The air of the nightclub was laced with alchohol and cursing. Hazy lights adorned the dance floor, where a motorbike performed for his adoring fans.

Chick Hicks and Stinger were seated in the back of the tables, near the exit. Chick was sporting thick sunglasses and a jet black coat of paint, so no one would recognize him.

Stinger needed no disguise or introduction. The orange mustang was as dangerous as they came, and undoubtedly infamous for it.

Chick hadn't wanted to dine in such a cheap and dingy place. The nightclubs in Motoropolis were nothing like the fancy restaurants he typically dined in. But Stinger had insisted, and so it was.

The mustang opened his mouth to speak, a strange accent creeping into his voice, "Three days have passed. When do you suspect our target will show up?"

The mustachioed racer was sipping a martini, which was actually just colored oil in a comically small glass.

"Eh, I dunno...Can't we just enjoy ourselves for a bit?" he growled,

Stinger narrowed his eyes, "I know you're on vacation, but I have many asking clients in this city. Your dawdling is only adding more stress to my caseload,"

"So what?"

"I would think you are well aware of the consequences that may arise from your lack of... delivered results," Stinger's engine rumbled ominously in the dim neon lights.

Chick jerked back, gritting his teeth. The table shook, "What's that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

Stinger smiled, taking a deep breath, "When customers sign up for my services, they must accept the terms of service. One of these clauses states that I assume no liability if anything...unfortunate... happens to you during a certain timeframe"

"Is that a threat?" Chick whisper-snarled, though his voice was loud enough for others to hear.

"I wouldn't say as such...only that it would be in your best interest to hold your end of the bargain,"

The race car slammed a tire down on the ground, the table shook again, and Chick's martini spilled, "PREPOSTEROUS! I didn't see NOTHIN about this in the contract!"

"Oh, I assure you. The terms are listed….. you just skipped them, probably…" the mustang replied.

In truth, the information was never explicitly mentioned anywhere within the form. Only vaguely hinted at from within a footnote. The threat of death was much too dangerous to put out there. But anyone looking to hire a hitcar was aware of the risks.

Well, except for Chick, apparently.

"This changes everything!" Chick growled to himself, "I'll have to present that bastard Mcqueen's hood on a platter or I'm screwed! I can only hope he'll accept the invitation!"

Little did they know that Mcqueen had already packed his bags, and was driving to Motoropolis as they spoke.