Groove Champion Posted Mar 30, 2010, 3:53 pm	Phil ‘Philadelphia’ Collins shifted in the driver's seat of his pick-up. He toyed with the accelerator, smiling inwardly at the weak shrieking emitted by the engine as it redlined almost immediately. A banner snapped against the wooden backing of the lap marker. The league title “Elmsfield Summer Classic“ had been painted with careful precision by the cheerful, aging, complacent members of Elmsfield’s Citizens’ Committee. Rosy-cheeked, fattened children waved pennants on the trackside, huddled with their smiling parents. “These people… You’d think they’d never seen a pirate” thought Collins as he squeezed the steering wheel between his scarred fingers. Philadelphia’s frustration boiled at being forced into a high-profile event without properly qualifying beforehand. The order had come in through the Groove Champions’ local CB station just moments before. Collins had jogged across town, slammed down a few crumpled bills to cover the registration cost and was now just settling in for the race ahead. He would start last –dead last- in a pack of 18 vehicles. To make matters worse, he knew some of the gangs participating in the event today; he knew them all too well. These were not the mindless brutes and addicts that made up the majority of the local gangs: they were seasoned, ruthless opponents who wouldn't give him an inch to maneuver.  They were what he called “predatory collisionists” – “PCs” if you will. He had glanced at the list of participants and noted 7 of the “PC” gang names. Driving through 18 opponents was difficult but with a few of these true veterans among them, the task seemed impossible. Phil was pulled from his thoughts by the crack of the start pistol. Dust exploded off the skidding wheels of vehicles ahead. One of the bystanders, a ridiculously overweight lump-child of northern luxury broke into tears as his lollypop was sprayed with dust and sand. Collins knew he would need a miracle to survive this race: he had studied medical techniques exclusively while in Elmsfield and his driving skills had suffered for it. Already he could see even the closest opponent inching away from him. Collins countered this realization by stubbornly stomping down on the accelerator pad. “ My foot doesn’t move from this spot until the race is over!” he thought and he was pleased to see the distance between him and the next vehicle settle. The white fence posts lining the track were moving past the pick-up at decreasing intervals and finally became a blur. Philadelphia swallowed the mounting terror that threatened to overwhelm his senses. He cursed his boss under his breath for ordering him to participate in this hopeless event. His thoughts were interrupted by a billowing of smoke and dust just ahead of him. Instinctively, Collins jerked the wheel left –away from the disturbance- narrowly avoiding a pair of skidding trucks.  He had come close enough to lock eyes with one of the two drivers: the spinning vehicle had used a measure of regained control to lurch towards Phil’s incoming pickup! “Nice try!” Collins barked out loud as he snapped his head back to watch the crash unfold in a shower of sparks. A frightening thought formed in his mind: "He tried to kill me!" The implications of what had just happened troubled him: the enemy's vehicle had darted into his path, the driver exposing himself to massive injury - or even death. Beads of sweat ran down Phil’s face as it dawned upon him that his opponents were willing to give up their lives to end his. These thoughts shattered Phil’s concentration and he noted –too late- that he had botched his entry for the next turn. The track was split by a massive cement barrier and he was forced to the outer lane while the pack sped ahead through the inner lane. Once again the distance between Collins’ and his nearest opponents began to grow. Angry with himself, he punched the steering wheel –causing the horn to emit a short, comical squeal- but quickly recognized the blessing of his error. The inner lane -covered in dangerous, uneven sand- was the theatre of a horrific twisting of metal and glass. Above the cement divider, Philadelphia couldn’t see exactly what had happened but only a few leading trucks emerged from the turn, followed by an impressive spray of metal sheets and shards. Collins estimated that more than half the pack had not made it through the bend! The remaining vehicles had lost much speed navigating the carnage and Collins noticed that he was finally gaining some ground. He could not ignore a sense of heavy foreboding at the road ahead. The track designers had done everything they could to make the upcoming chicane deadly and Phil knew from the stories of more seasoned gangers that the inexperienced, fumbling local drivers slowed almost to a halt when entering the curve. Casting all reason aside, Phil kept his foot on the accelerator and angled his vehicle to the inside of the turn. He saw blue smoke lifting from the tyres of the leading vehicles. The jagged metal forms of these trucks seemed to jump towards him as they slowed. Phil jerked the wheel as he accelerated, shut his eyes, contracted his features in an absurd grimace and prayed. The sounds of screeching tyres, twisting metal and scraping exploded all around Phil in an instant that seemed to last for hours. The crescendo of violence assaulted him and he felt panic filling his mind. It took what little courage he had to open his eyes… The track’s majestic bridge towered before his pickup, open road ahead! “I made it! I MADE IT!” he exclaimed. He glanced at the rearview mirror and could not fathom how he had broken through the piling trucks that cluttered the entire width of the track. Of the 18 opponents he had counted at the start of the event, only one remained: the other 17 lay wrecked or limping on the track behind. Philadelphia set aside all other considerations to focus on this final opponent. As he crossed it, the bridge danced by in graceful, fluid angles but Collins had no time to admire the work of Elmsfield’s civil engineers: his opponent hopped past the end of the crossing at top speed and skidded around the long bend of the track. Phil fought his sliding pickup to keep up. He could barely maintain the considerable gap between them. As he neared the lap marker and the leader passed it, Phil noted the excited motion of the crowd and heard a voice over the loud speaker: “It’s a new lap record, here