Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Worthless ❯ Speed 4: King ( Chapter 4 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

By: MellyN

Worthless

Speed 4: King

Written By: Melissa Norvell

"Don't you have a name? They call you the king, don't they?" I asked the Barracuda, who gave a slight chuckle.

"The king is just a title. I don't have a fancy license plate like you. Not all cars get the privilege of having a personalized plate," I had known that and seeing the cars around me, I have always wondered why I was one of the few cars who had a name. Around the Seinsnig house, every car had a name, so why didn't king and the other cars on the highway have special names like I did?

"I've noticed, but why is that?" I honestly didn't understand, Nash and Metro had plates with names on them. In fact, all of the cars that the Seinsnigs owned were the same way. I didn't get the logic behind it. Why would anyone not have a special plate with their name on it, especially a car like King?

"Not every car is like the ones you're around. Our masters either can't afford those special plates, or they really don't care enough about us to really give us names. My master cares more about buying car parts and racing equipment than he does about giving me a fancy plate with a name on it. Besides, I have a street name that's spoken, so people do know me." It didn't seem too bothered by any of it. I was surprised that there were masters out there like that. It seemed that I really did have it better than most cars. It made what Nash said all the more true.

When I thought about it, Nash was wise beyond its years.

"Tell me about your experience as a race car," it gladly obliged and we sat there for a while, talking about the racing experience and its life in the fast lane. All of the races it's won and all of the cars that have went up against it. I must say, the King was worthy of its title if all of what it said had any ring of truth to it. The list of competitors was quite impressive.

Among the street racers, it had quite the record. I also ended up finding out that King raced on personal training tracks and stretches that are uninhabited. Every weekend, King races against other cars for prizes and money. It even told me that I should at least come and watch, if its master happened to invite mine.

King was nothing like Number 52, but I bet watching it race was a glorious sight. When our masters emerged from the building, they talked about hanging out with each other on the weekend.

Usually, they would hang out after a street race, but this time they tried to talk Blake into attending the event. They all came over to us and I heard them as their voices got closer.

Ken sat on King's hood while Jordan learned against its right side by the front tire. Blake simply stood in front of my left side as they continued to talk.

"You guys are just gear heads," I heard Blake comment. "I'm surprised you two weren't racing professionally."

"Oh, well King is nothing like a formula car. We just do a lot of underground races," Jordan explained. It didn't seem like he knew much about professional racing or maybe he did and he didn't know quite how to start off in such a sport.

"True," Ken admitted, "Phantom wins some, loses some. King beat me 25 times." It didn't seem like Ken wanted to admit his more than obvious defeat by King. I assumed Phantom was Ken's racing car. That meant King's master was Jordan.

"Hey, we'd love to know your opinion, especially since racing seems to be something that was in your family," Jordan told him. "We'd invite your dad to watch us, but we kind of figured that he'd decline because of Gary and all."

My master agreed. "Yeah, he gave up everything that involved racing when my brother died. He won't even watch the races on television."

King seemed a little disturbed at that fact, and looked at me with apologetic features. I think it felt bad for flaunting itself around me without taking my master's situation into consideration. Dying in a race wasn't something anyone could just shrug off so simply, whether you have a steel frame or one of flesh.

"That sucks. I don't think I could live without racing," Ken replied as his friend nodded in agreement and lovingly patted his car's hood.

"I don't know what I'd do without King here." Even if it was a matter of ironic timing, the simple gesture managed to make the gloomy Barracuda seem to feel a little better.

The group of boys continued to talk about the races, and I was shocked to find out that Blake still held an active love of racing, despite his brother's death. After three years, it was the first time I've heard him talk about it in front of me like he did. I guess old habits die hard with him. I also learned that he had loved race cars and muscle cars from a young age. He had wanted a car like me but until that fateful day we met, his parents had always made it impossible. He also didn't want his father to get rid of Number 52, either. In fact, Blake was angry that his father gave the car to the racing Hall of Fame.

My master really wanted to go to the races, but he knew that his mother would never approve. I remember him asking her in the garage once when Nash was out in the driveway being washed. Mrs. Seinsnig said that she didn't want the "negative influences" to lure him back into the racing atmosphere. She was extremely strict about keeping her son out of racing, or maybe she was paranoid about losing the only son that she had left.

After some time had passed, filled with interesting and insightful conversation, Ken and Jordan finally convinced my master to visit the racing site. Blake was pretty happy about heading down there this coming Saturday. I had to admit, I felt the same way.

