Gas Guzzlers Extreme < PLUS ✭ >

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.

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. Gas Guzzlers Extreme

"Come on, you ugly bastard," I muttered, feathering the gas. Back in the garage, the air smelled of

"I"Bone-Crusher almost took my bumper off. What do we have in the back?" He walked over to a heavy wooden crate

I dropped the clutch and my tires screamed, biting into the hot pavement. Instantly, the track turned into a warzone. A car to my left exploded as it ran over a mine dropped by the leader. A hail of machine-gun fire pinged off my armored windshield.

"Welcome, gearheads, to the Dust Bowl Knockout! Last man driving takes the cash!" The lights counted down. Red. Yellow. Green.

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.