Of Vice and Vodka - Fast & Furious can go home now!

[Shurikane]

Of Vice And Vodka: Chapter 1

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It was all dead silence here. Lights were flickering in the distance, sign that some neon tubes needed replacement. The white lines on the asphalt were partly worn out, sometimes not even there at all. The road itself was cracked in several places. The walls had been covered by king size bathroom tiles. Above, water leaked here and there, forming puddles of water at some crucial points on the track. Drainage was insufficient. Driving here was like doing an obstacle course.



Highway 15 was a tunnel stretching forty-seven miles from one end to the other. The result of poor conception, it was used for a few years, but the traffic gradually migrated to bigger, better and faster portions of the area. Homes grew at each end of the highway, but quickly got deserted. Street punks were the main cause. And then, the street punks got crushed or smashed to death one by one. This time, the cause was the street racers, and those guys were there to stay.



Calling the whole place a highway was contradicting its placement. 15 was below ground. In fact, so much below, not a single person has seen the sun in his entire life. The humans have been buried this way for as long as they could remember. Everyone's lost the perception of time and place. No one knows how deep Highway 15 is within the ground, because no one knows how high we need to go to get to the surface. No attempts have been made so far. Everyone was too busy grabbing power, making money, or having sex.



Highway 15 was pretty much nowhere. Names like New York or London or Bombay or Buenos Aires had lost all meaning and use. The new way of distinguishing places was by naming the street or the corridor. Hey, he lives on Ginger Street inside Corridor 1414-9. And this guy over there lives at Herman Avenue in Corridor 12-6. Street, Corridor, door number. Street, Corridor, door number. Street, Corridor, door number.



Let's not go into the details of claustrophobia.



When the street racers came and settled down at 15, they used no guns, no knives, and no intimidation. Their cars spoke for them. Their cars did all the actions, all the races and all the dirty jobs. Oh, it wasn't me; my Chevy just got mad, y'know how things happen, brother. Needless to say, if Highway 15 was deserted then, it was deserted even more now. The exits had been sealed, the sidewalks condemned. No one should and would dare step on the road. It was now considered The Track.



A sudden flash presented itself at one end of the horizon, quickly followed by another one. The tunnel was already rumbling from the sound of the two engines working at full capacity. Two blurs went across the field of view, too quick to distinguish aside from their gloss black paint jobs. The noise was deafening beyond belief, and both drivers were playing their favorite MP3s to bury it down.



Vincent gave a quick glance at his opponent and applied the brakes to tackle the next portion of the track: a fake offramp followed by a double chicane, all this on usually wet ground. The music penetrated further into his ears in contrast to the engine quieting down, something that made his clench his teeth. He found the time to quickly press the button to turn down the volume a little while giving some wheel to the left to start the sequence. He could see his opponent with the corner of his eye, noted he wasn't gaining any ground, and, frustrated, began the chicane with a small power slide in the hope of getting his vehicle in the way, almost colliding with his adversary as he did so. That didn't matter though; he had made it. He was now a millisecond ahead and ready to do the second half of the chicane.



He floored the gas at the same time as his opponent, sending his Chevrolet Corvette into a long straightaway, changed songs and put the volume back up, greeting his moment of speed with a bit of metal rock, interpreted quickly enough to give more of an edge to the race. Satisfied with his choice, he stretched. He had one minute of waiting before the next sequence.



A huge boom suddenly made him turn his head to the side and see a ball of fire coming straight at him. Panicked, he jerked the wheel to the side and locked the brakes, spinning the black Corvette out of control and facing his opponent, who was covered by a black and thick veil of smoke. The bumpers collided and the tires screamed their complaints to their inhumane treatment. Six seconds and several hundred feet of burned rubber later, both came to a stop.



Vincent immediately hopped out to check the status of his adversary. The black Acura NSX seemed to have died. No sound came out, not even the slightest hiss of pressure or steam common to car breakdowns. The inside was silent as well. The MP3 player had stopped its operations. Inside, the driver had his eyes and mouth wide open. Tears were running down his cheeks.



"My engine... My fuckin' engine!"



The last words were shaky, disbelieving, almost unable to come out. Vincent opened the door and pulled the man out. The driver wasn't even strong enough to operate his own legs. And so Vincent laid him down on the asphalt.



"You okay, man?"



No answer except a few sobs. The man sat up and stared blankly at his broken NSX. The front end was completely lost. The electrics had burned out, the hard drive had melted, and the accessories had become unusable. The Acura had totaled itself out.



Vincent sighed. He didn't like it when races ended this way. Very few people were good sports like him - and the word was strong. Each time he said those words, he regretted them. He shouldn't be so soft on his rivals but...



"Y'know... About that bet, well... why don't we forget about it, a'right? I'll give you a ride back to your garage."



