[attr="class","ren"]I'M A SPEED KING, YOU GOTTA HEAR ME SING

It was a classic; dark, sleek, nothing flashy, a real hot-rod in a sea of overpriced, suped-up, lowered, hydrauliced, and otherwise overtuned hunks of paint and steel. His fingers sat aloft the ever so slightly cracked leather of the wheel, they danced across it with a certain love, a certain delicacy that spoke to his joy for the craft. That sun-bleached burgandy upholstery bore the pair well, it sapped away the tension of what was to come. While a neon glow bathed all within -- this was his paradise, the moment before the race, or so he might have you think. . .

"Hogan, my man. . ." Wheezed the similarly leather clad thug behind the controls. "We ain't settling fer third place again this time. Ya got that?" With his window rolled down, Salvatore exhalled the last of his unfiltered smoke, flicking the bud into stormy night, just before sealing the cabin back up. His own beady orbs made contact with the burning reds of the goliath abaft, both sharing a deep flame. Hogan merely nodded, allowing no change to come to his stoic face, simply crossing both trunk-like arms and gazing above to the sunroof.

"Fuck it. . ." He shot out under the duress of heavy rain slamming against them with a metallic pang. All at once it was drowned out by the cold, spine-tingling, cacophony of combustion. In near unison, every last ride spattered to life, they didn't need some voice calling out to them, countdowns were for the audience, true racers felt it coming miles away.



". . . Second place ain't worth a shit either."  He grit those whites of his, a firm fist to the clutch.



Sal didn't budge an inch, those wild eyes focusing hard as they could on the finish line far-far ahead. So much so, that he'd only half realize a sudden intrusion. . . "Way back, over the shoulder." He replied thoughtlessly. Another second passes by, and another. Only then, in that moment, did the leather-clad roadster creak his head by way of the tiny girl aside, he was no different than a Stantler in the headlights, dumbfounded.

"Eh. . ?"



Salvatore snaps to, bleating, "The hell're you?! Get yer girly ass ou--"

"You might want to drive." The girl said, buckling herself in.



The punk stammered, "Shit!" He belted out as fourteen other muscle cars burned rubber, leaving them well and truly in the dust, even if for just a moment. Sal shifted, slamming that steel-toed boot on the gas, sending the trio flying down those slick steel-mill roads in a screaming metal death trap.

He could barely find another second to pass a glance her way, setting his sights on the countless lights ahead of them, "Ya don't belong here kid!" The man wheezed out of those coarse lungs, "Get out. Yer fuckin' up my style." He added without waiting for a response, knowing full well as they barreled across the path of countless railway tracks, if he had any intention of winning this race, they couldn't stop now.

Wipers worked double-time to clear the rain, no easy drivin' was gonna get them ahead of even the next place, "Road's too thin. . !" He spat. "Aagh, this is gonna be yer fault kid." Sal kicked that machine of his into high gear, steering slightly off onto the rough and meagre cemented paths hoping to gain ground on the truck beyond them. Only then, in the vehicles bed, a tarp blew off, an immense azure turtle there stood, arms crossed and heavy cannons set their way, with a malicious smirk upon its face. . .

[attr="class","ren"]I'M A SPEED KING, YOU GOTTA HEAR ME SING

'Keep drivin'? The hell this chick thinks she is?' Salvatore couldn't help but pout, his eyes barely falling on the threat ahead, refocusing on her, distracted by Chryssa's utter absurdity, somehow eclipsing the absurdity of the lifted truck just beside them as he put the pedal to the metal. He snapped that angular head of his her way in an instant as water rushed into the hot-rod.

"Yer ruinin' the fuckin-"

KRAK~OOOOM!

That shut him up.

Whether it was the blast itself, or the diminutive package that delivered it, none could say. Sal wheeled tight around the smoldering, spewn wreckage, weaving between the cinders and truck viscera, just trying to get back into a groove back onto the road. 'Neath another catwalk above the racers fly mechanical patter filling their ears, the thrill of the race their hearts. 'Just keep driving. . .' The punk mutters again, 'Like I got a fuckin' choice.'

Another hard shift and the old-fashioned roadster drifts back into place, "Salvatore Alfonso Moretti. . ." He lets out a wheeze from that smoker's lung, thumbing toward the hulk behind them whom raises a hand in kind, "Ya already met Hogan."  As the man speaks, he kicks the hell outta that engine, overtaking the next car up, a little thing bathed in neon and lowered about their dick's length off the ground. Over the intermittent cracks of light in the sky, you could make it out, easily. Red and blue flashes, clear as day to any of the demons amid the race, Salvatore ain't gettin' their asses caught this time, 'Not with this kid here. . .' He mused silently.

"The hell's yer problem Chrys?" He burst out, those beady eyes again affixed to the road ahead, wild and dancing between the pair of sports-cars just ahead of them.  Imagining all the possibilities, all the bullshit they'd no doubt pull, oh, how Sal missed the old days of the road, before everyone and their mothers started shoving their little monsters into it. "You lookin' to die or something?" He continued speeding on ahead, looking to slink right in between the pair just in-front of them.

Countless parked freight cars upon a number of disparate rail tracks lay ahead, maneuvering's gonna be tight, and speeds slower still, the most brutal moments were only just to come. Yet Sal's head seemed cool, aloof maybe, the fire in his gut was focused far beyond, to someone long ahead of them.