Biker Gang

Canvas shoes, jeans, a gray leather jacket, twenty bucks, and a Driver's License—this was everything Russell owned. Knowing nothing, he could only use the Driver's License to confirm his identity.

The M-1 driver's license came with a motorcycle endorsement. The photo on it was Russell himself, and the gender, height, weight, hair color, and eye color all matched perfectly. But there seemed to be a problem with his date of birth.

September 5, 1984!

Seeing that age, Russell thought he was nearly forty in this world. But that wasn't the case. The convenience store at the gas station had that day's newspaper, and the date was 2002.

That was good news. It meant Russell had instantly gone from twenty-five back to his youth, becoming an eighteen-year-old kid... though he had always thought of himself as eighteen!

Age wasn't the important part. The important part was that the Driver's License had a home address. Unlike in the world of the "Assassin League," he wasn't undocumented, yet had no idea where his home was.

Rumble!

Another off-road motorcycle roared over. The rider removed his helmet, revealing a blond young man with fair skin and a somewhat handsome face.

"Playboy, you're late!"

"Brett, what took you so long?"

Several voices complained. The blond youth named Brett said irritably, "My dad had to go out to handle something, so he made me watch the ostrich farm. I barely found a chance to sneak out."

"Whoa, then you're screwed. Your dad's the mayor—when he gets mad, he's no joke!"

"That's right, your ass is gonna get kicked to pieces!"

Brett looked disdainful. "Give me a break. He's just my stepdad. If he dares hit me, I'll call the cops and have him arrested."

"Man, that's the spirit. We can't wait to see that happen."

"Ha ha ha ha—"

The group laughed without a care in the world, Brett included. When the laughter died down, he put his motorcycle helmet back on. "Guys, we're going all out today. Let's show them what we're made of!"

"Of course! We're the strongest!"

"Make them cry and kneel down to lick our OO!"

"You've got some heavy tastes... but I like it!"

Vroom—vroom vroom—

The youngsters suddenly cranked their throttles, and the motorcycles let out a furious roar. Like wild horses breaking free of their reins, they charged off in small groups.

Russell put on his motorcycle helmet and followed. Since he had appeared beside this gang of reckless riders, there was a strong chance of triggering a World Quest. Even if it didn't, walking around, looking around, and gathering information would help him understand this unfamiliar world.

The system was utter trash, so he could only gather intelligence himself to determine what world this was.

The group hollered as they sped down the highway. Desert scrubland stretched along both sides of the road, with saguaro cacti everywhere.

Rural America, far from any major city—that was Russell's first impression. He quickly confirmed it when he saw the words "Arizona" on a road sign.

The saying that harsh mountains and dangerous waters bred poisonous creatures was absolutely true. In the generally arid desert scrubland, Russell saw few wild animals, but lizards, huge scorpions, and rattlesnakes rustling through the sand were everywhere.

The ten-minute trip ended quickly. Fortunately, none of them ran into the police. There were more than ten of them, racing down the highway as a gang. If they got caught, every one of them would have their licenses revoked.

Their destination was a canyon between two mountains. People packed the place, and there were at least a hundred people in the narrow valley, all young adults around twenty.

Several carts sold snacks, beer, soda, and hot dogs. In the center, a fat Black man wearing a thick gold chain was taking bets, surrounded by a crowd.

"Brett, what took you so long? I thought Prosperity Town had forfeited!" The fat man shook the thick gold chain around his neck and barked arrogantly.

Facing the broad, heavyset Black man, Brett was all bark and no bite. Lacking confidence, he said, "How could that be? Even if it wasn't for the two-thousand-dollar prize, I'd still have to win back the entry fee. There was just a little accident, I..."

The fat man waved a large hand impatiently. "All right, I'm not interested in why you were late. Get ready. The race starts in twenty minutes."

By now, the situation was crystal clear. The fat Black man was running bets on an illegal race, and the youngsters led by Brett had come to compete for the prize money. Russell's identity in this world was one of Prosperity Town's representatives—a biker.

Russell didn't like this identity. As a former cop, he had a poor impression of motorcycle street racers. They didn't study properly and risked their lives with money their parents gave them.

It was a group that easily inspired resentment, mainly because they disturbed the public and threatened other people's lives and property. Worst of all, most of them were inexperienced young people. They were bursting with energy, full of curiosity, loved courting death, and enjoyed every second of it.

They were obsessed with racing because of teenage rebellion and a desire to show off. They liked thrills and pursued extreme speed, hoping to gain their group's approval and the attention of the opposite sex through something so dangerous.

It couldn't be denied that both men and women had a primal craving for speed. Compared with cars, motorcycles were cheaper and easier to obtain, easily satisfying this group's needs.

The thrill of speed, the chance to make money, and the admiration of the opposite sex all made young people unable to stop. No wonder it was impossible to stamp out.

In America, illegal street racing had always existed. The cops cracked down hard on biker gangs, but once money got involved, even the cops were helpless. And after the Fast and Furious films came out, speed became directly equated with masculine charm, giving the police endless headaches.

Russell didn't like his current identity, but... for the sake of being eighteen, he reluctantly accepted it.

Being eighteen was great!

Rumble rumble—rumble rumble—

The roar of countless engines echoed through the valley. As the race drew near, the cheers and screams grew louder. Helmets of every color stood out beneath the sunlight. Around seventy racers had gathered here, all roughly the same age, representing six nearby towns.

One of the towns had sent over twenty people and was Prosperity Town's biggest rival. They were all wearing racing suits. Sadly, it was useless. They were just a bunch of youngsters, not professionals. Dressing properly didn't mean they were fucking skilled—it only made them look impressive.

The fat Black man raised a starting pistol and held a megaphone in his other hand. "Listen up, boys. The track goes around in a loop, and whoever gets back first wins. The rules... there are no rules!"

"Follow the colored flags—that's the track. Someone with a camera is stationed at every flag, so don't even think about cheating!"

"First place gets two thousand bucks, second place gets five hundred, and third gets one hundred! Finish lower than third, and you won't even win back your entry fee!"

"I'll repeat the rules one last time. The rules for this free off-road race are... no rules!"

"Whoooo—"

As soon as the fat man finished speaking, the spectators erupted in howls. Faces red with excitement, they waved cash in their hands and cheered for the racers they favored.

Vroom vroom—vroom vroom vroom—

The racers twisted their throttles in unison. They were all amateurs; some were even newcomers who had only just gotten their licenses. But that didn't matter. The impassioned roar of the engines set everyone's blood ablaze, and the intense atmosphere of competition filled them with fighting spirit. They all wanted to complete the lap first.

Victory meant dollars, girls, and the right to laugh at the losers!

Seeing how lively the atmosphere was, the fat man couldn't help feeling smug. He was in a great mood today. The ticket sales alone had already covered the prize money. With the betting profits added in, he would make at least ten thousand dollars today.

"Wait for the signal before you start. Don't try to jump the gun, or your result will be disqualified even if you place." The fat man looked around, then raised a hand to signal for the spectators to cheer.

In the valley, the crowd began shouting a countdown.

"3!"

"2!"

"1!"

"Start!"

Bang—

Failure Diary

Someone in the Failure Diary group made it big today. After discussing it, everyone decided to kick him out.