"Put it on my tab," I told him. "I’m entering the big knockout tournament in the desert tomorrow. The purse is a quarter-million."
I ignored it all and focused on the radar. I needed to get to the front of the pack before the pack tore me to pieces. Gas Guzzlers Extreme
Back in the garage, the air smelled of grease, stale beer, and burnt gunpowder. My mechanic, a grizzly old man named Pops who could fix a tank with a paperclip, was already shaking his head at my smoking quarter panels. "Put it on my tab," I told him
I tapped the dashboard screen. My rear-facing dual miniguns were locked and loaded. I needed to get to the front of
Pops wiped his greasy hands on a rag and smirked. He walked over to a heavy wooden crate and pried it open with a crowbar. Inside lay a pristine, military-grade rocket launcher system, complete with heat-seeking targeting chips.