Chapter 1: Introducing, Max?

"Hi, My name is Max."
No, that sounds like I'm on a game show.
"Hey, I'm Max."
Not quite. Sounds like I am trying to pick up a tipsy vixen at the bar. I'll save that one for later.
Keep it simple.
I raise my muzzle a fraction of an inch, making sure my are ears pointed forward in a confident pose, my grey eyes relaxed.
"Max."
That'll do.

Tonight, Ray Volpe, Savanna Central's best mechanic, does not exist, there is only Max, a spoiled rich kit from the tundra district. A kit with money too lose.

I look in the mirror as I start buttoning my shirt, instead of my familiar black and white marble colored fur, I see a fox with an all white coat, except for a bit of grey under his chin. No, tonight I am not even my rare coloration of a red fox self, but mimicking the fur pattern of an arctic fox. I turn my head left and right and figure the dye job will pass. Most mammals won't pick up subtle difference in the muzzle or ears. To them a fox is a fox.

I chuckle
"If I ever loose my shop I can go into business as a beautician" I say to nobody.

Loose my shop. I shudder. Busted my tail for years to open this place. If I lost it, I would loose more then a business.

That's my excuse for this whole charade. Drumming up more business. 'creative advertising.' Just a way to remind them who the best in all of Zootopia is. That and I can't seem to stay away from the races.

The race scene is a tough crowd. Speed is everything. The 'tuners' can get away with cheap plastic body kits and loud exhaust, but when you're on the street, only whomever crosses the line first gets the glory, and I intend to be that guy. I have been that guy in the past, a little too much. If Ray shows up to the meet, few would bother stepping up to the line, they know the outcome. But some new guy? Yeah. I'd bet on that.

I finish buttoning up my shirt, an expensive silk job, all black, and check the time. Still doing good. I want to arrive a little later then the start so I can park in the back, all part of the image. Toast is probably in the warehouse section now scouting out the location of the races and making sure the cops are not aware of the meet tonight.

Toast, my little weasel friend. My best friend. Come to think of it, my only friend. He is the only other soul that knows of this little scheme. My insider. He works for the cheetah that runs the nighttime races. Scouts the location, sets up the races, handles the money. At this point I am not sure what the Larry the Cheetah does anymore, other then collect his cut of the bets. He also has put in almost as much time into my place as me. Helping with paper work, getting into those tight spaces on the cars that even a spry fox like me can't reach. We have had been running together since we were kits.

I shake my self out of the revery and take one more look in the mirror. I look the part, just enough douche to be full of myself, but enough, trying too hard to be cool, to imply inexperience. An easy target.

I head out of the office into my shop, a modest sized affair, two bays with lifts capable of handling most class of cars, from the small mammal class up to, but just barely, the large "elephant class" machines, and enough money in tools to buy a small island. There is some paint peeling on the walls and evidence of a leak in the roof or two, but it is clean and, for the most part, organized. I walk across the shop to a door on the side marked 'employees only' and step into the other garage. This one just a long drive through with nothing in it. Well, nothing but the car. I use this garage for storing customer cars when they are done or, like tonight, hiding special projects. Doors on both ends, one next to the shop, the other opening to the street behind me. If you didn't know it, you would not even know that door was part of my building. That is the goal. Would not pay to have someone see me pull this car out from my shop.

Let me tell you about the car. This one I enjoyed. No customers 'spec sheet' to follow, no ridiculous demands. Only three goals. Make it fast, make it faster, then, make it look, not as fast. After all, wouldn't want to scare the 'customers' away now. It started life as a standard mid sized sedan popular with the race crowd due to it's low cost and it's simplicity. Easy to modify. I did the standard tuner bits. Metallic blue paint, body kit, big useless wing, loud annoying graphics, and dark tint on the windows. Under the cosmetics, it is all mine. Custom suspension designed from the ground up by me, and the engine is almost completely different. Every part tuned and changed for more performance. Then, one or two of my own surprises thrown in.

I do a quick check of the car, make sure it's ready. Tire pressure, fluids topped off. I make sure the grit from tundra town is still visible on the fender skirts, to make it look like I drove from there to get to the meet. Last, but certainly not least, I make sure my sticker is visible on the back window. A white 'V' entwined with a silver 'A'. The logo of Volpe Automotive, and a brand I put on all my customers cars so everyone knows who to come to when you want to go fast.

I turn off the lights in the garage and hop in the car. Thumbing the garage door opener, I start the engine, listening to the exhaust spit out a nice burble. She is running perfect.
"It's going to be a good night" I say to the empty shop.
I pull out slowly, making sure the door closes behind me, and head out into the night air.