Disclaimer: I don't own Zim
This Saga is going to be a novel-like story: very detailed and long. It multi-parted and will update periodically with new chapters.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
7 YEARS LATER
Zim lay in his bed, listening to the sounds of the night.
So quiet, he thought, compared to the nights of Irk. No rushing to war, no surprise attack, nothing. Just quiet…
Zim thought of Irk, as he often did at night and in times of stress.
Seven years, he thought, seven years I have been hear without a lifeline. Seven years without the mission. Seven years alone, the only one of my kind on this small blue ball spinning through space. I've adapted, hoping, praying to the gods that they would come. But nothing. No armada, no rescue.
I realize now that I was a joke. They wanted to get rid of me. I was a pest that they ditched on a hopefully fatal mission, but survived by mistake. And when the base blew, all hopes of return erupted with it. I've done them a favor. …I've disappeared.
Zim clenched his hands into fists as the pain came flooding back. So vivid, the pain, when he remembered it on these nights. These quiet, serine, EARTH nights. But he supposed it was better this way. No more living a lie, he thought, this life may not be what my parents had in mind (whoever they were) but at least its real.
Zim sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He leaned his elbows on his knees and sighed, no point trying to sleep.
While thinking, he caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror next to the door. It was just a silhouette, the moonlight casting itself through the window, illuminating the room ever so slightly. But it was enough to enable Zim to evaluate his transformation.
The basics were still there: pasty green complexion, large pink/red eyes; but these features were not visible in the mirror. The one that was, was different. His height had changed dramatically. He now stood just less than six feet at 5'9. When Dib and the other children in his class began to grow, Zim knew he had to get real tall real fast if he was to remain incognito. So he walked into a pharmacy one day and stole several bottles of human growth hormones. He began to take the pills orally, every day until he began to show signs of growth. The first days of the drugs were worse than chemotherapy; the constant vomiting, the headaches, and he missed so much school because of it they were beginning to become suspicious. He used what equipment was left in his backpack to culture his own blood and test for and change. Finally, after several weeks, his symptoms began to improve. His blood began to resemble a homosapien's more and more until finally, he began to grow. The change was so dramatic that Zim feared the other kids in his school might notice, but luckily it was a point in adolescence when every child, it seemed, was going through dramatic growth spurts. No one really noticed.
Zim stood up and turned on the lamp, momentarily shielding his eyes from the relatively bright light compared to the moon. Now he could fully evaluate his appearance. Clad in nothing but a pair of boxers that matched his eyes, he slipped on a black t-shirt and walked into the bathroom.
He flicked on the light and peered into the mirror. Leaning on the heals of his hands, to examined his face with a tired fascination. Something about it made him obsessed. Zim had never been vain when he was his former self, but now it drove him mad. He knew that on Irk, his height coupled with his general appearance would draw a lot of attention from female Irkins', but now he had to hide it behind contacts and false hair. A masterpiece of genetics eternally hidden beneath a mask of survival.
He rapped his fingers on the porcelain counter. He had to get some sleep. It was pointless squandering over something he could not change. And besides, his life wasn't so bad. He had a prosperous high skool career, and a promising future in science (on account that he was the only one in his physics class that knew quantum mechanics). He was sure to get a scholarship and afterwards, land a job in a university – hell – maybe even work for NASA. Ironic, that years after he was sent to destroy a planet he would be trusted with its most delicate military secrets.
Zim dropped his hands of the counter and narrowed his eyes at his reflection.
"Freak," he muttered.
His voice had changed too. To had lost it's piercing edge that had come to him so naturally before. It was now a bit more mediocre and stereotypical of a human teenager. He didn't like THAT very much, but it was a small price for survival. He flicked off the light and walked out.
He plopped back down on the bed, sighed, and switched off the lamp. Resting the crook of his elbow across his eyes he tried to slip into unconsciousness, but felt a slight abrasion against his skin. He lifted his arm to it, and touched it lightly. He bit his lip and closed his eyes when he realized what it was.