I will finally get to see King in action. This would also be my first time in this type of atmosphere, and I had to admit that I was anticipating it more than usual. To experience that kind of competition between my racing counterparts would be just the rush I needed. These were cars that were built for the same purpose I was.

The week passed quickly and the weekend set in full speed as everyone gathered at a place they called "The Strip". It had a stationary start point and what looked like a set finish line. I parked at the end of this dirt race track. It looked as if we'd have a grand view of the race. I wondered why we were the only ones parked down here, though. Something didn't seem right.

Maybe we were the only spectators?

When I looked at the track, it seemed kind of short, only three miles long. However, the only races I've heard enough on to have experience with were the professional formula stock and drag car races. I was a complete idiot when it came to street racing. Disregarding that fact, I did hope to learn something and see some wonderful finishes.

I'd never seen so many muscle cars together in one place before in my life. It was kind of nice to be around my own kind, not that Nash and Metro were bad, but in truth, nothing was more of a feeling than to be around someone you could identify with…or at least, I thought I could identify with them.

I could see Ken and a dark purple, nearly black, 1974 Pontiac Trans Am with white racing stripes. I assumed that this car was the famous Phantom that I had heard about.

Ken soon signaled for us to drive up to where they and the other racers were. So, Blake hopped inside of me and we made our way over to the other racers. I parked beside of the Trans Am, who spoke to me in a powerful voice as our masters stepped away to talk amongst themselves.

"Hey, I've never seen you before. Are you here to challenge King?"

"No, I'm just here to watch it with my master. I assume you're Phantom. I've heard a lot about you," I informed it of my current knowledge.

"That's me, and what a shame. You should get out there and race. You're not a rich kid's luxury car," Phantom almost seemed to be making fun of me as King pulled up in the empty space to my left. Our attention was drawn to the red Barracuda, and we weren't the only ones who seemed to take notice.

King had an entire fan base squealing and cheering as Jordan stepped out. Many people ran up to him and talked. Some of them even took pictures with both Jordan and King. They were certainly popular.

Soon, another car pulled up in front of us, causing us to form an awkward semi-circle. The four of us simply looked at each other for a moment before the fourth car expressed its delight at being parked near King.

"Hey! I get to park with the King!" A 1969 Plymouth GTX beamed with delight. It was a little rough like King was, and the same color lime green as me. I imagine it had been racing for a while.

"Well, hey there Headhunter. Are you ready for the big race?" King asked. It was as fired up as usual.

"Definitely!" Headhunter exclaimed. "I just got a tune up a few days ago, so I'm feeling pretty confident."

"What kind of race is this?" I asked. There were very few people even here, and only a short strip of race way. I honestly didn't get the concept, since these weren't drag cars we were talking about.

"We're street racing," Phantom noted.

"There's no street here, just a dirt strip. You don't even have a big crowd. I thought these races were a big deal." That was probably the most uneducated thing I'd ever said. The street cars had a good laugh at my ignorance. I didn't feel like it was that funny and I sure did feel pretty stupid.

"You're a riot!" Headhunter said between laughs. It could hardly contain itself.

"We really don't want a large crowd," King informed. To me, that just seemed weird, especially for a car as famous as King to say.

Why would you not want a large crowd? Wasn't that what races were for? I asked the questions out loud, despite being assumed to be stupid again by the other muscle cars. Phantom soon gave me the explanation I so desired.

"Street racing is illegal. We could get into big trouble for this." It seemed street racing was a dangerous sport. "We cite a "lack of safety" relative to sanctioned racing events, as well as legal repercussions arising from incidents among the sport's drawbacks."

"There isn't even a street out here." So, how could they possibly be a danger to anyone aside from each other?

"The street's out there," Phantom directed its front tires towards the end of the strip, which ended in a small portion of grass with a large gate that opened up into the city streets. "The Strip is just the starting point. We line up while we travel at a low speed on the strip. When we're lined up, someone honks three times to signal the countdown and we book it. Either that or one of our fans acts as flagger and starts us off."

"Today, we're doing a Cannonball Run for fun," King added. "Usually we race for enjoyment, because a lot of people here are under age. Either that or our masters just want to show us off, experience the excitement of racing without fees, rules, or politics, or to gamble or settle a bet, dispute, or otherwise between racers. Depending on the situation, it can get pretty insane. Generally though, we all just like to have fun."

Cannonball Run? What in the world was that? It sounded dangerous.

