Race Day - [shiftytraceur]
The Hodunk Speedway was as inviting as ever, packed full of rednecks and bandits temporarily engaged in a ceasefire to watch the race. As soon as the alcohol started flowing the "peace" would be over, but for now there was only minor scuffles as the audience looked for places to sit. Phelan sat among the wannabe contestants, feet propped up on the dashboard of his outrunner as he surveyed the rest of the competitors from behind tinted goggles.
All the usual suspects were there, each runner or technical sporting an array of "decorative assets" in the form of paint jobs, additional weaponry, and a few strange looking hood ornaments that Phelan couldn't place. Naturally the Hodunk emblem was the most prominent, though there were a few green shamrocks among the other bandit clan insignias. The promise of a decent cash prize, if one could win the race, was enough to draw in quite the crowd. Only the relative newcomers actually looked excited about the competition, however. Those who had raced before – Phelan included – were much less enthusiastic. Hodunk Speedway's weekly races were some of the biggest contributors to death by vehicle accident stats.
Once the gun went off the races were an all out war, rules rarely enforced, and cheaters always prospered. Phelan was lucky enough to have an "alliance" with the Zafords, which was less of an actual alliance and more of a "we won't shoot at you as often because you speak like us" pact. Phelan, in turn, stuck a shamrock on the front of his racer and tried not to blow any of the Zaford runners up with his rockets. He'd still been almost totalled by the gang before but they hadn't finished the job. Living to see another race was an accomplishment all on its own and he would take his good luck where he could get it.
Finding a race partner was going to take all the good luck he had and then some. He'd gone it alone before but against two-man crews he was almost always outmatched and outgunned. There was no sense and risking both his car and his life when he might not even finish, much less place. Besides, he needed the cash and he wasn't too picky about who he rode in the car with. A good gunner would be preferable, given his aim, but he would take a good pilot too. The last race he'd been driven off the track by a Hodunk and had nearly blown up his runner. Had he been able to focus equally on shooting his opponent and steering he could have likely avoided the error.
Hopefully his track record – mostly survivorship and a few decent rankings – would be enough to convince a newcomer he was worth partnering with. With a huff Phelan adjusted the bandanna over his face, rubbing at the scar along his chin as he did so. There were drunken Zaford boys lurking around the edges of the contestant area and all he could do was cross his remaining fingers that they wouldn't make their way over to him. He'd driven with a Zaford before and regretted it ever since. He wasn't sure his nose had recovered quite yet.