Pops looked at the launcher, then back at me. He sighed and nodded. "Just make sure you live long enough to pay me back."
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. Gas Guzzlers Extreme
I crossed the finish line in third place. In this league, third place meant you survived to buy more bullets. Pops looked at the launcher, then back at me
Welcome to the Glacier arena. This was not a race for pink slips or trophies. This was Gas Guzzlers Extreme, where the fuel was high-octane and the life expectancy was lower than my ride's suspension. Pops looked at the launcher