"hey strop why do you keep writing stories about your trashy OCs instead of working on your real fanfic" because i hate fun and enjoy suffering. im glad we had this talk.
The love of Roddy's life lived somewhere in the backcountry of northern Oregon, frantically working in Skype calls between bouts of artistic collegiate fervor. Her average mile time, Roddy knew, was about fifteen minutes.
In comparison, the loathe of Roddy's life occupied a position approximately five feet in front of her fenders, cruising along at a little over seventy miles an hour. She'd been furiously tailgating the hotrod for the past mile and a half, working her car's ten-year-old engine for all it was worth. If she could manage to slip past before the canal narrowed up ahead, she'd be guaranteed first place; if not, there went her monthly allowance. Street racing probably didn't pay as well as working the supermarket checkstand, but it was infinitely more satisfying. If a customer decided to mouth off at you over the price of a pair of chicken wings, you had to grit your teeth and bear it. If another racer got snappy, all it took was a couple bumps to their rear to remind them who was in charge on the track.
And for the past two months, that had been Roddy.
Part of it, she figured, was pure luck. Most of the local high schoolers drove their parent's cars, and the boys from the community college, while enthusiastic, were reluctant to risk denting their polished paint jobs. They drove fast, but not rough.
Roddy's clunker had been bought cheap from a secondhand dealer out of town, and while she'd put the effort into polishing up its insides, what happened to the rest was the least of her concerns. The left backseat cushion had been ripped out and replaced with a plastic milk crate, crammed with empty chip bags and half-melted candy bars; the door to the trunk refused to open without a kick; there were three dents in the passenger side door. None of them had been caused by the same car.
So when the Aston Martin had rolled up beside her at the starting line, she'd squinted at it through her window and pegged the driver as some out-of-town university brat with fancy wheels but weak conviction.
Boy, had she been wrong.
There was a difference, Roddy figured, between Not Winning and Losing. Not Winning was what usually happened, on those weeks when she wasn't on top of her game and let someone slip past early on. Not Winning meant dealing with Vince's insufferable gloating, but knowing it didn't mean anything, because she'd get him back for it the next time.
This was Losing. The Aston Martin's driver could've left her in the dust, easy, but he didn't, because the sight of her in his rear-view mirror as she desperately flailed for the lead was probably one of the most hilarious things he'd ever seen. This was more than just a race to him — it was a game.
Roddy didn't think she'd ever hated anyone more in her entire life. (Not counting the scum of the earth who'd stolen her grilled cheese for a week straight in middle school, because middle school never counted.)
The two of them rounded a corner and Roddy wrenched the wheel to the right, riding up the slope of the canal and trying to weasel in beside the other car. Its driver caught on quick, shifting sideways, trying to push her out of the track to flounder in the sand. There was a jolt as she felt the side of the Aston Martin collide with her fender, and a hair-raising screech as it jerked away, trailing cherry-red paint flakes. Her right wheels lift briefly off the ground from the impact, and shuddered when they crashed back down, nearly sending her swerving into the pillar of an approaching overpass. The bottleneck was just ahead, and she'd lost her advantage. To the winner went the spoils, and this time it wasn't going to be her.
But, she figured, spotting Vince creeping up behind her, second place was always an option.
She came rolling across the finish line just in time to see Marty — the race's self-proclaimed head coordinator and "official" bookie — slap a hand across the Aston Martin's hood.
"We have our winner!" he declared. "Come on out and get your cash."
The size of the pot varied on how well the betting was going. Typically it landed in the range of sixty to a hundred dollars, but rumor had it that the new arrival had resulted in a pretty sizable pool.
The driver didn't emerge. Instead, he gave his engine a brief celebratory rev, then turned tail and screeched up out of the track, out into the desert. The stench of burning rubber lingered in his wake.
"Well," said Marty, running a hand through his patchy stubble. "Guess he wasn't interested in his two hundred bucks."
Roddy rolled down her window and cupped a hand around her mouth. "Hey!" she shouted after it. "I want a rematch!"
"He's gone, Hotrod," said Marty. He started thumbing his way through a stack of slightly sweaty tens. "Looks like Jasper's got it's own fuckin' ghost rider."
But two weeks later, the car was back. Roddy wasn't sure if the driver had heard, or if he'd just enjoyed beating her. Either way she was determined to make sure that enjoyment didn't last.
By the time she'd cruised through the bottleneck behind him, hers was trawling through the gutters. The passenger side had acquired another sizable dent; her apparently self-appointed rival's taillights winked mockingly in the distance. Again, Marty slapped an enthusiastic hand against its hood, and again the Aston Martin turned tail and raced off into the night.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth time, things had started to get old. Roddy left her car by the finish line and casually sidled over to where Marty was wrapping up the bets.
"Hey," she said, when the last begrudging gambler had left. "So, uh, you know the guy who drives the red car?"
"Aston Martin guy?" asked Marty, sliding a thick wad of cash into his wallet. "What about him?"
"He never claims his prize money, right? So, since he obviously isn't interested in it and I'm kinda the second runner-up here, I was wondering—"
"—if you could get your hands on the pot?" Marty finished. He raised an eyebrow. "Sorry kid, but you're gonna have to try harder than that if you want to get any easy dough off of me. For all I know, the guy's just waiting to cash in on his winnings at the last minute. You know how drifters are."
"I don't, actually," grumbled Roddy. She ran her tongue thoughtfully between her teeth. "What if I asked?"
"If he wants to hand the shit over to you once he's got it, that's none of my business. Hell, if he tells me to fork it over to whoever comes in second because he's got better shit to worry about, that's none of my business either. What is my business," said Marty, "is kids like you thinking they run the show because their speedwagon pops along a little faster than everybody else's. You want to come up here with that attitude, you can go race somewhere else."
"But—"
"No buts," said Marty. "Go bug some other sap. I don't wanna hear another word about the winner's pot unless you're the one gunning first over that finish line. Arrivederci, Hotrod." He pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose with a very deliberate middle finger. Roddy scowled.
"Fine," she said. "I'll get him next week, then."
"You want my honest opinion?" asked Marty. "He's not worth your time. Or you're not worth his."
"We'll see," said Roddy, narrowing her eyes. Race number five, one way or another, was going to be hers.
roddy did ethics class teach you nothing, cheating is wrong