SPEED BOOST

Though the sun’s rays were barely visible on the morning horizon, temperatures were already well past sweaty-butt-o’clock in the Gritburn Gully region of Wublandia. Far to the west of the Jelly Castle, this dastardly deep ravine was a literal hotspot for all manner of nefarious activity. Smack dab in the middle of a sprawling desert miles away from any form of civilization, the authorities simply couldn’t be bothered to set up shop in such an unforgiving environment. Plus, they knew that if the heat didn’t thin out the number of criminals in the area, the Skabskin Raiders certainly would.

A clan of desert-dwelling outcasts, the raiders had huge passion for only two things in life: blood sports and loud machinery, often combining both into some horrendous form of entertainment. For reasons unknown they’d taken a strong liking to the desert, and had chosen to make the gully their home. The general rule of thumb was to stay out of the raiders’ way and you probably wouldn’t get hurt. Emphasis on the probably.

Every seven years the Skabskin clan hosted the intergalactic Formula W.U.B. race: a deplorably dangerous dash through the gnarled caverns of the granite-lined gulch. Haphazardly built buggies equipped with Wubstep-utilizing injectors were pushed to their absolute limit, driven by individuals as deranged as the vehicles themselves. The high-octane event attracted hotheaded pilots from around the galaxy, willing to do anything to claim the grand prize: a new identity, and enough MorBux to restart their life anywhere they dreamed. It was the kind of reset button many folks would kill for, and that’s exactly what made it so entertaining to watch.

Those who lost the race but managed to survive would spend the next seven years in servitude at the swelteringly sadistic Skraptorium: a towering junk refinery that doubled as the home base of the raiders. Prisoners spent their days shackled in the building’s workshop, forging racetrack components for the next decade’s Formula W.U.B. event. The fiery facility was almost as dangerous as the race itself. From massive machines that could crush a grown man with ease, to the seething white river of molten metal, there was no shortage of ways to creatively meet your maker inside the Skraptorium. At the end of their seven years the prisoners had a choice – walk away with nothing, or enter the race for a second time.

Spiff Spannigan raised a hand to his brow, his eyes squinting as the sun began to peek shyly over the hills in the distance. The grizzled forty-something-year-old stood upon a small rocky outcrop, just south of the Skraptorium. Prisoners were given one rest day each week, and Spiff preferred to spend his as far away from the general population of inmates as possible.

Sharp twists and turns littered the ravine below, winding through the narrow caves and crevices of the desert landscape. Only the most skilled, or most insane pilots would dare drive in such a treacherous location. There was no set route; pilots simply had to get to the finish line as fast as possible, by whatever means necessary. Spiff had spent many hours outside in this very spot, meticulously planning the path that would earn him his freedom. He stared fiercely at the canyon, damning its very existence for everything it had stolen from him so long ago.

Seven long years had finally come to an end, and he was more than ready. Nearly a decade earlier, a brash, headstrong Spiff had made his way to the wonderful world of Wublandia, chasing dreams of easy riches and absolute freedom. A talented pilot oh his home planet, Spiff had caught wind of the Formula W.U.B. race from a co-worker while stocking shelves at his local McQuix. With a newborn son and a daughter already well on the way, the cash prize was extremely enticing. And with a staggering amount of gambling debt that only ever managed to grow larger, a new identity would provide the safety for his family he so desperately longed for. Ignoring his wife’s pleas, he hopped onto the first shuttle to Gritburn Gully, foolishly promising a swift return and a new life of luxury.

Nervously rotating a dull, golden ring between his fingers, Spiff’s mind drifted back to a life that was nothing more than a distant memory. The original vows of the ring long since broken, Spiff now viewed it as a reminder of the man he had failed to be. He would return, and he would provide. His family would be made whole. If they were even still alive, that is.

