If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-01-14 12:26:00 |
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Current music: | highway star - deep purple |
Entry tags: | marijuana, pcp, sato |
Nobody gonna take my car, I'm gonna race it to the ground.
Who: Marijuana, PCP, Highway mortals, open to anyone who wants to hop in. Also includes a pre-race comment thread between Sato and Cam (NPC), taking place at the finish line.
What: Street racing, Drug God style.
Where: Undisclosed route in Manhattan.
When: Thursday evening.
Warnings: Language, drug use, vehicular violence, blood and gore.
"Everything all set up on your end, Cam?" Marijuana's voice came in over the radio to where Cam waiting at the 'finish line', waiting with two cars, one that he would drive himself and one driven by his most trusted techie, the cars that would be used to get the racers as far away from the racing site as was possible before the cops caught onto their activities. A truck was idling as well. manned with enough of Wes' guards to get the remnants of the cars used away as well, to drive them back to the Highway where Cam would attempt to repair them later. Cam, subdued, pale, craving, got on the radio and checked in with the lower runners he'd stationed along the route. Eventually, the word came back. "All clear, Marc. Not a cop in sight." Marijuana grinned, revved the engine of his souped up Lambo, and glanced over at Wes, beside him on the starting line. "You really think that piece of shit stands a chance?" He shouted over the roar of engines, Wes merely giving him the finger gleefully before allowing Matt to lean through the window to kiss the bodyguard's cheek worriedly. "Let him win, alright?" Matt muttered quietly, "He hasn't had a good few days. Think he needs this." Wes gave Matt a look of incredulity; of course Marc was going to win this race. There was no other way, Wes was just hoping his boss didn't catch onto the fact that Wes wasn't exactly going to race his hardest.
Marijuana reached for the radio Cam had attached to his dashboard. "Angel-mine, you ready?" He couldn't hope to be heard across the combined sound of two very expensive - and very doomed - cars, so he merely glanced to his left and raised his eyebrows at PCP. She was the real threat in this race but Marijuana was already planning on bashing that pretty pink car up against the wall halfway through the race. He just had to do it without crashing himself and losing. No, he'd crash after he won.
Engines continued to rev, snort, growl. Marijuana narrowed his eyes at the thought of where his husband was at that exact moment - with him, with Cocaine - and bared his teeth in an animalistic way as Bryn, dressed like she should be walking the streets instead of starting a race, prepared to wave the starting flag.
The flag came down and they were off, Marijuana's tires squealing underneath him as he took a slight, early lead.