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Rubens wasn't entirely sure how this situation had come about. Well, he'd certainly had an idea, but there were bits missing. The Stig - whom he'd certainly heard of before, but whose reputation and mythos had mostly escaped him - hadn't taken well to defeat. When Rubens had climbed out of the Liana, satisfied with his efforts, the Stig had been stood there by the wire fence, arms tightly crossed, looking right at him. It was impossible to see any sort of expression past that dark visor, but the feelings were loud and clear. Slightly unnerved, Rubens had been thankful that the Stig's legend did not seem to include laser beam-shooting eyes or fire breath. There wouldn't have been much left of him otherwise.
In hindsight, with that unfriendly experience still fairly fresh in his mind, perhaps it had been unwise for Rubens to go looking for the Stig's room after shooting to commiserate, to shake hands. Perhaps it had been unwise to approach the Stig, stood with its arms ever crossed and its head bowed in the corner of that bare, white room - bare but for an offensive-looking cave painting done in what appeared to be engine oil on one wall and a dozen or so mouse carcasses beneath it. In hindsight, Rubens might well have not done any of these things at all. Perhaps top of the list of things he probably shouldn't have done was jovially reach up towards the Stig's visor as though to lift it.
"Come on, I'm faster than you, the least you can do is show me who you are!" Yes, that was what he had said. In his defence, he had mostly been joking.
The Stig had not reacted well to this, either. Rubens' hand had gotten a couple of inches away from that helmet when the Stig seized his wrist in the blink of an eye, gripping it tightly, making sure it did not come a fraction closer. Rubens blinked, that unnerved feeling unfurling in his stomach again. He offered a nervous, lop-sided smile, hoping to look disarming.
The Stig growled. It sounded not unlike the gentle rev of a waking V10.
The next few minutes had been a rather worrying blur, punctuated by some kind of struggle, the sound of ripping fabric and, curiously, the taste of watercress. When Rubens's brain and eyes caught up, he saw that the Stig was glaring up at him.
Glaring up at him. From where it was stood on the floor.
This seemed to be another part of the Stig's mythology he had apparently missed. A rather important part, he surmised from his new vantage point on the ceiling, shirt and trousers mysteriously shredded, limbs spread-eagled and held firmly in place by an alarming number of sinuous, muscular, very inquisitive appendages, stretching up from the Stig's back.
Perhaps this was a small price to pay for beating the Stig. Perhaps this was some sort of reward, even.
As the Stig tilted its head and a number of these appendages rather insistently began to tug and tear at the remnants of his trousers, Rubens, still caught up in the throes of victory, couldn't help but think that, on his visit to the Top Gear track, Jenson probably hadn't become familiar with these naughty tentacles...