Ultra-race 73000: Mega emotion edition 2500

“Hot damn, Johnny, we got ourselves a race here!” He hawked out the squawk box.
VRRROOOOOMM!!!! The car thundered around the corner like a lady-beast in heat and an engorged man-beast raging behind her looking for love on the savage plains. The vehicle was just begging the aluminium frame to give up and let go like a divorce lawyer showing compromising photos to a client’s wealthy husband. Yet it said no like a stern mama to a whiny child.

“Goddamnit, Rick, I’m right in the middle of it. STOP HAWKIN’ THE OBVIOUS AT ME AND TELL ME SOEMTHIN’ I DONT KNOW!” It came out wet and sticky as spit and sweat mixed in his helmet and poured down his chin like some kind of salty waterfall.

“That bastard Manoosh is on yer six, lookin like he’s ready to mount that hot tail o’ yers.”

CRRRRAAAMMMMM—VRRRAAMAMAMAM!!!! He throttled down, sent his revs into the stratosphere and hung his ass out swinging round the tight curve like a burlesque dancer headlining Naughtyfest. Dust blew up off the road like someone had put too much gas on the bbq and lit it up.

“Kee-rhist, Rip! That tanned greaser knows my tailpipe is exit only!”

“Well then get ‘im offa there!”

Johnny put the hammer down harder than mighty, mighty Thor, the car shot forward like a coked up thoroughbred that’d been bit by a tick.

“Jeez, Rip, ain’t you the sharpest lightbulb in the fish tank. What the hell you think I’m doin’? Piddlin’ Dixie?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I caught y’all out back o’ the shed.”

ZRRRROOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!! The racer slammed down to the road, piling gravity on it like a squad of leatherheads at some cow college making a goal line stand.

“Sweet mama Jean, Rip, my hearts strokin faster than a teen boy in the bathroom with Uncle Jim’s Hustler.”

“Y’all gotta calm down, Johnny, or yer libel to bust loose like a sack of nails on Uncl Jim’s waterbed!”

RRAAAMAMAMMAMMAMAMMAMARAMAMAMAM!!! The engine screamed blood murder like it had just found Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the candlestick. It forced Johnny to grip the wheel like it was a wang at a eunuch convention.

“I know I gotta calm down, damnit, sing me that song then—”

VRRROOOOOOOMM! GRRRRRRROOOOOWWWLLLL!

Race l’il racer, do you racer best, race l’il racer, race the racing rest. Chase your l’il drrrreeeeeaaaamms! Don’t you worry, l’il racer, don’t you even fret, cause you’re a l’il racer, racing better than the rest. You’re racing to the moooooooonnnn! Race l’il racer, don’t you worry. Don’t worry your racing heart. Don’t worry l’il racer, race you racing heart out. Your tears are gasoline, your heart is the engine, your spirit is the turboooooooooo! And don’t stop raaaacccccccinnng! L’il racer, l’il racer, l’il racer.

Johnny felt a tear tickle his cheek like the wings of a butterfly on a baby’s bottom. He bore down like a diamond bit in an oil well in the land of the wildcatters. Before him, the checkered flag waved like a million wives and mothers watching the ship with their soldier boys slip slowly back into port after years of war.

“I love you, Rip,” he whispered as he crossed the finish line like an English teacher crosses a tee. Sweetly.

Race l’il racer. Race. Race. Race.

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