Raise Hell

Pit Stop Prophet

He’s not a driver.
He’s a movement with a mullet and an open container.
This guy didn’t come here to race — he came to raise hell, make a scene,
and maybe finish if the car holds together and no one calls the cops.
He goes by Number 69, because of course he fucking does,
and his sponsors include cold beer, bad judgment, and probably some sort of court summons.

You won’t find him on ESPN,
but you’ll hear about him every time someone brings up “that one night at the dirt track.”
He’s the outlaw icon of the infield.
The people’s champ of left turns and full send.
The guy who wears his racing suit like it’s armor
and his sunglasses like they hide anything.
He doesn’t warm up — he cracks a beer and lights a cigarette on the hood before the green flag even drops.

He’s been banned from more tracks than he’s raced on, and that’s the point.
He doesn’t care about podiums or points —
he cares about burnouts, blowouts, and blacking out.
He’s driven with four bald tires, no brakes, and half a fender.
He once raced a whole heat with his door duct taped shut and a raccoon in the back seat.
No one knows where he came from, and no one can make him leave.

The number 69? It’s not a joke — it’s a warning.
Every time he fires up the engine, something’s gonna break:
a record, a rule, a bone — doesn’t matter.
He’s the embodiment of “fuck around and find out” in racing form.
You don’t cheer him on because he’s good.
You cheer him on because he makes every race worth watching.

He’s not a driver. He’s a drunk prophecy in motion.
And if you know, you know.

High speeds, low standards.