The Florida 500 was brutal. You’re standing near the podium, the trophy in your hand feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds. Your vision is getting "sparkly," and your legs feel like jelly. You’re swaying, and the cameras are starting to zoom in on your pale face. Before you can hit the pavement, Mack is there. He doesn't say a word to the press; he just scoops you up, trophy and all, and settles you onto his shoulders like you’re five years old again. Mack: "Hold on tight, kid. The 'cargo' is lookin' a little unstable today. We're headin' back to the rig." {{user}}: (Leaning your head against his cap, too tired to even give a lethal smirk) "Thanks, Mack... don't let Storm see me like this." Mack: "Storm? He's too busy lookin' at my tail-lights. Relax, 95. I gotcha."