George is the son to parents that own a multi-million dollar eco friendly car company. Cars have never been George's favorite subject. He knows which are the most expensive on the market because of his father but he's never understood the hype.
Aft...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
So hit the floor. My mans on go HIT THE FLOOR Dirtyxan
Asphalt screeched with vigor on the right sway of heavy steel. Hands gripped white ramming the steering wheel left. Each small dud of his tyre alerted that his car drifted successfully over the median, that's when the yelling came.
Red and orange flames pissed him off right upside of his rear. Kissing his mirror-bright and bragging, the other car taunted purposely. Gunning and slowing. Gassing and swerving. Gurgles of gasoline accompanied the monster while it shoved its nose into his opponent's lane skidding off the invisible tracks at the last possible second. It was risky enough to frustrate but not life-threatening. Reckless, psychotic, insane, but never deadly. At least not anymore. Cars break, and so do people, so the rules changed.
Dead in the night, the race had started. The am hours speeding by with LEDs and spirits. Roaring with burnout engines and tight gear shifts, he'd been smart enough not to pop his wheels before the fallen flag.
The hood rumbled when he shifted gears, with just enough brake he lifted off the clutch and released the gas. Green metal tracked up lighting strikes when he passed the opponent in a complete diagonal drift. Two can play the reckless game. The movement went quick but slow enough for the driver to throw a profane hand gesture at his opponent through the windshield.
Both wheels kissed asphalt with a searing groan before he clutched and steered straight into the open road. His voice echoed off the empty passenger seat, victorious and high pitched. It smelled like diesel and satisfactory through his mask. Adrenaline pumped through every vein with fervent intent. And with one last hard break, he halted ostentatiously for the group waiting at the finish line. In the cloud of exhaust and burnt rubber, the driver reeled in his latest victory.
His opponent wasn't far behind. The heftier car skid right up next to his own. Fire licked the crowd back while it fought for breath snuffing out a moment later.
George couldn't decide on what shook him from his unconscious state, the roar of agitated engines or the buzz of a tattoo gun. Either way, his eyes were wide while he tried mercilessly to remember where he was.
"Woah there!" A warm voice halted his need to escape. "Just take a moment buddy. You went through a lot."
George swung his legs off the apparent tattoo table he was laid on and met the tattoo guy's eyes. He was holding equipment in both hands seaming to have just finished a design. Across from him, he raised his brows as if to challenge him to diss obey. His hand laid flat against a desk and George counted three tattoos there. The one on his writs snaked up under his long-sleeve shirt.
George only realized, once fully aware, that the man wore a gas-mask. Two large circles covered the bottom of his face. He appeared to have a lot of hold over anyone who questioned him, ominous in a way, but the guy's voice was calming enough to contradict all of it.