It was a scare, right above his brow. The scare he received the day he escaped from his base's lab. He had hit the ground when the escape capsule blasted off, and the skin above his eye had been lacerated. A puckered scare remained where he had been cut. It was small, but a direct reminder of what had been. He had left everything – save GIR – when he was fully settled into his new way of life. Even his backpack, which had been physically attached to him since birth, was left behind and disposed of down an old access pipe back down into the subterranean base, where it would remain forever. He still had scares from where the internal parts of the backpack had dislodged from his spine and ribcage. The backpack, or APUP (all purpose utility pack) had used his body for energy and support. Its probes had been imbedded in his flesh for a long time, and the pain was excruciating when he tried to remove it. He finally did, and was temporarily paralyzed while his nervous system recuperated. His back still hurt if he strained it for lengthy a period of time.
No use reopening old wounds, he thought, get some sleep and forget about this. After a period of tossing and turning, he fell into a dreamless sleep.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
The next morning, he woke in much better spirits. He knew she would be there, and that was worth getting up for. He showered (his humanized metabolism had cured his skin of water-blisters) and dressed hurriedly. He wore his classic pink uniform shirt, a pair of khaki shorts that passed his knees, no gloves, a pair of black ADIDAS with white stripes, and a spiked bracelet around his right wrist. Strapping a watch around his other wrist, he pulled his wig and contacts down from a shelf in the bathroom.
He popped in the contacts and blinked several times before they settled into a comfortable position. Then, pulling his antennas flat against his head he slipped on the wig.
A few months earlier, he had begun to notice the social patterns and trends that swept through the high skool constantly. One thing that he had noticed were the hairstyles of the kids. More and more his 'hair style' stuck out like a sore thumb among the trendy. And despite his own sense of what looked good, he felt he could not risk sticking out, for fear of becoming, as Dib so gently put it: "Just another alien autopsy on FOX."
So Zim had changed it, and it wasn't' so bad. Instead of black and combed back, his hair was now blonde and spiked. The style was common around the skool and Zim never got suspicious glances. He was just another guy in the melting pot of pop-culture.
He squirted gel on his hand, whipped it across the wig and began the rather sloppy work of spiking it. He finished, and washed his hands off. Drying them, he looked at himself in the mirror.
"You poser," he said with a smirk, "But isn't everybody?"
He walked out of the bathroom and lifted his skool backpack off the floor, where it had been leaning against the wall. He headed to the kitchen to get something to-
"HI!" cried a voice, and Zim nearly fell over in surprise. It was GIR, standing on the kitchen table, surrounded by glasses.
"GIR!" yelled Zim, regaining his composure, "What the hell are you doing?"
GIR smiled widely and brought out a spoon out, holding it triumphantly in the air.
"I'm gonna play music!"
He then proceeded tap the glasses with the spoon, oo'ing and ah'ing as they made sound. Zim shook his head and drank some water out of a glass.
"HEY!" cried GIR, "That's G flat!"
Zim had to laugh. He decided he was too excited to eat, so he grabbed his keys and opened the door.
GIR gasped. "Wait!" Zim turned.
"You coming home today?!"
"I have a game today, but I shouldn't very late."
"OK."
Zim was halfway out the door when –
"WAIT!"
"What?!"
GIR jumped up and down. "You gonna drag race now?"
Zim smiled, the little guy caught on fast.
"Yes, GIR. I'll see you later."
"OK!" As Zim walked out to his car, GIR went to the window and waved furiously. ZIM frantically motioned for him to get back inside. Finally comprehending, GIR nodded dramatically and gave a big thumbs up. Zim slapped his forehead and climbed into his car.
OK, he had gone overboard with the car. He had basically grifted and stolen everything he currently owned, with intelligence and a little luck. Everything was moderate and normal for this area and social class – but the car was a bit much. It was a dark red sports car, with all the bells and whistles. When he first realized that he needed a car, he went searching for something practical that would take him to and from school. What he ended up buying was almost the complete opposite.
He did not know what magic humans saw in cars; they were a primitive way of transportation. They ate natural resources and polluted the already dirty atmosphere. But he too, was over taken by their spell. Maybe it was the speed, maybe it was the torque, or maybe it was the sense of power he got every time he was behind the wheel, the adrenaline as he sunk his foot lower and lower to the ground, and the rush he got when he raced down Monroe Avenue through the forest.