King was also wise beyond its age. Its master must have really had a passion for racing. This type of racing was a lot different from the circuit racing that Number 52 and Seven participated in. I've learned a lot from the three street racers just sitting here for only a few minutes. I also got to learn about each racer's attitudes and set of values. Everyone was so different. I bet the other race cars were just as exciting to be around.

"Cannonball Runs are usually illegal point-to-point road rallies that involve a handful of us. They can be across country or across town. In this case, it's just across town," Headhunter explained. "Our starting point is The Strip. From what I've heard, we do a lap around town and come back to this point. Whoever crosses the first marker on the strip wins the race."

"It'll be a pleasure racing with you both," King said in a sportsmanship-like manner. The other two cars thanked it in turn and they wished each other luck.

"Isn't that dangerous?" I questioned. If they went racing into town, they could seriously hurt someone, or even kill them. I began to see why these types of races were illegal. So many things could go wrong very easily, and it wasn't a controlled environment where a pit crew could rush in and pull them away from a wreck.

"Not too long ago, the original Cannonball Baker Sea-To-Shining-Sea Memorid Trophy Dash happened. It can be dangerous, but everything has a price. Any one of us could end up at the junkyard, but if you don't play a risky game, then you'll never have fun in life," Phantom's words were dangerous, yet somewhat inspiring.

"We could kill each other, our masters or innocent people. It's illegal for a reason," Headhunter somewhat agreed. "We do put people at risk because we have no closed course or purpose built facilities."

"We also can damage things, and people like to try to steal each other's cars in certain races. I was stolen twice but recovered both times by my master," Phantom's words sent rattles through my front end. I couldn't imagine what it would be like if someone had stolen me. It must have been frightening for the Trans Am. I wondered how it felt being in that situation, but before I could ask, Headhunter beat me to it.

The story that Phantom told was a chilling one. One of the racers that Ken went against stole the Trans Am and he had to enter a race against his own car with King. They raced for pink slips, meaning if the guy won, he would also gain possession of King and if Ken won, then he would get Phantom back. King won, and Phantom was returned but it was stolen again later on a second time by one of the other racer's group and there was a physical fight to settle that dispute. No wonder Blake's mother told him to stay away from his friends. Someone could have been possibly killed in that situation.

Street racing was a risky business. Tough cars…tough people…It might be fun or even business but this was…illegal.

Before I spouted a word more, our masters walked over to us, followed by other racers. Everyone hopped in to their respective cars and drove away towards the strip. The racers consisted of a group of about seven cars in total. I could hear the small crowd cheering around me for their favorite racer as the cars headed down the strip, lining their noses up to form a straight line. When they approached the middle of the strip, Headhunter signaled the start of the race as all of the cars sped off. They covered the strip in a blinding cloud of debris. I could only make out break lights as they sped off into town.

Everyone cheered again as the debris cleared. King, Headhunter and Phantom were all out of sight.

So…That was the power of a street racer? As I looked to the torn up strip, I thought about my original purpose. I was a muscle car, just like most of them. My purpose was to go fast, and part of me longed for the sensation of high winds sweeping around my aerodynamic body. I know this feeling resulted from everything that King had said about racing.

I had to admit, that Barracuda was right- I was a car that was meant for the race way, living the life of a common motor vehicle.

Over all, I'd have to say that I don't mind, but a part of me would have liked to make use of the triple digits on my speedometer at least once.

Everyone waited for the cars to return from their race. In the mean time, they pretty much stood around and talked, drank and wagered on the cars. A few of them talked over the races they had in the past and showed off their automobiles or pictures of them.

My master didn't stick to any one group. He just kind of floated around from group to group whenever the conversation was a topic of his interest.

It was insightful to watch the humans and look around at the different types of cars that were present and the conditions they were all in. The street racing community seemed to take good care of their cars and they nearly all brought some kind of sports car that ranged from like-new to fair condition. Some of them had damage, much like King, but they were scars worn with honor.

After a while, I could hear the roar of engines as the crowd went dead silent and directed their attention towards The Strip. The silence lasted for a while until the lead car was visible.

King and Headhunter were neck-and-neck for the stretch and the anticipation of the crowd shot through the roof as they neared the strip, Phantom cut in front of King. It was intense; they switched places several times before they hit the dirt and sped towards their makeshift finish line. I couldn't keep my headlights off of them. Both cars and humans alike watched with anticipation as the two sped closer and closer to the finish line.

