McQueen took a sip of his martini, careful not to spill it on his new stickers. After a messy breakup with Sally, he'd decided to do what all cars do in this situation: permanently alter his body. There was one on his bumper that said I LIKE MY WOMEN HOW I LIKE MY GUNS: FIFTY YEARS OLD AND RUSTY. The newest one on his hood read: THE COMMIES WON'T STOP ME FROM BEING RED. He sighed and looked out over Carberator Canyon. This used to be his and Sally's favorite date spot. That all changed when she cheated on him with Mater and held McQueen at gunpoint until he licked the dirt off her wheels. Then he was kicked out of the house holding nothing but his AR-15. He shot the door before he left.
Sighing again, McQueen drained his cup and pushed it to the side. He wasn't at a restaurant. He just found a cracked Party City martini glass on the side of the road and had a makeshift drink made of his own sweat, and a substitute olive on a toothpick fashioned from a pigeon-he-shot's sharpest bone and brain. He left some cash on the table and rolled out, carrying nothing but his gun and a broken heart.
When he reached the route 66 sign, he sighed yet again, shoving the gun into his trunk. That sign held years worth of memories, and his eyes filled with tears. "Life is a highway," he whispered, tears trickling down to his tires.
Looking away, he fired up his engine and sped away.

LA had changed from the last time McQueen visited. It was bigger, bustling, and there were an insane amount of homeless cars. One came up to him, rattling a rusty can. "Please, I lost my job, and my kids are dead."
McQueen ate the can, reveling in the bitter, metallic taste. He pulled out his gun and shot the car, effectively scaring all the other homeless cars back into their tents. Rolling his eyes, McQueen put the gun back up his trunk and continued on to his destination.
McQueen reached the Piston Cup headquarters and went inside to find Chick Hicks no doubt sleazing up the executive he was talking to. Knowing that he'd have to end up talking to him eventually, as they were being offered the same position, McQueen wheeled over to the two, and they both turned around to acknowledge him. The second Chick Hicks, one time Piston Cup winner and host of Chick's Picks, turned around, McQueen felt his entire brain chemistry alter itself. Chick had matured significantly over the years, his mustache larger than it once was. He was still green, but had lost all of the sponsorship stickers that cluttered his exterior before. His tires were fresh, black, and smooth. His exhaust pipe was bigger than McQueen remembered, and so shiny.
McQueen felt himself melting. Chick was a paragon, he was beautiful, he was… "Mine," McQueen whispered.

Seated in the executive's office, McQueen was very aware of Chick's presence next to him. The green car kept his eyes forward. He hadn't said a word to McQueen, surprisingly, as the last time they saw each other he'd been hurling insults left and right.
The executive, Mr. Tornado or something like that (McQueen was too busy looking at Chick's glowing bumper to pay attention) was sitting behind a desk, talking about the new position they would be sharing. A year ago, McQueen would have balked at working directly alongside Chick, but now he was grateful. McQueen wasn't putting this off as a casual hookup. He and Chick were going to be in for the long run, soulmates, in fact. This car was too beautiful not to be destined to be with McQueen.
Now Mr. Tornado was going into detail about the job: Piston Cup race commentators. They would be paid handsomely, and be provided with living accommodations in LA. It sounded like a pretty sweet gig to McQueen, plus he'd be working with Chick, smelling his musky gasoline cologne and maybe getting to stick his tongue in the green car's mouth. Looking sideways at Chick, McQueen saw his eyes dart to the side. He'd been staring at McQueen. The red car smirked. If McQueen knew anything, he knew that in about twenty minutes, when the meeting was over, he'd have Chick up against the wall, begging for him.

McQueen licked the inside of Chick's mouth, reveling in the taste. "Do you like that?"
Chick closed his eyes. "Yes."

Exiting the empty conference room, McQueen made sure no one was in the hallway before beckoning Chick from the inside. "All clear."
Chick rolled out sheepishly, eyes focused on McQueen. "Are we sure we want to do this?"
"Of course," McQueen said intensely.
"It's just…if we're caught by the conference room cameras we'll lose our jobs."
McQueen lifted his eyebrows. "Kinky."
Chick smirked. "Imagine those corporate suits watching us make out in the conference room where the president of the Grand Prix was sworn in."
McQueen lifted his eyebrows. "Kinky."
Chick blushed and looked away. McQueen lifted his chin with his premium LuigiGuido exclusive tire. "Hey," he whispered. "It's you and me, slut."
The green car nodded. "Okay."
Tire in tire, the two cars unashamedly left the building.