He sat, and placed his backpack on the front seat. He pulled up the collar of his 'Nixon High' jacket and turned the key in the ignition. The engine revved and Zim couldn't help but feel a mischievous smile creep across his lips. All the pain, all the torment of last night melted away with the sound of the engine. He pulled it into reverse and backed out.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
About ten minutes later, he arrived. He stopped the car at the top of the hill on Monroe Avenue and just waited. At this time of day and in this part of the forest preserve a passing car was a rarity, so he was in no real danger. As he waited, he looked about the scenery. To his left was dense, green forest. The branches waved in the breeze, and puffy clouds skidded across the azure sky. To his right, through a few scattered trees, lies the coast. The early morning light danced on its surface about a hundred feet down, at the same level as the base of the hill. This hill, they had chosen especially because: a) it was steep, b) the edge of the hill over the water had no guardrail, adding an element of danger, and c) because it was secluded enough to avoid most interference by cops or other cars. Some ways down the road from the base of the hill was a traffic light. It was just far enough to be seen, but resembled a small dot. It would initiate the beginning of the race.
Zim watched the light cast shadows of leaves over the hood of the car, they moved in the wind and were accompanied by the sound of it. All together it was quite relaxing, and Zim probably would have just watched it until skool started if it weren't for the adrenaline pumping through is veins.
Where WAS she?
Was she out sick today? No, she would have called and told him it was off. So then where –
Somewhere close behind him, an engine revved. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw what he had been waiting for. A black, supped-up, monster of a car was behind him, revving shamelessly. Zim revved in reply.
The car pulled up next to him – in the on-coming lane – and stopped. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and looked over at the driver.
There she sat, her right hand on the wheel, sunglasses perched on her nose, purple hair curled behind her pierced right ear.
Gaz, he thought, you're looking eager this morning.
On her face was a look of determination. She rapped her fingers on the wheel, and lowered the Oakley sunglasses down her nose. She turned towards him, made a kissing motion with her lips, then turned back and pushed the glasses back up. Zim laughed as he switched into a higher gear. She was ready.
The car she was driving had been a gift from her father as a sweet sixteen present. Prof. Membrane had gone out of his way to keep his daughter from snapping and stealing a car. He had bought an already AWESOME car, and enhanced in every conceivable was. It was jet black, with chrome hubcaps that resembled several pentagrams stacked. It had spoiler that was swept back, with points resembling devil horns. All of that, coupled with the gills on the side and hood, came together to be one badass car. Zim felt almost honored to race it.
Gaz herself was a seasoned veteran in the art of evasive driving. Her father, with his job requirements, needed a degree of security for his family. In return for working for them, his mysterious employers trained both Dib and Gaz in martial arts and evasive driving. Gaz had taken the training to heart, and was as skilled behind the wheel as a CIA agent. She now placed her other hand on the wheel and revved repeatedly.
Zim knew the time was coming. He gripped the wheel, and stared intently on the light up ahead. His pulse quickened, his mind raced, and he grit his teeth in suspense.
Suddenly the light for the street crossing Monroe turned yellow, then red. Any moment now the light ahead would go green and the two teenage drivers would screech down the hill at break-neck speed.
Zim counted down, as he had timed the light before: Four, three, two –
"ONE!" he and Gaz screamed in unison, although they did not hear each other. They floored the pedals and flew down the hill at over eighty mph.
For an eternity, it seemed, Zim was in the lead. But Gaz caught up and was beginning to break away. The trees sailed past, hardly recognizable as the cars sped on. Both drivers couldn't help but smile wickedly as they barreled along the coast.
Nothing, it seemed, compared to the total high Zim got off racing. He had in the past, gone near the speed of light in the Voot cruiser, but somehow now; between the forest and the coast, on the ground, in a primitive pollution spouting, gas-guzzling vehicle, it was total euphoria. Adrenaline was like a drug, baby, and only a brave few could ever get hooked.
But Gaz, he thought, was worse than him. She insisted on racing down the wrong side of the street, and – contrary to Zim – had no airbags and wore no seatbelt. She wasn't just an adrenaline junkie – she was insane.
Both sets of eyes locked on the road ahead, their peripheral vision unconsciously keeping the other's car in check. They were neck and neck, the invisible finish line rushing towards them at impossible speeds. The cars closed in –
200 yards – 150 yards – 100 – 75 - 50 -!!
It was the home stretch, the final lap the –
"WWWWWWWWWWWWWWHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Sirens blared behind the two racers and approached them, ready to make arrests.
Both cars slammed on the breaks. Zim tensed up in anger, then slammed the heal of his hand into the steering wheel.
"FUCK!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, and began to pull the car over.
Gaz swore also, and followed suit. They were escorted out of their cars, cuffed, and put into the back of a squad car.