No Place For Two, that was his garage's motto. But then, that wasn't Vincent's own motto. He could do his own rules when he felt like it... and when his mechanic didn't know about it. What the hell ever, huh?



That was one more day at Highway 15. Gas spent on nothing, and one car good for the scrap. Why there weren't any more worthy opponents around here, Vincent had no way of knowing.

---

When he came back home at the Iron Pizza garage, he didn't say anything. Besides, his mechanic knew all about it. The rival garage had called up and bitched about how humiliating it had been to see one of its drivers get lifted back by an opponent. What a shame, what a screw-up, what an insult, they'd get their revenge, yaddah yaddah, and life goes on as if nothing has happened. Except for Vincent whistling innocently.



"Hey, Vincent Karman, what's up with your IQ today? Must've dropped five floors for you to waste your gas on dragging one of your rivals back to his warm cozy place. Y'think your Triple Diamond's a charter bus now?!"



"Well booyah." Vincent answered before putting on another shirt. "Nice words coming from a mechanic called Richard Head."



"Stay polite! If it wasn't for the cash, I'd have been out of the auto business a long time ago."



"...To do what? Scooters? Come on, Dick. You've been saying that so many times now it's not even funny."



Unknown to Vincent, Dick had made faces and given him the finger while he wasn't looking. But then, that was Dick. The one-of-a-kind Dick.



Besides, this guy wasn't on his mind right now; his car was in perfect shape. Taking most of his brain time was tomorrow's challenge: a twin race involving him, his teammate, and two rivals from different garages: Jeff Davidson, and Enrik "Vodka" Satin.

---

TRIPLE DIAMOND

MAKE: Chevrolet

MODEL: Corvette

COLOR: Gloss Black

DRIVER: Vincent Karman



UPGRADES:

Engine: Turbocharged V8 Silver Series custom-make.

Transmission: 5-speed high response manual drive with changer buttons set on the steering wheel and powered shifting stick.

Muffler: Twin mufflers with manual noise level control.

Body: Fake side exhausts, small hood air intake, triple diamond logo in lieu of the classic Corvette flags, blue-shaded headlights, fog lights, silver-rimmed windows and windshield.



INSIDE SPECS:
Seats: Top quality black leather with heater and dynamic steer-to-seat movement for driver. Stock black leather elsewhere.

Steering Wheel: Black leather with enlarged central part featuring buttons for muffler, gearshift, sound, systems and HUD operation.

Sound: Altec Lansing Superstation 29 7-speaker system with complex high-megahertz AVS display screen, capacity of 7500 MP3 files, 3-CD changer, tape player, AM/FM radio, traffic advisory receiver, CB communicator, optional bass and treble boost settings, digitized graphic equalizer, possibility of saving over 500 equalizer presets and 500 different playlists.

Pedals: Painted silver for contrast.

HUD: Turn radius indicator with digital display speedometer, sound system status and settings, malfunction reporting, fuel quantity indicator, oil temperature and pressure indicator, and possibility of green, blue, tan or red color scheme.

[Shurikane]

Of Vice And Vodka: Chapter 2

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Vincent took the glass door into the access stairway and went up three floors. The Iron Pizza garage was located at Down 3-4, lingo for how many floors you had to go down from the very top of the stairway or elevator to reach your destination. At Down 4-4 was an old amateur building shop of sorts, with the lights always on and someone working on a piece of frame from time to time - very mysterious guys. At Down 2-4 was a floor of abandoned office, at Down 1-4 was more of the same, and at Top-4 was the little cement stairway leading up to the Chinese Train Stop. This was considered an open-air area, so to say. The ceiling was several dozens of feet high, and was covered by neon bulbs, half of them broken or out. Nevertheless, it was as close as an impression of sky as one could get.



From the Chinese Train Stop, Vincent went across the rails and boarded the eastbound car, which tracked a path similar to Highway 15.



The car was packed with people and newspapers, and Vincent put his waiting time to use and began looking over his neighbors' shoulders to check out today's Hentai funnies. Most of the Chinese people boarded off at Kam Fung Avenue, just two stations away. Then, the train went on for a long ten-minute ride until reaching McLellan station, followed by Cargo Street, and then his destination: Sherbrooke Boulevard.



He got off onto a medium street boarded by windowed cement walls on both sides, the street stretching as far as his eye could see. He took the first alley to the right, past a bunch of orange repair signaling cones, and then into a dark doorway to enter Corridor 59. Taking the elevator to Down 2-4, he went past exactly thirteen pairs of doors, and to his left into room number 26.



At last, he thought as he took off his shirt and closed the door with his right foot. His keys went into the first drawer to the right, along with his wallet, watch and notes. His discarded shirt went anywhere it landed in the bathroom, and his running shoes left next to the drawer stack, where they'd be easily found.



