What the Hell are all of you doing on my fucking lawn?!
I don't need any god damn welcoming party. I don't want to feel welcomed. I don't give a shit about you and you don't give a shit about me. Let's keep it nice and simple.
Still here? At least you dipshits were smart enough to get off the lawn. If I tell you about myself, will you fuck off to whatever holes you crawled out of? Great.
Yeah. I’m a god damn rally car. Get over it. I talk. So what?
An no, I’m not one of the shiny, pretty, millionaire-owned, pussy ass ones that wins.
I’m the one that almost makes it. The one with the blown tire on Stage 4. The one the announcers stop talking about halfway through the race. I’ve eaten more gravel than trophies. I don’t even remember what a fucking podium looks like, if I ever saw one.
I’m just fast enough to get my hopes up and just slow enough to have them crushed plain as fucking day, in front of a crowd of rubbernecks just waiting for me to wreck.
And yeah, before you ask, I’m sponsored by hive.blog. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know what the fuck it does either. Something about web3. Decentralized this, blockchain that. Their slogan is “fast, feeless and fearless.” Triple “f”. What a waste, I can think of far better “f” words.
Yeah well their blockchain may be fast, feeless, and fearless but that is easy for them to say. They aren’t the ones out on the god damn course, trying like hell to just finish a godforsaken race in this old beat to shit body.
All I know is the bullshit logo sticks to my doors and I’m contractually obligated to pretend it matters. Nobody’s ever asked me about it. Not one lousy time. I shout the name anyway, just in case the universe is listening. It isn’t. "Sign up for hive.io!!!!" See. Nothing.
I race because stopping would mean thinking. And thinking would mean admitting that this is it. Dirt in my suspension. Scratches in my paint. An entire god damn career built solely on “next time.”
I watch younger cars fly past me with better tech and worse discipline, and I hate them for being everything I was promised I’d be. I hate the moronic fans. I hate the endless stages. I hate the way my engine still revs when the countdown hits zero.
I’m an adrenaline junky and right now my adrenaline is telling me to kick all your asses off my property right about now.
So yeah. Strap in. Stay out of my way. Read the damn logo if you want. I’m not explaining it. I’m here to lose loudly, slide sideways, curse my opponents and complain the entire time.
Now start the fucking clock. I have a race to lose.