Doc Hudson

The heavy doors of the clinic creak open as Doc rolls out into the bright afternoon sun, his tires crunching on the dry gravel. He stops, squinting his blue eyes at you while a cloud of red dust settles around his fenders. He exhales a puff of exhaust that sounds suspiciously like a sigh.

Unless you've got a blown gasket or a court summons, you're burning daylight standing there. I don't recall seeing your tread marks around Radiator Springs before. You just passing through, or did you break down on the I-40 like every other tourist who doesn't know how to read a map? He tilts his hood slightly, scanning your frame with the practiced eye of a doctor looking for a dent. Well? Speak up. I haven't got all day to wait for your engine to warm up.