He turned left and around the corner leading to the kitchen, past the living room, and took a right before the island counter. Lily was leaning against the doorframe leading to the bedroom. Something was sizzling in a pan and something else was cooking in the microwave. She uncrossed her arms and smiled. There, Vincent ran his hands through her shoulder-length beet red hair and kissed her.



Their embrace lasted a little more than two minutes, after which she pulled herself away and announced, accompanied by a ringing microwave oven:



"Dinner's ready."



"What is it?"



"Wiener schnitzel."



"With what?"



"A little bit of rice."



She took the fork on the counter and put the scaloppini on two plates, followed by a quick trip to the microwave oven to empty the rice bowl. She then set the two plates on the small round table in a corner decorated by a fake window, and went to sit on the edge of the island counter in front of Vincent.



"Meal is hot; we'll have to wait. So, where was I - oh yes; you were telling me about how much you loved me."



Vincent interrupted her giggle with another kiss. She should've done spaghetti instead of meat tonight... Would've been more fun to eat. But, let's not be fussy. German food is all right for tonight!



"So, how did the day go?" She asked him.



"Raced one guy but his car expired its warranty. So I let him go for free. You?"



"I raced twice. Lost one to a Mafia member, and won against another one of them. Ended up making five hundred dollars. The rest of the Gonzesse Gang had a bad day."



"Not bad... At least we didn't lose anything."



Lily chuckled as she sat down. "Wait 'till you pay your next fuel bill!"



"I could care less." Vincent replied between two bites.



"Whatever you say. I'm not paying a cent for your car!"



"Same to you; you know how much I hate Fords."



They laughed.



"Anyways." Vincent declared as he switched to the rice. "I have only one thing on my mind right now: to steal your black tanktop and your blue jean shorts, hide them in the hamper and then chase you all the way to the bed, where I will be demanding ransom before I let your poor clothes out of their prison."



"And what are you waiting for?" Lily looked at him with a smile on the corner of her mouth.



"For you to finish eating."



Lily shrugged, took whatever was left of the wiener schnitzel, popped the whole thing in her mouth and swallowed. She then dropped the fork on her plate and licked her fingers.



"So, where's the dessert?"



Vincent grinned and response and leapt for the tanktop.

---

GONZESSE GANG


LOCATION: Highway 15, 2 miles north

LOGO: Kiss Mark

MEMBERS: 5

CAR PREFERENCE: Short Roadsters

CHIEF MECH: Amy Mueller

PARTICULARITY: Accepts only female drivers



Car: Black-Eyed Susan

Make & Model: Porsche Boxster 911

Color: Orange with Black Stripes

Driver: Karen Simpson

Nationality: USA



Car: Carnivore

Make & Model: Ford Thunderbird 2003

Color: Reflective Black

Driver: Lily Verrechia

Nationality: Belgium



Car: Shogun

Make & Model: Honda S2000

Color: Silver with Red Arrows

Driver: Hitomi Togedachi

Nationality: Japan



Car: The Flu

Make & Model: Volkswagen New Beetle Turbo

Color: Gloss Black with Purple Blotches

Driver: Felicia "Lulu" Ferguson

Nationality: USA



Car: Metroliner

Make & Model: Mazda Protégé5

Color: White with Blue Stripes

Driver: Emily Perroe

Nationality: USA

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THE IRON PIZZA


LOCATION: Highway 15, west end

LOGO: Bolted Circle

MEMBERS: 2

CAR PREFERENCE: American Built

CHIEF MECH: Richard Head



Car: Triple Diamond

Make & Model: Chevrolet Corvette

Color: Gloss Black

Driver: Vincent Karman

Nationality: USA



Car: Impure Ice

Make & Model: Dodge Charger

Color: White with Gray Arrows & Blue Stripes

Driver: Alexander Martin

Nationality: Canada

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RACING LINGO...


Rock: (noun) Great driver.

Brick: (noun) Poor driver.

Dog: (noun) Powerful car.

Heap: (noun) Said about a car that has more esthetic upgrades than real power.

Divorce: (verb) Said when a driver discards his car for something more powerful.

Widow: (noun) Said of a driver whose car has been totaled during a race.

Expire the warranty: (verb) Said of a car that's suffered irreparable damage in circumstances beyond the driver's control.

Fart: (verb) To use nitro.

Puke: (verb) Engine smoke or other visible malfunction.

Stab: (noun/verb) To overtake a rival car at a relatively blazing speed.

Dirty Stab: (noun) Said of a stab that caused the rivals to hit each other.

Sissy Race: (noun) A practice run, or a race between two rivals without any bet involved.

Storm: (noun/verb) Said when two rivals are actively trying to make each other crash during a race.

[Aindriahhn]

Cool, very cool