“Vis is HIGHLY illogical.” said Michael Schumacher as he examined the scene before him.

 “Listen you square-jawed kraut,” said the voice from somewhere around his ankles, “you don’t get to play Mr Spock, you don’t get to complain, you get to shut up and do as you’re told. Michael yelped as a stabbing pain in his toe caused him to shoot up in the air. “Yeah, and there’s more where that came from if you ain’t careful sunshine.” Michael, despite his famed German lack of emotion, found his visor beginning to steam up with annoyance. He would have been slightly less peeved if it wasn’t for the fact this damn tunnel was so small. It was taking the paint off the top of his helmet for Christ’s sake.

 The tiny little cart was pulled by what appeared to be a thousand tiny harnessed cockroaches which, had the multiple Grand Prix winning robot actually possessed a range of emotion more dramatic than a pigeon, he might have found horrifying. As it was he curled his lip slightly and revealed a menacing line of extremely straight and quite white teeth. He began to breathe in his most menacing fashion.

 “Vere are you taking me?” He asked as he felt the ol’ grey mist of irritation clouding his brain.

 “Listen Black Forest Gump, I already told you, we’re going to see the king, and he’s got something to say to you… If you could spend a little more time focussing on the present and a little less time eyeing up Poland , you wouldn’t have to put up with this.” The voice said.

 “Viv vhat?.. ARRRRRRRRRRGH…” Michael cracked his head on the roof again.

 “That mate… I wouldn’t pee standing up for a few days.” The voice sounded calm and just slightly squeaky.

 The tunnel continued on for another mile or so, during which they occasionally stopped to gather fresh roaches, Michael catching glimpses from the corner of his visor, although the bug that had stuck there on lap thirteen of the race was partially obscuring his view. With cold German efficiency he identified it as a bluebottle. He nodded and filed it away for later reference.

 When he emerged into the light he was almost blinded… yet he had decided only to use 18% of his eyes today for reasons of efficiency. As a child he had learnt to only see in black and white by studying his family dog Siegfried. He had noted the way that Siegfried had never been distracted by a female dog and this, Michael instinctively knew from an early age, was the key to Grand Prix greatness. Michael regarded the monochrome world with something that might have stretched to surprise if he’d had a soul. A mighty cave was carved into the rock, tiny torches hanging in the corners that had been made by gluing disposable lighters to the walls. At each one stood a small hamster who ignited his torch for no longer than thirty seconds at a time and did not attempt to refill it.

 In the middle of the chamber was a small throne constructed from the skulls of conquered antelope and atop it sat a mighty looking hamster warrior clad in a fine suit of armour formed from a special brew can with some holes poked in it. In one hand he held a long staff made from a bourbon and in the other he held a smouldering John Player Special… and, lo, Michael was afraid, for it was not a JPS Light, but a full strength pikey choker. The hamster seemed old and yet maintained a quiet dignity and his hamster muscles rippled beneath his greying fur. Schumacher waddled to sort of squat before the stern gaze of the hamster king. At once all the other hamsters chanted as one:

 “BOW BEFORE KING WINKLES MORTAL.” and lo, Michael did bow.

 “GET THE FUCK OFF KING WINKLES MORTAL, YOU ARE CRUSHING THE FUCKER” The hamsters chanted as one.

 “Voops…” said Michael, leaning back and looking at the compressed hamster adhering to his visor. He tried to pick the worst of it off but it was so badly smeared he had to pull off the entire clear plastic strippy thing. Those cost a euro each, he thought to himself sadly, he had grown so wasteful in his later years. He discarded it as tidily as he could, but regretted the apparent absence of recycling bins.

 “FATHERRRRRRRRRRR.” A huge warrior hamster charged from a small side room. In one hand he clutched a sword crafted from a hacksaw blade, a dry macaroni handle, and some glitter, and in the other he held what, to Schumacher’s horror, appeared to be a Superking… and, dear god, the bugger had snapped the filter off to get a better lungful…

 “ALL HAIL HAMSTERLET, OUT NEW KING.” Roared the assembled rodents and as a hamster, they dropped to one knee.

