Short Story: Drag Race in Gardenia

The engines purred like feral cats on the Vincenzo Andretti strip, the single longest straight road in all of the great racing city of Perugia. A large crowd had gathered for the race gossiped about that day, between a Gardenian woman and two foreigners, a Rubatoian gypsy and a Castillian man who refused to tell anything but his nationality. The Gardenian already had many hometown fans, but a sullen, serious-looking group with great interest in the race was also present at the starting line. There was some rumors that some of these men were Peruginos, members of the local mafia, who had interests deeper than just spectating at this race today. Murmurs of a crime boss did not fall on deaf ears, and there was some suspicion as to how the Castillian man had gotten his vintage, but heavily customized Aston Martin for this informal event.

Down the line, there was the Rubatoian's cool blue Maserati, and a fiery red Ferrari driven by the equally fiery Gardenian woman with the auburn locks and athletic build. Everyone's eyes were trained on the tall, skinny man with the checkered flag, who the Rubatoian had mentally nicknamed "flagpole", as he came out to wave them off--that was, all except the Gardenian's. She was distracted by the Peruginos, distracted by the funny ways they stood, the lumpy shapes in their leather jackets, the whispering amongst the men. Her eyes blazed at them, didn't leave them even when the flag was dropped.

The Rubatoian might have called out to her to go, but she'd never been a big believer in "fair play". Keep your eyes on the prize, she thought, and she slammed down on the pedal. The azure Maserati shot forward like a bullet, and into the lead.

Behind, the black Aston Martin like a charging bull was keeping a decent pace, but the man at the controls didn't have the deft handling of a true drag-racer, and that was becoming clear. He could drive, you could give him that. Anyone could on a straight track. But the high speeds made his cheeks flap out like wings, quivering and pulling back from his teeth, his hands sweated and slipped a little at times, and he could barely keep his eyes open in the glaring sun. He began to fall behind, fast, much to the displeasure of the onlooking Peruginos. Coming up behind him and gaining fast was the Gardenian in the Ferrari, pistons pumping and the pavement steaming faintly under her wheels. Far in the lead, the Maserati cruised, comfortable but still putting on speed. The driver seemed to just want a thrill.

The finish line was approaching fast. Already, the crowd seemed to know the result, grew quieter in their cheers for the Gardenian. Even as she passed the Aston Martin, there was no hope of catching that Maserati. It would be like trying to outrun someone by going in circles. And sure enough, only fractions of a second later, the flag was waved, and the Maserati had crossed the finish line. The Peruginos gathered into a huddle and then quickly broke apart, walking close on all sides. This was her chance--Vicky Vasquez burst out of her Ferrari and pointed her Beretta at the nearest of the men. He pretended to hold up his hands in fear, but another of his comrades drew a gun himself and aimed it at Vasquez's head. They were in a stand-off.

At that same time, the rest of the Peruginos drew their guns, and shot at the Maserati's tires until the vehicle was sitting on four smoking heaps of rubber. They drew up closer, preparing to shoot next through the windows, but when the first bullet breached glass, the Rubatoian had already disappeared.

Two blocks over, Cadenza Madrigal was complimenting herself on getting the rental insurance on the Maserati as she counted up her prize money. She hoped the dealership she was now returning to believed her story and didn't ask too many questions.