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Chapter 330: Let's Go Street Racing Together (2)
Night fell.
On Central Avenue in Queens, New York City, a small section was blocked off due to construction. The moment the road workers took away the warning signs and blue barrier panels, another group of people moved in, setting up a bunch of brand-new warning signs at the end of the road to block the entry of traffic.
There were very few vehicles on Central Avenue, many of their drivers looking utterly bewildered.
I just made a turn, how did I get trapped on a road under construction?!
A whooshing sound rang out.
A flashy truck was speeding wildly.
Behind this truck were a large number of various sports cars, colorful and chasing each other, successfully provoking the rage and loud curses of the onlookers.
"Bastards! What's with this group of people? Is the traffic in your Queens always this lawless?!"
"It's them again! That group of rich kids who are street racing! This is already the third time they've openly gone street racing this year!!!"
"Isn't anyone going to do something about them?! Where are the police?"
"They're rich, what can you do? Get caught, pay a fine, and after a period of quiet, they come out and cause trouble again. What can you do?"
Countless onlookers discussed among themselves, their bitter laughs and curses resounding through the air. Many brawny men had unfriendly expressions, but deep in their eyes, there was a look of eagerness.
Street racing was nothing special in the United States. Various black market modification shops and underground technicians were very popular with the wealthy and street racers because they could create the most powerful vehicles. On the wide roads, under the varied gazes of the onlookers, they could race like the wind and thoroughly enjoy the thrill of speed.
Many onlookers who felt provoked couldn't stand it, angrily running home, driving their own cars out, and grandly taking to the road, slamming the accelerator to the max and howling wildly.
There was no shortage of guys driving dust-covered classic cars; the moment their engines started, they would let out a deafening roar as if about to explode, but the car owners still enthusiastically joined the race.
The police were furious. Driving their police cars, holding megaphones, they drove side-by-side with a slow-moving, black-smoke-belching classic car.
A police officer in the passenger seat stuck half his head out the window and roared, "Dad, can you fucking stop embarrassing yourself?!"
"Son, I was a master in the street racing scene back in the day, I just retired, that's all..."
The police officer was about to die from anger. Back in the day? What the fuck were the speeds back then! And what are the speeds now!
Starting at one hundred! Two hundred is normal!
Especially some lunatics, who actually dared to race at three or four hundred, not afraid of crashing to their deaths!
All the police officers, including him, stared angrily at the luxurious fleet of cars far ahead, leaving them in the dust, cursing endlessly in their hearts.
The traffic police officers were, of course, no strangers to the bizarre guy in the lead. He was a rich kid, obsessed with modifying vehicles, but for some godforsaken reason, his hobby had shifted from sports cars to trucks!
Street racing with a truck? Who do you think you are, Mechanic tony?
"That bunch of guys, we have to send them to prison this time! No matter how much money, no matter how powerful their background, they won't be getting bail!" one police officer roared in exasperation.
Another police officer was very calm. Leaning comfortably in his seat, he whistled and said, "It's not like you don't know the guy in the lead. He clearly thinks he's Mechanic tony, really believing he can race at the speed of a plane... Hey, even Mechanic tony can't push his battle vehicle to the speed of a plane, right?"
"He can, he just needs to take control of a high-speed train," another police officer chimed in.
The flashy young man in the lead drove his truck with great satisfaction, racing down the road. It was quite a spectacle. Any high-speed vehicle is usually designed with a streamlined, curved shape to reduce drag and its own weight.
But this guy did the opposite. He just got a truck, hollowed out a large amount of its metal structure, and replaced it with a super-powerful engine, racing all the way.
That's right, a large part of this truck's interior had actually been hollowed out, making it practically a shell. If the driver had a fit and crashed the car, hehehe, the scene would be too beautiful to imagine...
The young driver looked in his rearview mirror at the companions he had left behind, a smug expression on his face. With his left hand on the steering wheel and his right holding a cigarette, he took a satisfying drag, blowing out clouds of smoke.
He was a vehicle enthusiast, and had originally been a normal, decent young man—only interested in sports cars.
But two consecutive incidents had made him completely give up on old-fashioned sports cars, and instead, he shifted his interest to trucks.
The first incident: he had tried to pick up a woman with an amazing figure wearing a black catsuit. To this day, he still couldn't forget that woman, especially her nearly bursting chest and exposed thighs.
He tried to use a sports car to attract her, but was directly ignored. The woman just got into a truck...
Oh, that woman's name was Amanda Falcone.
The second incident happened not long ago. He met another woman in a red dress, and at first glance, it was as if he had been shot by Cupid's arrow. He confidently went up to flirt with her, but somehow, by the time he came to his senses, he was already on the other side of the road, and the beautiful woman in red had walked straight into a private manor.
Through the gates that hadn't closed in time, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a flashy blue truck.
"Sports cars? What bullshit. These days, trucks are the mainstream! And I will be the leader who guides this new trend!"
His aesthetic sense seemed to have encountered some terrible misunderstanding, undergoing a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.
The young man squinted. Along with his pleasure, he couldn't help but feel a bit stifled.