 “I WILL AVENGE MY FATHER’S MURDER… I CHALLENGE THEE TO MORTAL COMBAT…” Hamsterlet yelled.

 “I von’t promise much, I don’t usually play computer games, they vot the brain. Vould you vather ve just settle vis vike Vermans?” Michael offered, doing his best to avoid the angry hamster sensing his emotional blankness.

 “AND HOW IS THAT, OH MURDERING CURR?” Screamed Hamsterlet while knocking the ash off into a mug that was lying about.

 “Oh you sod,” Said Duke Twitchywhiskers, “I hadn’t finished with that.”

 “VI don’t vacutally know…” admitted Schumacher, “I have never vactually felt svrongly evough bevore to consider vit. Darts? Ving-Vong? Vin the Vail on Vhe Vonkey?”

 “DEATHRACE, DEATHRACE, DEATHRACE…” Chanted the crowd while eating sunflower seeds and pooing in small trays. Many of them chose to sit in small plastic houses and appear dead until someone poked them and they could bite them.

 “Yes My People… We WILL Deathrace…” said Hamsterlet, looking as severe as anything that looks like a hairy scrotum ever could. Michael grinned to himself, with his l33t driving skills he would ownz the furry bitch… well, he didn’t actually grin, but his expressionless face became slightly more expressionless in a victorious way.

 “WE DEATHRACE AT DAWN!” screamed Hamsterlet as he sheathed his sword before chewing a bog roll for a bit and then spending the next five hours running on a little wheel. Michael spent an uncomfortable night squeezed into the guest room which was connected to the main hall via a complicated series of little tubes in which he got lost for quite a while.

 “3, 2, 1, LET THE DEATHRACE BEGIN!” Screamed Captain Waggletail as he threw down his hamster gauntlet.

 “Now you will pay for murdering my father.” Spat Hamsterlet and, gritting his teeth, he began to move forward.

 “Er… Vust a vecond… Vis veems a vit unvair…” said Michael, “VI can’t veven vet vy voot in the vucker…” He tried to demonstrate that his anonymous size nine German foot wouldn’t go in the little spiked ball, let alone his entire body.

 “These are the ancient war vehicles of our race, YOU WILL HONOUR THEM!” Captain Waggletail jabbed Michael in the arse with a sharp stick until the German reluctantly broke all laws of physics and got inside the armoured ball of death.

 What followed next would be talked about for generations amongst the hamsters on long nights by the campfire…

 As Michael began pawing frantically and rolling forwards he spotted Hamsterlet hurtling towards him. With expert yet utterly dull precision Michael swung the ball to take the corner in the dullest fashion possible. With a roar Hamsterlet stuck, only Michael’s deep inner-vacancy preventing him from actually caring. They clashed again and again, each time harder than the last, until, finally, Michael could no longer control himself and, for the first time in his life, became what the awe-struck hamsters would later refer to in hushed tones as “a bit uppity”.

 “VIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE YOU VASTARD.” Is what Michael would have screamed if he had actually considered the expenditure of energy appropriate to the situation. Instead he almost blinked and tore another strip from his visor, now he was down to the pespex and he meant business. He scrambled at the ball with true precision as Hamlet, his deathball now containing a couple of poos rattling about in it that showed both his rage and hamsterly lack of hygiene, charged. The crowd gasped in awe… biting their fingernails as the two flew across the arena towards each other. The more timid rodents among them closed their eyes to shield themselves from the horror that they knew must come.

 The balls hurtled closer and closer, Hamsterlet and Michael’s eyes locked, they were now approaching two miles an hour and the g-force pushed Hamsterlet’s skin back so that he resembled Liza Minelli... Then Michael got stuck behind the sofa and someone opened the door and knocked Hamsterlet across the room where his ball broke open with a shattering crash and he promptly ran behind a chest of drawers. Six months later someone noticed the smell and realised he hadn’t gone to live on a farm after all.