I was a sixteen-year-old, illigal drag racer. Nothing would get in my way. Not my parents, not my teachers, and deffinetly not friends. Infact, they were usually in the back seat.
I was driving in the fast lane of life. Well, that was until I met the man with wings.
The engines revved and the handkerchief dropped. My foot slammed onto the gas and tires screeched. I wasn’t going down without a fight; even if it was after the race, and fought with my fists. But I knew it wouldn’t come down to that. My Thunderbird wouldn’t let me down. She may have been made in 1963, but she was cherry. And she was fast, like Road Runner on steroids.
A smile pulled at my lips as I pulled forward, passing the 1964 Ford Galaxie that was my opponent. What it could pass for one, anyways. I was Runner; Galaxie was Wile E Coyote, about to get squashed by the anvil.
I pulled across the finish line, checkers falshed, a good ten feet in front of Coyote.
The moment my boots clicked onto the pavement, cheers erupted around me, champagne sprayed. People crowded onto the deserted Vegas highway and surrounded me with their hoots and hollars of excitement. It was nothing new to my ears.
Coyote approached me. He was only about ten years older than I. A bleach blond babe under his arm, patches coving his black leather jacket, thick shades perched on top of this hair. Yes, he was the average drag race opponent. He removed his glove and offered me his hand.
“You are a fine racer, young buck.” His voice was shielded. But I could decipher the disappointment in the background of his words. “The Thunderbird is not to be underestimated, I see.”
I smirked, and pulled my helmet off my head.
Any trace of a smile drained from Coyote’s face. I combed a hand through my silky dark curls. I looked him in the eye as I removed my gloves as well. I took his now limp hand and shook it hastily. This was my favourite part of every race. It was better than winning, it was better than the prize.
“Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself.” There was a hint of tease in my voice, and I didn’t try to mask it. A kind of disbelieving horror was lurking onto Coyote’s face by then, and I was still grinning confidently at both him and his babe, who I think I recognized from school.
Coyote was stunned.
Because I was sixteen-year-old, illegal drag racer. And because, I was a girl. I was Trixie, driver of the blood red Thunderbird; rising star driver in the drag races of Las Vegas.