Victor’s Prize

11Jan12

Before he was killed by the Southies, my brother, Tony, was the greatest racer in The City. He knew every street back and forth, every corner, every speed trap and every undercover car at a distance. He drove by sound and feel. Shifting, throttling, and breaking from the vibrations that rumbled through his racer, The Machine.

The Machine. A dark green muscle car with all the trimming. Raised back end, scooped wheel-wells on the front for greater turning radius, air intake on the hood for the engine, and a ballast system in the trunk that let Tony shift the weight of the car as he cornered. Tony saw the car at a trade show. Saved for two years to pick it up aftermarket. A burned out jalopy then. Rusted and damaged from a garage fire. Took him another year of wages and sweat to shape it, to refine it like a sculptor at a block of marble.

Beck Stevens leaned against The Machine and sneered down his stub of a nose at me. “You challenging me? Here? On my own turf?” I nodded in the quiet dark of 124th Avenue under that streetlight that buzzed and blinked like a mad hornet. “Your dumber than you look kid. Nobody can beat me on these streets. Not even that deadstiff brother of yours.” My hand instinctively curled into a fist at the mention of Tony, but I kept my gaze firm.

“Yeah, Beck. I’m calling you out. Two laps around. Winner takes all.”

Beck laughed, coldly. His boys echoing his sick taunt a moment later and thumping at the roofs of their cars. In total there were eight members of the Southies. And there was just me. My car wasn’t spectacular, a beat up derby car I lifted from a junkyard and tuned just enough to get it running. I called it The Creep. Took me six months of practice to work up the nerve. To perfect my technique. To come out here and challenge Beck and get Tony’s car back.

Beck slapped a hard fist against the side of The Machine. “Alright, alright. You want a race Pratt? I’ll give you a race. We do three laps. Up around Deckard, over to Lee’s, and under the Nolan.

I slid over the lumpy hood of The Creep and fired the ignition from outside the car. “You’re on, Beck.”

We lined up under the 124th street light. Standard rules, race started when the light blinked three times. Up and around through Deckard, a street known for its posh luxuries and ample police presence, over to Lee’s where a stray bullet could end your race and your life, and under the Nolan Tunnel, which took you by the pier where DeBrano’s ghost is supposed to haunt the wharf. A tricky route and one that made Beck’s boys stand solemnly at the sides of the road with looks of fear and unease.

The streetlight buzzed and blinked until it blinked three times fast. And it was on. The tires of The Creep squealed and left a plume of smoke wafting behind as I pushed the machine beyond the redline. It sputtered and rattled and backfired like a cannon. The Southies’ fear turned to laughter and Beck and The Machine gained an instant lead.

We raced through the dark streets of The City. A dystopian nightmare made of concrete and steel. Shadows and lights fought for purchase around every corner and the buildings wept stained tears of dirty runoff. The Machine was as mean as ever, even without Tony at the helm she tore through the streets whipping around corners and firing through straightaways like a devil born of The City itself.

There was no way I could catch it. Even with a hack like Beck at the wheel there was no way. But that wasn’t the point. Beck was a cocky son of a bitch. He had been playing like he was a big shot with the Southies since before he killed Tony. But he was a small guppy in a pond filled with sharks.

We shot through Deckard and hit the straightaway to Lee’s. Ten miles of road you couldn’t squeeze through walking during the day but at night it was a tunnel of darkness pitched between the stone guardians of skyscrapers. I hit the nitrous switch and heard The Creep cry for mercy. Nitrous was illegal under the code of street racing. Dangerous and unpredictable. But this wasn’t an honor race. This was about revenge.

I pulled up alongside The Machine and saw Beck sneering and yelling at me. I shot in front of him and pulled The Creep into a sideways. Beck slowed to a stop and hopped out. “What were you thinking? Huh? Little shit Pratt. You thought you could pull something like that and still walk away?”

I sat on the hood of The Creep with my hands tucked under my legs. “No. I figured you would be too stupid and greedy and full of your self to resist gloating. That you would quit the moment you thought you had won and tell the world about it. And that you wouldn’t know where you were when you did it.”

Beck stopped walking forward and looked around. He had picked the route, he had chosen to go by Lee’s to frighten me. But he had more to fear from the place. So much more. He was shot six times before he hit the ground. I dragged the body over into The Creep and turned the nitrous tank back on. I nodded into the darkness.

I loaded into The Machine and drove away. I didn’t so much as glance at the mirror when the explosion took Beck and The Creep to Hell.

Filed under: 100 Ways to Get the Hell Outta Town   |  Leave a Comment
Tags: 124th Avenue, Bernard 'Beck' Stevens, Deckard Boulevard, Jacob Pratt, Lee's Turnpike, Nolan Tunnel, The Creep, The Machine, Tony Pratt