He was so handsome, young, and rich, yet he had been defeated by trucks twice in a row.
If his rivals had been more handsome or richer than him, he could have accepted it, but they fucking weren't. The common denominator was a flashy truck.
Ever since then, the young man had become obsessed with flashy trucks, as if possessed.
"I will be the new king of racing in the world! Sports cars? Bullshit. Their short and delicate appearance is too ridiculous. Only sissies drive sports cars! A strong truck, that's a real man's romance..."
Thinking this, the young man fell into a state of self-infatuation, unable to extricate himself.
The young man subconsciously glanced at his rearview mirror. Seeing his companions eating his dust, he couldn't help but reveal a contemptuous expression. He glanced at the speedometer again; his speed had already reached two hundred, the standard for a rally race.
As he watched, the young man couldn't help but show an arrogant expression.
"VROOM VROOM VROOM!!!"
A deafening engine sound, as if dynamite had been detonated inside the engine cylinders.
The young man frowned, guessing in his heart, which idiot was chasing him on a motorcycle? It was probably that annoying group of police officers again.
The young man glanced at his rearview mirror again. What he saw this time struck him like a heavy blow. His mind roared, and his gaze instantly became vacant.
"Th... this..." A hoarse sound came from the young man's throat. He couldn't squeeze out a single word, as if something terrible was blocking it, nearly suffocating him.
A four-meter-tall blue giant truck, its body painted with a brand-new flame-like pattern. At the front of the truck stood striking spikes.
And on the front of the truck was a strange, face-like symbol—the Autobot Symbol.
This big guy, even more burly and heavier than his own car, was like a roaring mountain. Its roaring engine sounded as if it were restraining a roaring monster!
In just a few seconds, it went from appearing in his field of vision to driving side-by-side! A few more seconds passed, and it easily overtook him!!!
A mountain-like blue giant truck, dragging a heavy container over ten meters long behind it, tossed his most prized battle vehicle behind it as if shooing away a child.
The young man's eyes, at some point, had become bloodshot. His vacant pupils were completely devoid of color.
The fallen cigarette butt landed on his thigh, scalding his skin, but it didn't elicit the slightest reaction from the young man. In his eyes, there was only that rampaging monster, that behemoth that shouldn't exist!
"How is this possible... how is this possible... This isn't scientific at all..." the young man stared blankly, muttering nonsense. "I understand the most advanced modification methods, but how can a race car like a super heavy truck exist!!!"
"What's more outrageous is that it's so fucking fast!! How is this possible? This isn't scientific at all!!!"
(end of chapter)
Night fell.
On Central Avenue in Queens, New York City, a small section was blocked off due to construction. The moment the road workers took away the warning signs and blue barrier panels, another group of people moved in, setting up a bunch of brand-new warning signs at the end of the road to block the entry of traffic.
There were very few vehicles on Central Avenue, many of their drivers looking utterly bewildered.
I just made a turn, how did I get trapped on a road under construction?!
A whooshing sound rang out.
A flashy truck was speeding wildly.
Behind this truck were a large number of various sports cars, colorful and chasing each other, successfully provoking the rage and loud curses of the onlookers.
"Bastards! What's with this group of people? Is the traffic in your Queens always this lawless?!"
"It's them again! That group of rich kids who are street racing! This is already the third time they've openly gone street racing this year!!!"
"Isn't anyone going to do something about them?! Where are the police?"
"They're rich, what can you do? Get caught, pay a fine, and after a period of quiet, they come out and cause trouble again. What can you do?"
Countless onlookers discussed among themselves, their bitter laughs and curses resounding through the air. Many brawny men had unfriendly expressions, but deep in their eyes, there was a look of eagerness.
Street racing was nothing special in the United States. Various black market modification shops and underground technicians were very popular with the wealthy and street racers because they could create the most powerful vehicles. On the wide roads, under the varied gazes of the onlookers, they could race like the wind and thoroughly enjoy the thrill of speed.
Many onlookers who felt provoked couldn't stand it, angrily running home, driving their own cars out, and grandly taking to the road, slamming the accelerator to the max and howling wildly.
There was no shortage of guys driving dust-covered classic cars; the moment their engines started, they would let out a deafening roar as if about to explode, but the car owners still enthusiastically joined the race.
The police were furious. Driving their police cars, holding megaphones, they drove side-by-side with a slow-moving, black-smoke-belching classic car.
A police officer in the passenger seat stuck half his head out the window and roared, "Dad, can you fucking stop embarrassing yourself?!"
"Son, I was a master in the street racing scene back in the day, I just retired, that's all..."
The police officer was about to die from anger. Back in the day? What the fuck were the speeds back then! And what are the speeds now!
Starting at one hundred! Two hundred is normal!
Especially some lunatics, who actually dared to race at three or four hundred, not afraid of crashing to their deaths!
All the police officers, including him, stared angrily at the luxurious fleet of cars far ahead, leaving them in the dust, cursing endlessly in their hearts.
