Gas Guzzlers Extreme Now

I flipped the toggle switch for Pops' new toy. The targeting computer hummed to life, projecting a red reticle onto my heads-up display. I locked onto a massive armored delivery truck in second place that was blocking the narrow canyon pass ahead. "Locked," the computer chimed in a calm, robotic voice. I pulled the trigger.

"Put it on my tab," I told him. "I’m entering the big knockout tournament in the desert tomorrow. The purse is a quarter-million."

I looked at my bank display on my wrist. Forty-eight thousand. I was just short. Gas Guzzlers Extreme

I crossed the finish line in third place. In this league, third place meant you survived to buy more bullets.

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. I flipped the toggle switch for Pops' new toy

"You're driving like a lunatic, kid," Pops grunted, spitting a glob of tobacco onto the oil-stained floor. "You keep trading paint like that, and I won't have enough scrap metal left to bury you in."

I tapped the dashboard screen. My rear-facing dual miniguns were locked and loaded. "Locked," the computer chimed in a calm, robotic voice

Pops wiped his greasy hands on a rag and smirked. He walked over to a heavy wooden crate and pried it open with a crowbar. Inside lay a pristine, military-grade rocket launcher system, complete with heat-seeking targeting chips.