at the Lake Track! What a treat this race is turning out to be, ladies and gents!” The fluid motions of his opponent's truck, controlled skids, careful maneuvers and calculated risks told Phil he was facing a strong competitor. His foot was starting to cramp from being pushed against the accelerator. Phil noticed he had to extend his arms to keep a hold on the steering wheel, his head touched the roof of the car: he was standing in his seat! He could not bear to look at the speedometer, he knew from the flickering scenery and whining engine that he would not survive a crash if he erred now. Collins was only a few truck lengths away from him now and he knew he must ignore the terror if he was to steal this victory away. The dueling pick-ups approached the divided turn again and Phil saw the mass of mangled vehicles lying on the inside lane. In a quick, encompassing stare, he took in the blasted wreckage and a cold sweat broke through his skin as he noticed the blood pouring through the gaps in two of the many twisted hulks. The endless red settled into a sickening puddle as it mingled with the various fluids bled by the torn vehicles. "Someone is dead here" he thought. He might not be a notorious driver, but Phil knew he was a damn good medic and he also knew no one could lose that much blood and live. Philadelphia tore his gaze from the morbid scene in time to see his pick-up drive off the edge of the inner cliff. For a brief second his heart froze and his eyes were filled with the watery waste that lay beyond the chasm. In that moment of beautiful silence, Phil's life flashed in his mind: Receiving 1000$ -- Walking out of the Tavern -- Travelling to Elms – Training – Helping Ernest Feely through rehab – Training – Mastering First Aid – Training – Training – Entering this cursed race. He was shocked by his own lack of life-experience but was even more shocked when his truck found land again and skidded back on the road! Somehow, he had managed to jump the corner of the cliff and was still in the race! He could see the speeding bastard ahead of him and knew he must pass him! With total abandon, he roared through the chicane, narrowly avoiding the many fuming wrecks. Though he had artfully navigated that death trap, the truck ahead still maintained the gap but he could see it jerking nervously back and forth across the dusty road. It took no veteran to see the leader was beginning to crack under the pressure of this unexpected foe: even Collins had dismissed the hope he might contend for the top spot, but he had undone 17 of the 18 opponents that had stood between him and first place. Phil knew he must not let this premature elation get the best of him. Nothing was settled until the checkered flag fell and he knew the bridge ahead was slippery with Elmsfield’s morning dew. "There. I'm on the bridge" he thought as his tyre squealed over the wet surface. He steadied his pick-up on the straight expanse; his eyes widened at what he saw next. The leader has just crossed to the other side, but in his nervous state, had made a crucial mistake. As he exited the bridge onto uneven sand, his pick-up had kicked off the road in a cloud of dust and shook as the driver fought to control his high speed drift. Phil followed carefully, his eyes glued to his struggling opponent. The dust cloud grew as the leader fought to right his error. With artful competence, the vehicle was steadied but he had lost much of his speed and Phil made his move. He approached to the outside of his opponent and waited for him to react. As he had anticipated, the "PC" threw his vehicle into his path in a final, desperate attempt to secure first place. Phil had not committed his Pick-up fully to the chosen line and jerked the wheel right to swerve to the inside. His final opponent slipped into the rearview mirror and shrunk as Phil made his way around the final bend. Through superior speed, cunning deception and luck Collins had accomplished the unthinkable! He had taken this race of the “Elmsfield Summer Classic” by avoiding monstrous pile-ups and outrunning not only the local hacks but also seven drivers belonging to the most notorious gangs of Evan! He was giggling, screaming, pounding and slapping the horn and dashboard of his car; odd, dislocated sounds jumped up from his throat as he struggled to find words that escaped him. He barely noticed the crowds cheer as the official announced he had shattered the record set by his opponent on the first lap. Those precious seconds of joy faded and Collins finally came to his senses. He spotted the overweight lump-child on the sideline and knew what must be done. Phil pulled the handbrake and brought his truck to a skidding halt less than a meter away from the kid, covering a new lollipop his complacent parents had bought him in dust and sand. Philadelphia grinned: his victory was complete.
*sam* Posted Mar 30, 2010, 7:22 pm	'Nice story!' It was semi-retired and ageing scout Carl Dunn, of the Clarinbridge Crushers. 'What the ID number of that event? I'd like to check Arizona's video library and she if she has it recorded'
Groove Champion Posted Mar 30, 2010, 8:09 pm	A sunglasses-wearing, silk robe-clad Philadelphia Collins sips at his snifter of Courvoisier and gestures for his legion of teenage girl fans to quiet down. He settles comfortably in a soft backing of cushions, his gold medal sliding to one side, and says: "Gee, that's a good question... I've had such a stretch of camp parties, sand-yacht soirées and sunburn charity fundraisers since then that it seems to have happened more than 20-odd days ago." He hands an autographed note (The -real- Philadelphia, much love) with an aloof gesture to Carl and turns back to his giggling horde of groupies. ID 83522
Marrkos Posted Mar 30, 2010, 8:38 pm	OOC: Appears to have aged out.
Groove Champion Posted Mar 30, 2010, 9:18 pm	OOC: It's possible... this write-up took much longer than anything I've ever composed before.
*Bastille* Posted Apr 23, 2010, 12:29 am	One can hope and dream. Gregory Cabrera, a young impressionable Medic had seen Dr Collins around during his training at Elmsfield hospital. "One day" he thought to himself. "This is the stuff of legend." {ooc - Great read, I could almost see the action unfold with each line. }
Groove Champion Posted Apr 29, 2010, 3:40 pm	Bastiel said: {ooc - Great read, I could almost see the action unfold with each line. } ooc- Thanks! Glad to hear you enjoyed it