Chapter 4
Of course, like any gear head, I just had to tinker with the truck some more to see how much more I could get out of the motor. I must have been at it for about a good two to three hours after I got back to my garage. I drug myself into my humble abode where I somehow managed to collapse onto my bed. The only problem was I woke up at the hoop crack of noon with my feet barely dangling my boots over the right side of my bed while my head and arm loomed over the right side. After about a good hour of working out the kinks in my neck and appendages, I was able to zombie my way to the recliner.
I decided to lower my I.Q. a few levels by turning on the flat screen. I flipped through the channels, sure enough, ump-teen thousand channels and not a damn thing to watch. I did happen upon a commercial for Ground Level though. The blonde, the brunette, and the redhead with the T's and A's that were sculpted in all the right places and tight enough you could bounce a quarter off them. Just seeing that made me to buy the parts they were rubbing themselves all over, whether it was for my ride or not. After my tongue dragging moment, I recycled the shot through my head on what they were selling. Complete nitrous systems, turbocharger set-ups, engine modification kits of all types, racing suspensions, off-road suspensions, and auto body kits. Now any genuine speed shop is going to have this, that's what they do. The most attention-grabbing factor was in the fact that they were selling these parts below what you would normally see them priced at. Who knows, maybe his stock is so good or business in general is so good they can afford to.
I lounged around the house the rest of the day like a total squatter. Around sundown, I decided to go ahead and see if there was any new blood out on the strip to inflate my ego on. As I threw on some racing stud duds and proceeded to head towards the door, something told me to grab the secure long coat. I didn't feel like arguing with my instincts tonight so I put it on as well. Once again I hopped into the vehicle and boldly made my way out into my element as it were.
Traffic was about the same as the night before. I cruised up and down the way a few times but nothing caught my attention. I pulled up into the muffler shop lot and admired the passing scenery. I parked myself on the hood to which a got a few cat calls from some passing hotties and not so hotties. The night was peaceful as the chant of rumbling exhaust seems to set a tranquil harmony in the midst of the concrete jungle.
My entrancement was broken by the mass sound of high pitched whines screaming down thoroughfare. I watched as a stream of bikes snaked their way through the modes of transportation. I witnessed the bikes herding around the flashier rides and follow like dogs chasing the mailman. As my eyes perceived the rabid little ankle biter nibbling on a tire mark on the riders backs, both my mind and the hairs on the back of my neck told something bad was brewing.
At that moment I watched a one of the gangers drew an S.M.G and began to rain bullets down on car in front of him. The sleek, champagne colored, Chrysler Menace, was hit in the hoop end except for the fact that instead of seeing bullet holes and shattered gas, there was nothing but a large amount of pink paint splats covering it. The driver of the Menace obviously panicked as he jumped the curbed and proceeded to introduce the front end of his ride to the trid-phone pole. After a tick or two of gawking, I determined the best course of action was the take my happy hoop somewhere other than here. I made a break for the inside of the truck, opened the ports on the nitrous tanks for good measure, jacked myself into the car, and shot for the side road leading behind the lot.
The side street made an immediate "T", so I hung a sharp left. Rounding the corner, I panned out my six o'clock view to see three independent headlights turning onto the service road behind me. Drek! Thought I ducked out in time; this is going to be a long night. I nailed the accelerator as the S curve up ahead came into full view. A Right-Left-Right configuration. I swung out left and lined up my angle into the turn. I pushed myself through the first turn and backed off the throttle, using momentum to glide into the second. I came out of the second curve wide right, went back on the gas to push me over to the left side. The rear tire lost traction for a brief moment, so I pressed the gas little more putting myself into a drifting slide, setting myself a little left of the center of the straight away which also ended in a "T". My pursuers, as far as I could tell, where all on Auroras or derivatives there of, due to the fact, they leaned through the curves resembling poetry in motion. I disengaged the anti-lock function on the brakes, locked up the wheels, threw the wheel into an immediate hard right, then an immediate double intense left, causing a skid, as the bed flung itself out left. Again, I laid the hammer down on the pedal and hauled hoop down 46th street, the main route of this small industrial area. My impending assailants were doing there best Jonathan Winger impressions behind me. Two of them nearly laid down in their lean around the corner, though they slowed down in doing so, the other ramped off the side drive and launched himself over the small parking lot; he stuck the landing onto the street and was now ahead of his compatriots. Any other time I'd have dropped my jaw seeing such a maneuver, but realizing my hoop-hole was slotted in at a pucker factor of ten, I didn't feel so inclined.
I needed to get out of this enclosed area and onto a more open terrain. The Post Office was coming up, thus meaning I wasn't too far from the expressway. Coasting down, I put myself into another controlled skid, this time the opposite direction. I bumped the tires into the outside lane curb as I came out of the corner. Luckily I didn't bust the sidewalls. The new lead bike was right on my tail but was forced to back down to take the turn. Before I could react, I heard the thump as I ran up on the railroad tracks. I misjudged the incline which instigated a premature departure from the ground. I know my meat probably went into a momentary weightless status, however, the abrupt landing resolved that. I felt the frame pancake on the pavement as a cascade of sparks shot out behind me. The gangers punched through the bombardment without skipping a beat. The impact slowed me down enough to shove over to starboard enough to go into the right hand turn onto the one-way street complimentary to the expressway.
I went wide open throttle, nudged the steering to the left, continuing on the on-ramp, as I blazed a trial east on the arterial highway. All three goons followed suit. Now I know my billy-bad-hoop truck is greased lightning, but it can't defy the laws of physics. I know those crotch rockets were easily going to over take me and in next to no time will be on me like stink on drek.
I looked at the speedometer to see that I was pushing 190 plus. The thugs were less than a meter from my rear bumper. I switched on the pressure regulator of my nitrous ports and kicked in the Nos. Not only was I trying to get a boost, I figured the after affects might make them fall back or shake them off. The roar from the engine rivaled that of Lofwyr's or the late Dunkelzahn's. The dual tailpipes spewed forth twin silvery blue, cylindrical flames uninterrupted and reaching nearly one to two meters in length. Two of the stalkers got contact burns by the flames as they veered to either side and continued riding at my flanks. The third caught the full blow of the flare, lit up like a candle, then the bike fish tailed and exploded into a rolling frag grenade.
The nitrous flowed like wine into the screaming engine. I was now pushing 260 plus. The tachometer was furiously rising to red line. Engine over speed, transmission over heat, engine over load, all the warnings, bells, and whistles were going off in my head. I zoomed in on the remaining chasers and barely made out through the heavy turbulence and snow, the one at my 7 o'clock was drawing a gun. I figured it wasn't loaded with paintballs. His wingman at my 4, whipped out something long and sectional letting it flap in the wind. The two bikes quickly moved along my sides up to my 11 and 1 o'clock. The one on the left unleashed a hail of bullets into the front end of me and the one on the right heaved the segmented black line out in front of me. OH DREK! A FRAGGING SPIKE STRIP! I had no time to react as I felt the concussion of the punctures as the strip raked through all four tires. I began to swerve all over the four lanes of shimmering blacktop. I feverously pumped the brakes and counter steered as I began to feel my left side push its way to centerline. The rubber compound melted and ripped away from the rims due to the sideward momentum as my weight started to shift forward. I was not going to roll, I'd be dead otherwise. In a last ditch attempt, I went pedal to the metal, threw the wheel all the way left which pushed the weight back over to the right as I ran up the incline of the underside of the over pass. Then it was darkness, up close.