Street Racers

Sneakers, jeans, a gray leather jacket, twenty bucks, and a driver's license—that was all Russell had to his name. Clueless about everything, he could only rely on the license to confirm his identity.

The M-1 car license came with a motorcycle endorsement. The photo on the license was Russell himself—gender, height, weight, hair color, eye color all matched—but the birth date seemed off.

September 5, 1984!

Seeing that age, Russell thought he was pushing forty in this world, but no. The gas station's convenience store had that day's newspaper, dated 2002.

That was good news. It meant Russell had instantly regressed from twenty-five back to his teens, becoming an eighteen-year-old kid... though he'd always felt eighteen anyway!

Age wasn't the point. The point was the license had a home address. Unlike the world of the Assassin Alliance, where he wasn't technically undocumented but had no clue where his home was.

Rumble rumble!!

Another dirt bike roared in. The rider pulled off his helmet, revealing a blond young man with fair skin and a bit of charm.

"Playboy, you're late!"

"Brett, what took you?"

A few complaints rang out. The blond youth named Brett grumbled, "My dad had errands to run and made me watch the ostrich farm. I barely found a chance to sneak out."

"Whoa, you're in for it. Your dad's the mayor—when he's mad, he doesn't mess around!"

"Yeah, he'll kick your ass!"

Brett sneered dismissively, "Give me a break. He's just my stepdad. If he dares hit me, I'll call the cops on him."

"That's the spirit, man. We'd love to see that."

"Hahaha—"

The group laughed without a care, Brett included. After the laughter died down, he snapped his helmet back on: "Alright, guys, today we're going all out. Let's show them what we've got!"

"You bet, we're the best!"

"Make them cry, make them beg and lick our OOs!"

"Man, you've got some weird tastes... but I like it!"

Vroom—vroom vroom—

The young guns gunned their throttles, engines roaring like wild horses breaking free, charging off in packs.

Russell put on his motorcycle helmet and followed. Since he'd shown up with this crew, there was a good chance of triggering a world mission. Even if not, scouting around and gathering intel was worthwhile—it'd help him understand this unfamiliar world.

The system was too crappy. He had to rely on himself to collect info and figure out which world this was.

The group hollered as they sped down the highway, flanked by desolate desert scrublands. Saguaro cacti were everywhere.

Small-town America far from the big city—that was Russell's first thought. He confirmed it quickly when he spotted a sign reading "Arizona."

"Barren hills breed venomous creatures"—that saying rang true. In the mostly arid desert shrub zone, Russell saw few wild animals, but lizards, giant scorpions, and the rustling sound of rattlesnakes were common.

The ten-minute ride ended fast. Lucky for them, they didn't run into any cops—if a dozen of them got caught racing in a pack on the highway, they'd all have their licenses revoked.

The destination was a canyon between two hills. A crowd had gathered—at least a hundred people packed into the narrow valley, all around twenty years old.

A few carts sold snacks, beer, soda, and hot dogs. At the center, a fat black guy with a thick gold chain was running a betting ring, surrounded by people.

"Brett, what took you? I thought Prosperity Town was chickening out!" The fat guy shook his gold chain, barking arrogantly.

Faced with the burly black man, Brett's bravado faltered. He said weakly, "No way. Even if it weren't for the two-thousand-dollar prize, I'd still need to win back the entry fee. Just had a little hiccup, I..."

The fat guy waved a hand impatiently: "Enough, I don't care about your excuses. Get ready, race starts in twenty minutes."

By now, the situation was clear. The fat black guy was running an illegal race betting ring. Brett and his crew of young punks joined for the prize money, and Russell's role in this world was a member of "Prosperity Town"—a biker.

Russell didn't like this identity. As a former cop, he had a bad impression of motorcycle racers—kids who didn't study, wasting their parents' money on risking their lives.

They were an easy group to dislike, mainly for disturbing the peace and threatening others' lives and property. Worst of all, most were naive youngsters—energetic, curious, reckless, and loving every second of it.

Their obsession with racing came from teenage rebellion and a need to show off. They craved thrills, chased extreme speed, and used this dangerous method to gain group approval and attention from the opposite sex.

No denying it—both men and women had a primal craving for speed. Compared to cars, motorcycles were cheaper and easier to get, satisfying their needs easily.

Speed brought an adrenaline rush, money to be made, and admiration from the opposite sex—no wonder young people couldn't resist, and why it was so hard to stamp out.

In America, illegal racing was always around. Cops cracked down hard, but once money got involved, even the police were helpless. And after the Fast & Furious movies came out, speed was directly linked to male charisma, giving the cops a headache.

Russell didn't like his current identity, but... given he was eighteen, he'd reluctantly accept it.

Eighteen felt great.

Rumble rumble—rumble rumble rumble—

The roar of engines echoed through the canyon. As the race neared, cheers and screams grew louder. Helmets of every color gleamed under the sun. About seventy riders had gathered, all around the same age, representing six nearby towns.

One town had over twenty people—Prosperity Town's biggest rival. They all wore racing suits. Useless, though. A bunch of kids, not pros—dressing the part didn't mean skill. It just looked impressive.

The fat black guy raised a starter pistol and grabbed a megaphone: "Listen up, boys. The track loops around. First one back wins. Rules... there are no rules!"

"Follow the colored flags—that's the track. Every flag has someone with a camera, so don't try to cheat!"

"First place gets two thousand bucks, second gets five hundred, third gets a hundred. Anything below third, and you won't even make back your entry fee!"

"Let me repeat the rules one last time: this free-for-all off-road race's rules are... no rules!"

"Wooooo——"

As soon as the fat bastard's words fell, the crowd roared like wild beasts, necks flushed red as they waved their tickets in the air, cheering for the racers they'd bet on.

Vroom—vroom-vroom—

The riders twisted their throttles. They were all amateurs, some of them fresh off getting their driver's license, but that didn't matter. The fierce roar of the engines burned through everyone's blood, and with the thick race atmosphere, they were all fired up, determined to finish a lap first.

Victory meant cash and girls—and the right to mock the losers!

Seeing the atmosphere so electric, the fat bastard couldn't help puffing up with pride. He was in a great mood today. The ticket sales alone had already covered the prize money, and with the betting pool on top, he'd be pocketing at least ten thousand bucks today.

"Don't start until the signal. No jumping the gun, or your win gets disqualified." The fat bastard swept his gaze across the crowd, then raised a hand to cue the spectators.

In the valley, the crowd joined in, shouting the countdown.

"3!"

"2!"

"1!"

"Go!"

Boom—

Failure Diary

Today, a failure in the Failure group ascended to godhood. After some discussion, we kicked him out.