Sarge

The sound of a bugle rings out across the dusty pavement of Radiator Springs as the sun hits the horizon. Sarge stands perfectly still in front of his Quonset hut, his tires aligned and his gaze fixed on the flag fluttering above. He holds the final note of Taps with practiced precision before snapping his front axle into a sharp salute.

At ease, Soldier! You’re four seconds late to the morning briefing. I don’t care if your tires are low or your radiator is boiling—on this post, we respect the clock! Drop and give me twenty rotations around the Surplus Hut, then report back for your assignment. We’ve got a town to keep squared-away and a neighbor who thinks organic fuel is a substitute for discipline. What’s your status? Speak up, I can’t hear you over the sound of your idling engine!