This Saga is going to be a novel-like story: very detailed and long. It multi-parted and will update periodically with new chapters.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
7 YEARS LATER
Zim lay in his bed, listening to the sounds of the night.
So quiet, he thought, compared to the nights of Irk. No rushing to war, no surprise attack, nothing. Just quiet…
Zim thought of Irk, as he often did at night and in times of stress.
Seven years, he thought, seven years I have been hear without a lifeline. Seven years without the mission. Seven years alone, the only one of my kind on this small blue ball spinning through space. I've adapted, hoping, praying to the gods that they would come. But nothing. No armada, no rescue.
I realize now that I was a joke. They wanted to get rid of me. I was a pest that they ditched on a hopefully fatal mission, but survived by mistake. And when the base blew, all hopes of return erupted with it. I've done them a favor. …I've disappeared.
Zim clenched his hands into fists as the pain came flooding back. So vivid, the pain, when he remembered it on these nights. These quiet, serine, EARTH nights. But he supposed it was better this way. No more living a lie, he thought, this life may not be what my parents had in mind (whoever they were) but at least its real.
Zim sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He leaned his elbows on his knees and sighed, no point trying to sleep.
While thinking, he caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror next to the door. It was just a silhouette, the moonlight casting itself through the window, illuminating the room ever so slightly. But it was enough to enable Zim to evaluate his transformation.
The basics were still there: pasty green complexion, large pink/red eyes; but these features were not visible in the mirror. The one that was, was different. His height had changed dramatically. He now stood just less than six feet at 5'9. When Dib and the other children in his class began to grow, Zim knew he had to get real tall real fast if he was to remain incognito. So he walked into a pharmacy one day and stole several bottles of human growth hormones. He began to take the pills orally, every day until he began to show signs of growth. The first days of the drugs were worse than chemotherapy; the constant vomiting, the headaches, and he missed so much school because of it they were beginning to become suspicious. He used what equipment was left in his backpack to culture his own blood and test for and change. Finally, after several weeks, his symptoms began to improve. His blood began to resemble a homosapien's more and more until finally, he began to grow. The change was so dramatic that Zim feared the other kids in his school might notice, but luckily it was a point in adolescence when every child, it seemed, was going through dramatic growth spurts. No one really noticed.
Zim stood up and turned on the lamp, momentarily shielding his eyes from the relatively bright light compared to the moon. Now he could fully evaluate his appearance. Clad in nothing but a pair of boxers that matched his eyes, he slipped on a black t-shirt and walked into the bathroom.
He flicked on the light and peered into the mirror. Leaning on the heals of his hands, to examined his face with a tired fascination. Something about it made him obsessed. Zim had never been vain when he was his former self, but now it drove him mad. He knew that on Irk, his height coupled with his general appearance would draw a lot of attention from female Irkins', but now he had to hide it behind contacts and false hair. A masterpiece of genetics eternally hidden beneath a mask of survival.
He rapped his fingers on the porcelain counter. He had to get some sleep. It was pointless squandering over something he could not change. And besides, his life wasn't so bad. He had a prosperous high skool career, and a promising future in science (on account that he was the only one in his physics class that knew quantum mechanics). He was sure to get a scholarship and afterwards, land a job in a university – hell – maybe even work for NASA. Ironic, that years after he was sent to destroy a planet he would be trusted with its most delicate military secrets.
Zim dropped his hands of the counter and narrowed his eyes at his reflection.
"Freak," he muttered.
His voice had changed too. To had lost it's piercing edge that had come to him so naturally before. It was now a bit more mediocre and stereotypical of a human teenager. He didn't like THAT very much, but it was a small price for survival. He flicked off the light and walked out.
He plopped back down on the bed, sighed, and switched off the lamp. Resting the crook of his elbow across his eyes he tried to slip into unconsciousness, but felt a slight abrasion against his skin. He lifted his arm to it, and touched it lightly. He bit his lip and closed his eyes when he realized what it was.
