Archive for the ‘Death Race’ Category

Drive by RETORBOY on

Jessie clips the runner, sees him fall, stops to watch the stain spread from beneath his skull.

“They should only give 100 points for an ex,”  Dolan teases.  “Just seems too easy.”

Jessie rolls her eyes, continues on.  It’s quiet for miles, then 3 figures appear, trying to pull themselves from their wreck.  Jessie cuts hard to the right, spins out in a perfect circle.  Two go airborne; one ends up under the wheel.  Bones crunch as she backs up, barely able to hide her shudder.

“600 points enough for you, Dad?”

Dolan chuckles, unable to hide his pride.

Krampus by DamaraCarpenter on

Nick’s sled came in hot. He cranked the parking break, slid, and bounced off a snow-covered Caddy. His engine stalled. Nick tried the starter. It howled like a dying cat.

Down a dark alley, two headlights illuminated.

“Krampus!” said Nick, punching a dashboard panel. It dropped open, revealing a joystick and scanner.

A flaming demon sled squealed from the alley. The driver thrust his horned head out the window and screamed “Nicholas! It’s my night!”

A blip approached the scanner center. “You’re under the missile-toe, bitch,” said Nick, firing the button.

“Your one liners suck!” Krampus wailed, before vaporizing.

HighWay To Hell by TOMBELEMENTAL on

He looked to his right and made eye contact with the hooded driver in the other car. He turned back to face the road as the smell of burning flesh infiltrated his nasal passages, choking him. He clenched his fingers tightly around the steering wheel. This wasn’t just any road. As the smoke cleared, he could see a long dirt road with pitfalls on each side and blazing fire rising from them. This was the Highway to Hell, and if he could beat the Reaper down this narrow road, he might just have a chance.

Explosive Action by Andezigi on Deviant Art

“Navigator!  Wake the fuck up!”

“Huh? Oh.  Turn left at the Piggly Wiggly; there’s a diner two block down that makes great pie.”

Poor Ivan. He got my depressed migraine-addled ass as a navigator.  Only my sarcasm remains intact.  I feel his eyes on me; he’s incredulous.

A 1969 Mustang on steroids enters his peripheral, and he squeezes some kind of lever. I hear an explosion, but we continue, unhindered, through thick, black smoke.

“That was awesome,”  I offer, feeling a twinge of excitement.

He tries to hold back a smile.  So do I.  There’s still hope for a win.

Green Explosion by STiX2000 on

Taking the curve too fast, India veered into the oncoming Camaro’s high beams. The Camaro lurched into the mountain slope; India launched her Cherokee through the guardrail and off the cliff edge. The cab filled with screams as sagebrush and boulders loomed through the windshield. Three passengers had buckled, but two hadn’t, including the driver. The front end squashed like an accordion. The driver’s side door burst open, launching India. She hit gravel. The Jeep rolled down 200 yards, the unbuckled passenger bouncing around the vehicle like a pinball and breaking everyone’s neck. India rode a stretcher up the mountainside.

Rockin Roll Hot Rod by Britt8m on

“Ya let that geezer get away, dipshit,” screamed Skwerl.

“Shut yer spithole,” hissed Dingo, cranking the hotrod’s wheel hard left. “Crippled old men ain’t worth the damage. We want the big score.”

“Like what?”

“Teen male. 500 points. For the win!”

“This here’s a retirement community, dipshit.”

Dingo white-knuckled the wheel. “Yer pushing it, Skwerl.”

“Where you gonna find a teen, dipshit?”

Teeth gnashing, Dingo fastened his seatbelt, then pointed ahead. “There.”


Dingo clipped a parked junker. Skwerl flew through the windshield.

Bloody and broken, Skwerl flipped over. “Why, Dingo?”

“For the win, dipshit!” shouted Dingo, rolling over his head.