The traffic police officers were, of course, no strangers to the bizarre guy in the lead. He was a rich kid, obsessed with modifying vehicles, but for some godforsaken reason, his hobby had shifted from sports cars to trucks!
Street racing with a truck? Who do you think you are, Mechanic tony?
"That bunch of guys, we have to send them to prison this time! No matter how much money, no matter how powerful their background, they won't be getting bail!" one police officer roared in exasperation.
Another police officer was very calm. Leaning comfortably in his seat, he whistled and said, "It's not like you don't know the guy in the lead. He clearly thinks he's Mechanic tony, really believing he can race at the speed of a plane... Hey, even Mechanic tony can't push his battle vehicle to the speed of a plane, right?"
"He can, he just needs to take control of a high-speed train," another police officer chimed in.
The flashy young man in the lead drove his truck with great satisfaction, racing down the road. It was quite a spectacle. Any high-speed vehicle is usually designed with a streamlined, curved shape to reduce drag and its own weight.
But this guy did the opposite. He just got a truck, hollowed out a large amount of its metal structure, and replaced it with a super-powerful engine, racing all the way.
That's right, a large part of this truck's interior had actually been hollowed out, making it practically a shell. If the driver had a fit and crashed the car, hehehe, the scene would be too beautiful to imagine...
The young driver looked in his rearview mirror at the companions he had left behind, a smug expression on his face. With his left hand on the steering wheel and his right holding a cigarette, he took a satisfying drag, blowing out clouds of smoke.
He was a vehicle enthusiast, and had originally been a normal, decent young man—only interested in sports cars.
But two consecutive incidents had made him completely give up on old-fashioned sports cars, and instead, he shifted his interest to trucks.
The first incident: he had tried to pick up a woman with an amazing figure wearing a black catsuit. To this day, he still couldn't forget that woman, especially her nearly bursting chest and exposed thighs.
He tried to use a sports car to attract her, but was directly ignored. The woman just got into a truck...
Oh, that woman's name was Amanda Falcone.
The second incident happened not long ago. He met another woman in a red dress, and at first glance, it was as if he had been shot by Cupid's arrow. He confidently went up to flirt with her, but somehow, by the time he came to his senses, he was already on the other side of the road, and the beautiful woman in red had walked straight into a private manor.
Through the gates that hadn't closed in time, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a flashy blue truck.
"Sports cars? What bullshit. These days, trucks are the mainstream! And I will be the leader who guides this new trend!"
His aesthetic sense seemed to have encountered some terrible misunderstanding, undergoing a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.
The young man squinted. Along with his pleasure, he couldn't help but feel a bit stifled.
He was so handsome, young, and rich, yet he had been defeated by trucks twice in a row.
If his rivals had been more handsome or richer than him, he could have accepted it, but they fucking weren't. The common denominator was a flashy truck.
Ever since then, the young man had become obsessed with flashy trucks, as if possessed.
"I will be the new king of racing in the world! Sports cars? Bullshit. Their short and delicate appearance is too ridiculous. Only sissies drive sports cars! A strong truck, that's a real man's romance..."
Thinking this, the young man fell into a state of self-infatuation, unable to extricate himself.
The young man subconsciously glanced at his rearview mirror. Seeing his companions eating his dust, he couldn't help but reveal a contemptuous expression. He glanced at the speedometer again; his speed had already reached two hundred, the standard for a rally race.
As he watched, the young man couldn't help but show an arrogant expression.
"VROOM VROOM VROOM!!!"
A deafening engine sound, as if dynamite had been detonated inside the engine cylinders.
The young man frowned, guessing in his heart, which idiot was chasing him on a motorcycle? It was probably that annoying group of police officers again.
The young man glanced at his rearview mirror again. What he saw this time struck him like a heavy blow. His mind roared, and his gaze instantly became vacant.
"Th... this..." A hoarse sound came from the young man's throat. He couldn't squeeze out a single word, as if something terrible was blocking it, nearly suffocating him.
A four-meter-tall blue giant truck, its body painted with a brand-new flame-like pattern. At the front of the truck stood striking spikes.
And on the front of the truck was a strange, face-like symbol—the Autobot Symbol.
This big guy, even more burly and heavier than his own car, was like a roaring mountain. Its roaring engine sounded as if it were restraining a roaring monster!
In just a few seconds, it went from appearing in his field of vision to driving side-by-side! A few more seconds passed, and it easily overtook him!!!
A mountain-like blue giant truck, dragging a heavy container over ten meters long behind it, tossed his most prized battle vehicle behind it as if shooing away a child.
The young man's eyes, at some point, had become bloodshot. His vacant pupils were completely devoid of color.
The fallen cigarette butt landed on his thigh, scalding his skin, but it didn't elicit the slightest reaction from the young man. In his eyes, there was only that rampaging monster, that behemoth that shouldn't exist!
"How is this possible... how is this possible... This isn't scientific at all..." the young man stared blankly, muttering nonsense. "I understand the most advanced modification methods, but how can a race car like a super heavy truck exist!!!"
"What's more outrageous is that it's so fucking fast!! How is this possible? This isn't scientific at all!!!"
(end of chapter)
