A song came on. It's melody serenely resonating from the trunk of a large SUV.
Meandering through the crowd, Eric casually made his way toward the street. Rumors were heard-- prowling as coolly over the assemblage as he. This was typical. Everywhere Eric traveled, hearsay erupted; never failing to prove that his demeanor intrigued people. A solitary racer is a curious thing when faced. Racing demands a social presence, for many a reason---trust--information--ranking, etc. Eric, however? He dismissed every known characteristic of the racing norm. He stuck to himself, repaired his own bike, and rebuked most advances by women. Hot or not. This of course would spark interest, be it deleterious or fruitful.
Eric Masters only desired the thrill of racing. It enraptured him to the end of addiction. And each time he pulled the throttle, a bit of his hunger would be sated.
The bass line drummed forth, creating an incensed atmosphere; raising spirits, and produced a rocking motion by most in the crowd.
To some, the glacial stuff of steel could be glimpsed in Eric's eyes. Intelligence leaked from them, and as he gazed, they seemed to digest all. Something peculiar lured people in; fascinating them enough to draw more consideration. On this night, those cold azure orbs narrowed upon a covered motorcycle. As he neared it's frame, Eric pulled on his helmet.
?A yo, you think you hot shit, man?? a young, probably twenty year old male yelled from the opposite side of the machine. He was black, lean, and looked the part of an average racer, angular features, fierce eyes, and long hair. ?Well I'm gonna show you what's good when I hit one-twenty on that ass!? Eric's lips coiled into a devilish grin, raising at one side--- precariously conceding his arrogance.
?Once you finally get to one hundred and twenty, I'll already be at the finish line. Patiently waiting for you to pass me your money,? a composed yet slightly hostile voice rebutted. Eric gripped the leather cloaking his bike and leisurely unveiled an Obsidian YZF-R65.
The beat suddenly dropped. Seconds seemed to drown the guy in found a new regard for this stranger. This was the first time he saw Eric's monster. Creeping into all ears, the music burst into effect-- bombarding they're senses with the feeling of standing next to seven foot tall speakers.
Sliding onto it's seat, Eric engaged the throttle-- gently pulling it back. The Obsidian's inner mechanics toiled; guzzling gasoline to manifest a meretricious blast of noise.
The crowd went wild.
?Go get 'em Sean!? a female shouted from the crowd. Sean nodded and silently straddled his Kawasaki (a formidable machine if driven correctly), and revved it. The young lady yanked free from the people and dashed between the motorcycles. She wore casual clothing, tight jeans, tube top, and one of those fashionable waist jackets. She was beautiful, but Eric would not remember her for that. He would retain her image because of her connection to his opponent.
?1......2......?
A rapper's smooth vocals materialized on the beat, fathering a collective reaction from the crowd: crunk. They repeated the lyrics and rocked to the beat.
?3!?
Eric became a missile. Shockingly, Sean was able to stick it out, being neck 'n neck with Eric. The stranger was impressed.
Streetlights became puddles of dull light, guiding the two on a winding trek. As they gained speed the world appeared brand-new... The pools of light became streams of rays, never ending, yet never beginning. Bombarding the racers; wind became a forcefulness to honor. It battered them in every direction. It threatened to tear they're helmets away.
Sean looked onto the speedometer. ?100,? the digital contraption read. For a brief moment, he peeked at Eric to see him peeling off into the distance.
?What the hell?? his thoughts questioned; piecing together the words in Sean's confusion. ?He must be going a hundred and sixty plus!?
Sean hit one hundred twenty two, three seconds later.
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?Where's my money, Sean??
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