Page 158 of Vile Bastards
Game on, dipshit. I increase my speed slowly, getting the feel of the track—it’s perfectly paved, free of potholes or cracks—and really as an added precaution. Who knows if I did any damage to the Pantera when I hit the ground?
Whatever it was, it doesn’t seem to have much of an effect on the car’s performance.
I catch the tail-end of a Porsche up ahead, riding the deep curve of the track like it was designed to fit there. This is somebody who knows what he’s doing. I decide to follow along behind him, even though he’s the third car from the front. I have a sense that this is the one I need to beat today.
The guy takes the next curve so quickly that his wheels lift up off the track on one side, leaving him on just two until he slams down on the turn, and I get close enough to kiss his ass. Were I so inclined, I mean.
He shifts his weight rear out of the next corner and then rockets off the exit. Guy is just begging for a snap-oversteer condition. There’s a reason those old Porsches were known as widow-makers. Actually, they haven’t fully shed that title even now, but the model this bro is driving? The instability and unpredictably of the 930 isn’t something I would choose.
It’s a ’75, I think, which wouldn’t qualify for Prescott; my ’72 Pantera is as new as they come.
But this isn’t Prescott.
These guys are wealthy beyond reason; they can have whatever cars they want.
Even if they don’t know how to drive them.
I decide the Porsche is an accident waiting to happen and make the decision to pass him before he kills us both. Unlike a Prescott brat, he doesn’t try to drive me off the road. Also, there’s no mud to account for. There are no potholes. No falling tree branches. No bros playing chicken.
It’s almost too easy.
I lap the Porsche, but I’ve still got two cars in front of me. Besides that, I’m a whole lap behind. The flaggers are signaling for us to stop the race; I’m sure the boys I’m up against also have in-car flagging systems installed. It’s a luxury that we wouldn’t dare dream of back at Prescott.
But also?
Rich boys like these don’t like to lose.
The speed of the frontmost two cars picks up as I gain on them. The first I pass easily enough, but the other? It’s a Ford GT40, and it’s a beast. The car itself is legendary, but the driver? Eh. Prescott is the world leader in vintage car racing; that’s just a fact.
Besides, I’ve got Ash’s hot cum between my thighs, Widow’s crude ring on my finger, Bohnes ethereal whisper ever-present in my ear, and Alexei’s reputation riding on this race.
I can’t lose; the stakes are too high.
I might not walk away with an official title, but I can certainly prove a point.
The Devil roars as I push her to her limits, cutting to the inside of the track and using sheer brute stupid to get the other driver to move over. He knows what’ll happen if we sideswipe each other at such high speeds, and he isn’t willing to take the risk.
Me, on the other hand?
As Bohnes would say, I’m nuts.
I shoot right past the guy, overtaking his car easily enough, and then parking my ass right in front of him. Rather than hit my rear bumper, he eases off the gas and slows enough that I’m able to gain some headway.
We whip around the next curve, far too close together for comfort, but at least I know by now that I’m the craziest person here. It’s not even a competition. Shit, it’s barely fun at all. I’ve been forged in the fires of Prescott, and there’s nothing that can stop me.
Well, nothing except bureaucracy and bullshit. What’s new?
I ignore the flaggers; I ignore the stopped vehicles; I whip around the wrecks that I caused.
I don’t stop even when I should, but neither does the Porsche, the Ford, or this wicked blue and red Ferrari. These are the guys I’m going to have to face-off against if I’m ever allowed to compete again. Chances are, I may have just crossed my name off the Portland Classic Car Circuit list for good.
Hell, I might be blacklisted from the entire industry now.
The odd and yet hopefully endearing thing about Scarlett Motherfucking Force is this: I will do almost anything to prove a point.
I push myself and the Devil even harder, confident that I’ve now got a pretty good idea of the track’s irregular layout. Give me a few more loops, and I’d know it better than I know my own mother’s face. My brain is just built for high-speed.
I’m able to make up for that first lost lap by whipping the Devil into submission, cradling that hot piece of metal beneath my thighs and riding her into the ground. Bastian is going to kill me after this. But he’ll be happy, too, because he’ll know that his work on the Pantera is the only reason I’m a true tour de force. At best, I’m a mediocre mechanic.