As they came closer into view, King pulled ahead and screeched to a stop, skidding sideways across the dirt marker at a dangerously high speed. The vehicle stirred up a giant cloud of dust as it came to a complete stop just before it collided with the crowd. People had already begun to scatter out of its way. Those who hadn't moved before, made a mad dash for the field as King's left tires rose up, nearly causing it to turn over from the force of its own stop.

The look of horror on the human's faces grew with each inch the left tires rose. Even I thought King would end up upside down.

Then, its tires landed back on the ground, jolting both the car and its owner. I saw Ken fling himself out of Phantom, not even bothering to turn off the ignition or shut the door as he made his way over to his dazed friend, who sat blankly in the driver's seat. Jordan was simply trying to process everything that had just happened. My master later ran to his side, along with King's massive fan base and the other racers.

Since I was parked farther away, I couldn't see much because of the crowd. I hoped that King was alright and I watched on intently as the group fell silent for a few moments. Then there was a commotion. From what I heard, it seemed like they were all expressing their concern.

Jordan got out of King a bit later and stumbled around awkwardly for a moment. He was still dazed from the shock for a few moments before he shakily checked his car and lifted the hood. That made me worry a bit, since I considered King to be a close friend. The street racer and I often drove around together and I got to know it and Phantom very well.

It seemed like hours had passed when it was, in reality, about twenty minutes. Maybe the anxiety of the moment made it seem like forever.

Then, just as I had assumed the worst, the crowd cheered. King was alright. What a relief.

Once again, King had kept its title as undefeated in the street races. Even if what they were doing was illegal, I had to admire the Barracuda for its performance. No other muscle car held a love of competition and sense of pride for its damage like King.

After the race, King, Phantom and Headhunter and I sat parked in the field while our masters had drinks, talked about the race and collected the bets they had made.

Several people had taken pictures with Jordan and King beforehand. I could tell that they both loved the fame, but kept a sense of honor and sportsmanship about it. As I sat there, on the right of King and the left of Headhunter, the red Barracuda congratulated the Plymouth GTX and Pontiac Firebird Trans Am on their near wins.

"Hey, you're the real winner here," Phantom replied. "We're just glad you didn't flip over. You were pretty lucky that sharp turn didn't get the better of you."

"Yeah," Headhunter agreed. "I nearly threw a rod when I saw you standing in mid-air like that."

"I've taken a lot of risks back in my neophyte days of racing. I've flipped over and landed right side up again," King brushed it off. "It shook me up, but it doesn't get to me anymore." The Barracuda made it seem as if nearly flipping over was a normal event that occurred in its life.

"Well, compared to some of the wipe outs I've seen, street cars do, I'd have to agree. Worse could have happened," Headhunter agreed. The GTX had seen some gruesome accidents by the sounds of what it had said.

"You guys sound more like demolition cars than racers," I commented. They took a lot of damage. I wasn't sure if their masters drove like race car drivers or bats out of hell.

"Well, Expresso, we race in dangerous conditions," Phantom told me. "I know that you don't get it, even when we told you about it, but there are reasons why what we do is illegal. You won't really know unless you race down those city streets like we do."

"I hate to admit it, but Phantom is right," King agreed before it looked to me in question. "Expresso…I've always been interested in how you got that name."

My name? I suppose it was a little odd, especially compared to the ones that the street cars had. There was a meaning behind it.

"Isn't Expresso coffee?" Headhunter asked.

"No, that's espresso, not Expresso, you bucket of bolts," Phantom corrected the GTX.

"It could be a different spelling of it," the other car tried to argue before King interrupted.

"We should just let Expresso tell us what its name means," I was given another chance to tell the other cars the mystery behind the name given to me.

"Well, that one is easy. I was bought on a dealership off of Expresso Boulevard, at a place called Orville Huges' New Cars. The letter o on the end of my name stands for the first name of the dealership I was bought from."

"So, it would be like a human having the name of the hospital they were born at?" Headhunter made the parallel between situations.

"I guess you're right." When I thought about it, Headhunter's question made sense. "Buying me was the first thing that ever made him truly happy. I guess my master wanted to keep it close to his heart as a fond memory."

"That's understandable," King commented. "My master still has the shirt he wore when he won his very first street race. Humans can be quite sentimental creatures."

Having heard King's words, I had to wonder to myself if Nash's words really had applied to all humans. Sure, some humans would throw you away if you had a problem they could not or did not want to fix, but could there possibly be humans that existed in this world that would take an old, worn down car and rebuild it to treasure and drive as long as they lived? No matter what problems it had in the future?

Could someone with real sentiment for an old car really exist?

…To Be Continued