It was a scare, right above his brow. The scare he received the day he escaped from his base's lab. He had hit the ground when the escape capsule blasted off, and the skin above his eye had been lacerated. A puckered scare remained where he had been cut. It was small, but a direct reminder of what had been. He had left everything – save GIR – when he was fully settled into his new way of life. Even his backpack, which had been physically attached to him since birth, was left behind and disposed of down an old access pipe back down into the subterranean base, where it would remain forever. He still had scares from where the internal parts of the backpack had dislodged from his spine and ribcage. The backpack, or APUP (all purpose utility pack) had used his body for energy and support. Its probes had been imbedded in his flesh for a long time, and the pain was excruciating when he tried to remove it. He finally did, and was temporarily paralyzed while his nervous system recuperated. His back still hurt if he strained it for lengthy a period of time.
No use reopening old wounds, he thought, get some sleep and forget about this. After a period of tossing and turning, he fell into a dreamless sleep.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
The next morning, he woke in much better spirits. He knew she would be there, and that was worth getting up for. He showered (his humanized metabolism had cured his skin of water-blisters) and dressed hurriedly. He wore his classic pink uniform shirt, a pair of khaki shorts that passed his knees, no gloves, a pair of black ADIDAS with white stripes, and a spiked bracelet around his right wrist. Strapping a watch around his other wrist, he pulled his wig and contacts down from a shelf in the bathroom.
He popped in the contacts and blinked several times before they settled into a comfortable position. Then, pulling his antennas flat against his head he slipped on the wig.
A few months earlier, he had begun to notice the social patterns and trends that swept through the high skool constantly. One thing that he had noticed were the hairstyles of the kids. More and more his 'hair style' stuck out like a sore thumb among the trendy. And despite his own sense of what looked good, he felt he could not risk sticking out, for fear of becoming, as Dib so gently put it: "Just another alien autopsy on FOX."
So Zim had changed it, and it wasn't' so bad. Instead of black and combed back, his hair was now blonde and spiked. The style was common around the skool and Zim never got suspicious glances. He was just another guy in the melting pot of pop-culture.
He squirted gel on his hand, whipped it across the wig and began the rather sloppy work of spiking it. He finished, and washed his hands off. Drying them, he looked at himself in the mirror.
"You poser," he said with a smirk, "But isn't everybody?"
He walked out of the bathroom and lifted his skool backpack off the floor, where it had been leaning against the wall. He headed to the kitchen to get something to-
"HI!" cried a voice, and Zim nearly fell over in surprise. It was GIR, standing on the kitchen table, surrounded by glasses.
"GIR!" yelled Zim, regaining his composure, "What the hell are you doing?"
GIR smiled widely and brought out a spoon out, holding it triumphantly in the air.
"I'm gonna play music!"
He then proceeded tap the glasses with the spoon, oo'ing and ah'ing as they made sound. Zim shook his head and drank some water out of a glass.
"HEY!" cried GIR, "That's G flat!"
Zim had to laugh. He decided he was too excited to eat, so he grabbed his keys and opened the door.
GIR gasped. "Wait!" Zim turned.
"You coming home today?!"
"I have a game today, but I shouldn't very late."
"OK."
Zim was halfway out the door when –
"WAIT!"
"What?!"
GIR jumped up and down. "You gonna drag race now?"
Zim smiled, the little guy caught on fast.
"Yes, GIR. I'll see you later."
"OK!" As Zim walked out to his car, GIR went to the window and waved furiously. ZIM frantically motioned for him to get back inside. Finally comprehending, GIR nodded dramatically and gave a big thumbs up. Zim slapped his forehead and climbed into his car.
OK, he had gone overboard with the car. He had basically grifted and stolen everything he currently owned, with intelligence and a little luck. Everything was moderate and normal for this area and social class – but the car was a bit much. It was a dark red sports car, with all the bells and whistles. When he first realized that he needed a car, he went searching for something practical that would take him to and from school. What he ended up buying was almost the complete opposite.
He did not know what magic humans saw in cars; they were a primitive way of transportation. They ate natural resources and polluted the already dirty atmosphere. But he too, was over taken by their spell. Maybe it was the speed, maybe it was the torque, or maybe it was the sense of power he got every time he was behind the wheel, the adrenaline as he sunk his foot lower and lower to the ground, and the rush he got when he raced down Monroe Avenue through the forest.
