.”

The grandstands (both miniature and real) filled with life. Chad from the Piggly Wiggly showed up late, then crashed his Camaro into a plastic port-o-potty and declared victory anyway.

The next morning, Goodman was gone. Office cleaned out. Plaques missing. The city’s official seal, previously engraved on a novelty horseshoe, found floating in the Dairy Twin grease trap.

Reports trickled in of him spotted near Balmorhea, pitching a new development involving yurts, reiki, and “spiritual dry-aging of beef.” No one followed up.

Back in Fort Stockton, the slot car track stayed.

It moved to a permanent home next to the Lucky Lady Lounge, installed in what used to be a rarely used dance hall. Friday nights became race night. Mud Hens home games drew less attendance than Trixie’s all-women invitational slot league, The Fast & The Flirtatious.

The Proving Grounds themselves remained just as they were—sunbaked, pitted, half-wild, and full of stories no development could pave over.

Someone erected a roadside plaque, simple and rusting:

Here lies the dream of Gusherland.
Built in 1:32 scale, dismantled by truth and meatballs.

Night falls. The barn is empty now, except for Hairless B29 doing a final sweep, flashlight in hand. He pauses by the mini grandstand, now glued back together and lit from beneath by soft LED glow. He studies one figurine—mid-cheer, arm raised, mouth open forever.

“Still more life in you than Goodman ever had.”

He flicks off the lights, steps outside, and lets the screen door creak shut.

Somewhere out in the desert, a faint echo of slot cars hums into the night.

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