"Wut?" asked the Corvette driver.
Averie raised his voice. "You mad?"
"Did I kiss your girl, skinhead?"
"Bugger off, you twat!"
"She’s not your girl, man. She won’t look at you if you were a mirror."
For some reason, both of their accents were getting ridiculously thick.
The Corvette driver stepped out of his car and marched towards Averie’s Supra.
"You want a scrap, yeah?"
Averie retrieved his head, rolled down his window, and locked the doors.
"I got a race to win, girls to entertain. Can’t be fighting a bum."
The man banged on Averie’s window, cursing with a voice similar to that of a woman in labor.
"Ready?" the flagger uttered, prompting the enraged driver to rush back to his seat.
She sent Averie a wink, and he salaciously stuck out his tongue.
He turned to the camera. "I don’t know which of the girls he had his eye on—maybe it’s the start girl—but losing his head before a race was a bad decision."
"You pissed him off, though."
"Oh, of course, I did. It’s the most fun thing to do before a match in any sport. A bit of banter killed nobody."
"You can drop off the accent, now."
"Fine," he sighed, like a deflated balloon.
The start girl waved her arms.
"Everyone in position?"
Dozens of headlights turned on, followed by the sound of revving motors.
The crew in the Supra buckled down and squeezed the grab handles.
The flagger raised her arms.
Averie squeezed the wheel with his right hand, his feet firmly pressed on the accelerator and the clutch.
His other hand, sweating on the engaged emergency brake, was quivering in elated anticipation.
He eased the pressure on the clutch.
The girl turned on the flashlights and lowered her arms.
The emergency brake disengaged, and the Supra—like a bullet—took off.
It accelerated with frightening speed, rushing past drunk crowds waving in the wind.
Averie shifted the gears quickly.
’There’s no way this torque is natural,’ he thought. ’This car is definitely tuned.’
A big smile was plastered on his face.
Old memories, lying dormant inside of him, had awoken. The fun of racing was rekindled. He couldn’t remember it well, but he had done this before.
Many, many times. In his previous life.
The scenery passing by, at an increasingly blurry speed, suddenly seemed so detailed and so clear.
The green of the leaves flapping in the dusty wind blown past his car.
The curvature of the road at the boundary of his sight.
The dozen or more fast cars taking off from their brackets and chasing after him.
The things in the front and the things in the back—he could see it all thanks to sweet, sweet adrenaline.
This is why he gambled; this is why he acted.
"How many are there?" Averie asked, his eyes trained on the road like a hawk.
"Cars?" the cameraman uttered, clinging to his seat. "Seventeen."
The dance music was booming in his ears, and it seemed louder than it was before they took off.
"Oh dear God," he muttered.
’Why did I accept such a dangerous task?’ he asked himself.
"May—" He swallowed his saliva. "May I open the window?’
"Don’t you dare," Averie snapped, his eyes ferocious. "It will increase the drag."
"Does it even matter?"
"At these speeds, it does."
The poor man cowered down.
Averie’s rejuvenated face was already scary enough, but even his fellow crew members in the back were glaring at him.
’Don’t engage with him,’ one of them was relaying with his eyes.
’Why are you disturbing him?’ the other seemed to say. ’Do you want him to crash and take us with him?’
Averie looked into the side-view mirror.
One of the cars was quickly gaining on him. It was a black Bugatti.
The diabolical actor flicked the wheel and swerved to the right, blocking his follower from overtaking.
He had to step on the brakes to stop them from crashing, increasing Averie’s lead.
"This is why street races are so wonderful," he muttered, forgetting he was being filmed for a mockumentary. "So many different and incompatible cars get to compete together."
’When there are barely any rules, what’s fair and what’s unfair?’
In front of him was a corner fast approaching. He kept to the left lane before turning the wheel to the right and cutting a clean line.
It was smooth, but he hadn’t lowered the speed. The stress, as they saw death fast approaching, was enough to send the passengers into a state of acceptance.
But before they could crash, Averie pressed on the brake and turned the wheel sharply.
The car drifted at an unholy angle, leaving rubber marks across the concrete.
"You have the nicer car, but I have the more potent lunacy."
The turn safely completed, he released the brake, and the car—like a hibernating bear—woke up from its brief slumber.
The Supra sped off as its passengers exhaled through puckered lips.
Their acceptance of death had quickly melted away.
’I am alive! I am alive! I am alive!’
’Long live the Quinn! Life is great! Can return home to get pegged tonight!’
Averie shifted the gear and looked into the mirror.
The Buggati that had been closely following them was nowhere in sight.
"It hasn’t rounded the corner yet, but on a straight road, we will lose."
While maintaining the speed, he tapped on his phone.
"You are breaking so many laws," the cameraman whispered.
"Me?" Averie grinned. "We are breaking laws."
He pulled up the course of the race.
"Industrial areas, downtown, a motorway, and a castle?"
He blinked his eyes and even rubbed them, giving the passengers a mighty scare.
"Is this right?" He turned to the cameraman. "Are we seriously racing at a castle?"
"Isn’t this practically an open invitation for the police to chase after us?"
"Good man, please! Please, keep your eyes forward! My heart can’t take it anymore!"
Averie shook his head and stepped on the accelerator.
"What a drama queen."