Gas Guzzlers Extreme -

Pops looked at the launcher, then back at me. He sighed and nodded. "Just make sure you live long enough to pay me back."

Now, there was only one car left between me and a quarter-million credits. It was a sleek, black sports car armed with pulse lasers. I gripped the steering wheel, shifted into fifth, and pressed the button for the nitrous oxide. It was time to see who really owned the road. Gas Guzzlers Extreme

I let Bone-Crusher get close enough to smell his burning rubber. Just as his spiked bumper was about to make contact, I pulled the lever. The miniguns roared, spitting a wall of lead directly into his grille. Smoke erupted from his hood, and he swerved hard, smashing face-first into a concrete bridge support at eighty miles per hour. Pops looked at the launcher, then back at me

The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, barely audible over the deafening roar of twelve supercharged engines. It was a sleek, black sports car armed with pulse lasers

The engine of my 1970 Hound-dog shrieked like a banshee as I slammed it into fourth gear. Behind me, three tons of armor-plated steel belonging to a psycho named "Bone-Crusher" was trying to turn my trunk into a modern art exhibit.

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.