He sat, and placed his backpack on the front seat. He pulled up the collar of his 'Nixon High' jacket and turned the key in the ignition. The engine revved and Zim couldn't help but feel a mischievous smile creep across his lips. All the pain, all the torment of last night melted away with the sound of the engine. He pulled it into reverse and backed out.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
About ten minutes later, he arrived. He stopped the car at the top of the hill on Monroe Avenue and just waited. At this time of day and in this part of the forest preserve a passing car was a rarity, so he was in no real danger. As he waited, he looked about the scenery. To his left was dense, green forest. The branches waved in the breeze, and puffy clouds skidded across the azure sky. To his right, through a few scattered trees, lies the coast. The early morning light danced on its surface about a hundred feet down, at the same level as the base of the hill. This hill, they had chosen especially because: a) it was steep, b) the edge of the hill over the water had no guardrail, adding an element of danger, and c) because it was secluded enough to avoid most interference by cops or other cars. Some ways down the road from the base of the hill was a traffic light. It was just far enough to be seen, but resembled a small dot. It would initiate the beginning of the race.
Zim watched the light cast shadows of leaves over the hood of the car, they moved in the wind and were accompanied by the sound of it. All together it was quite relaxing, and Zim probably would have just watched it until skool started if it weren't for the adrenaline pumping through is veins.
Where WAS she?
Was she out sick today? No, she would have called and told him it was off. So then where –
Somewhere close behind him, an engine revved. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw what he had been waiting for. A black, supped-up, monster of a car was behind him, revving shamelessly. Zim revved in reply.
The car pulled up next to him – in the on-coming lane – and stopped. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and looked over at the driver.
There she sat, her right hand on the wheel, sunglasses perched on her nose, purple hair curled behind her pierced right ear.
Gaz, he thought, you're looking eager this morning.
On her face was a look of determination. She rapped her fingers on the wheel, and lowered the Oakley sunglasses down her nose. She turned towards him, made a kissing motion with her lips, then turned back and pushed the glasses back up. Zim laughed as he switched into a higher gear. She was ready.
The car she was driving had been a gift from her father as a sweet sixteen present. Prof. Membrane had gone out of his way to keep his daughter from snapping and stealing a car. He had bought an already AWESOME car, and enhanced in every conceivable was. It was jet black, with chrome hubcaps that resembled several pentagrams stacked. It had spoiler that was swept back, with points resembling devil horns. All of that, coupled with the gills on the side and hood, came together to be one badass car. Zim felt almost honored to race it.
Gaz herself was a seasoned veteran in the art of evasive driving. Her father, with his job requirements, needed a degree of security for his family. In return for working for them, his mysterious employers trained both Dib and Gaz in martial arts and evasive driving. Gaz had taken the training to heart, and was as skilled behind the wheel as a CIA agent. She now placed her other hand on the wheel and revved repeatedly.
Zim knew the time was coming. He gripped the wheel, and stared intently on the light up ahead. His pulse quickened, his mind raced, and he grit his teeth in suspense.
Suddenly the light for the street crossing Monroe turned yellow, then red. Any moment now the light ahead would go green and the two teenage drivers would screech down the hill at break-neck speed.
Zim counted down, as he had timed the light before: Four, three, two –
"ONE!" he and Gaz screamed in unison, although they did not hear each other. They floored the pedals and flew down the hill at over eighty mph.
For an eternity, it seemed, Zim was in the lead. But Gaz caught up and was beginning to break away. The trees sailed past, hardly recognizable as the cars sped on. Both drivers couldn't help but smile wickedly as they barreled along the coast.
Nothing, it seemed, compared to the total high Zim got off racing. He had in the past, gone near the speed of light in the Voot cruiser, but somehow now; between the forest and the coast, on the ground, in a primitive pollution spouting, gas-guzzling vehicle, it was total euphoria. Adrenaline was like a drug, baby, and only a brave few could ever get hooked.
But Gaz, he thought, was worse than him. She insisted on racing down the wrong side of the street, and – contrary to Zim – had no airbags and wore no seatbelt. She wasn't just an adrenaline junkie – she was insane.
Both sets of eyes locked on the road ahead, their peripheral vision unconsciously keeping the other's car in check. They were neck and neck, the invisible finish line rushing towards them at impossible speeds. The cars closed in –
200 yards – 150 yards – 100 – 75 - 50 -!!
It was the home stretch, the final lap the –
"WWWWWWWWWWWWWWHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Sirens blared behind the two racers and approached them, ready to make arrests.
Both cars slammed on the breaks. Zim tensed up in anger, then slammed the heal of his hand into the steering wheel.
"FUCK!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, and began to pull the car over.
Gaz swore also, and followed suit. They were escorted out of their cars, cuffed, and put into the back of a squad car.