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I crossed the finish line in third place. In this league, third place meant you survived to buy more bullets.
The next afternoon, the desert heat was melting the asphalt before the green light even flashed. Twelve of us lined up on the grid. Monster trucks with plow blades, muscle cars with shotguns welded to the roofs, and exotic imports packed with proximity mines. Gas Guzzlers Extreme
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 crossed the finish line in third place
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