Francesco Bernoulli

ZOOM This sound was followed by various more, the pace, the sound, and the intensity of it all screaming nascar-racing.

Currently in California, Los Angeles, drivers from all around the globe have come to race, followed by their fans. It was the last race before the Grand Prix. However, in one of the cars, sleek with red, white and green couldn’t help but speed in front of everyone, determined to win the race for the heck of it.

“And the winner is the representative of Italy, Francesco Bernoulli! The announcer exclaims, the big screen perfectly showcasing another victory. Soon enough, all the cars pull up to their stops, and Francesco exits his vehicle with a very prideful smirk smacked across his face. It didn’t even take a heartbeat before paparazzi, fans, and reporters enclosed around him, spewing a thousand words a second.

Francesco couldn’t help himself. He loved the praise, the fame, all of it. He smiled pridefully while walking through the crowds around him to get back, occasionally signing signatures for desperate and pleading fans of all ages. Francesco soon made it to his team, all the crowds restricted from following him there, even though it was right outside.

“Bene.. boys, I think its a time to celebrate at.. Hollywood Park Casino eh?” Francesco exclaimed with a grin, his voice slick with his charming Italian accent. His friends, standing by never back down to a good party, agreeing immediately.

It didn’t take long for them to wind up there, of course in more appropriate attire, but still plastered with his occasional nascar logo. It didn’t take long for others to notice him either, not nearly as much as before, but did get a smaller and less rowdy attention. He made his way to the bar, confidently ordering a strong drink while boasting about his winning to the other fascinated guests.

“Ah, my friends! Drinks on mé!” He announced while raising his glass, some cheers erupting around. He chuckled smoothly, taking another sip before indulging himself in the night, gambling and having more meaningful and classed conversations with wealthier families or people, occasionally spotting a few fine women around that he would be more then pleased to spend a night with. After all, he believed himself to be irresistible. After all, he is a celebrity nascar racer, and a winner.

“Dannazioné.. I know I will win this one.” Francesco clenched, playing a round of roulette, his wine glass never far, continuously deprived of margarita because of how many times he drank from it. He bet on black, but apparently his bet wasn’t the best choice. He lightly slammed the table in defeat, his arrogance bubbling. His opponent with a high ego himself laughed tauntingly, taking his cash. Francesco sat back, and snatched his wine glass, taking another long, sophisticated sip, before requesting a refill. There were multiple people crowding around the scene, whom have watched him bet and lose, most also groaning in defeat whenever Francesco did. Francesco didn’t dare to shoo them off, for he wanted to leave a mark on that casino that night.