[EXCUSE ME, MISTER SPANNIGAN, SIR – REFUELLING IS COMPLETE. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR BUGGY FOR INSPECTION]

“—g-great!” stammered the pilot, the thoughts of his family vanishing as a computerized voice brought his focus back to the present day. Quickly turning around, he gave an awkward thumbs up to the mechanized figure who had approached him from behind. “Thanks, BB-808! Lead the way!”

Spiff followed the polite robot down a long, dusty path, arriving at the back door of a gargantuan garage attached to the Skraptorium. Pilots were allowed limited access to this facility: only on their days off, or in the evenings after a grueling day of physical labor. BB-808 approached a computer terminal on the left side of the door, speaking into a microphone located on the top of the unit.

[PRISONER NUMBER 118 RETURNING. PLEASE GRANT ACCESS]

Ominous purple light washed over the robot momentarily, followed by a series of high-pitched beeps. An audible “KER-CHUNK” rang out through the ravine as the rusted iron door unlocked, slowly swinging open. “Home sweet home” muttered Spiff. He trudged inside, dragging his feet reluctantly.

“READY FOR ANOTHER SEVEN YEARS, SPANNIGAN? MAYBE I SHOULD JUST KILL YOU NOW TO SAVE YOU THE HUMILIATION, NYAH NYAH NYAHHHH!”

“Yeah yeah, save it for the track, you slime-covered son of a grundleshpunk” snapped back Spiff as he entered the building. His eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to the dimly lit garage interior and he could barely see his tormentor, but the grating voice was impossible to mistake for anyone else.

“RAAAAAAA, TURN AROUND AND SAY THAT TO MY FACE YOU COWARD. NOBODY SPEAKS TO THE GREAT WUBBULBA WITH SUCH DISRESPECT!”

“Oh sorry, I was just trying to recreate your view…from second place” taunted Spiff, as he turned to face his longtime rival. A greasy mass of tentacles and alien limbs, each hideously adorned with what appeared to be an independently-moving mouth. Phlegm and saliva leaked from each visible orifice, leaving a trail of foul-smelling puddles on the ground wherever he walked. A ruthlessly cruel creature, Wubbulba was another loser of the previous Formula W.U.B. event. The bitter bully had spent the last seven years terrorizing Spiff, who he blamed his loss upon.

“Where even is your face? Ya ugly bag of butts!” chirped Spiff, kicking out at his foe. Wubbulba dodged the attack, crashing into a nearby trolley of automotive parts. Spryly jumping back to his feet, the angry alien lunged toward Spiff with a ferocious snarl, intent on revenge.

TWEEEEEEEET!

“Oi break it up, break it up!!” barked a pair of Skabskin guards, seeming to materialize out of thin air. Each brandished a long pole with a jagged blade affixed to the end. The weapon crackled menacingly, raw electricity arcing from a series of wires and batteries sloppily welded to its handle. “Gonna be hard to take part in yer little race if ya don’t have any arms, innit?” one guard taunted, the fight quickly subsiding. “That’s what I thought, now shuddup – both of ye!” ***

[HELLO, DRIVER. PLEASE FASTEN YOUR SEATBEL--]

“Yeah yeah, not gonna happen” laughed Spiff, exhaling a cloud of wubbacco smoke. He violently slapped the dashboard of his car, causing the onboard navigator’s voice to fizzle out. “Ain’t got another seven years in me, so either I make it without crashing, or I go out in a blaze of glory. Either way, don’t need the belt”

“WELCOME, TO THE BIG RACE!!”

A powerful voice boomed throughout the spectator stands; rickety scaffolding bolted directly to the cliffside, held in place by whatever scrap metal the prisoners had been able to stabilize it with. The cheers and stomping of the massive crowd grew to a roar as the amped up announcer continued his performance, working the fans into a frenzy.

“We’ve got a record turnout this year folks, so expect a bloodbath! Over two hundred contestants, that’s right: TWO HUNDRED. But don’t forget, there can only be one winner! Which of these daring pilots will claim their freedom? How many will fail and be sent to the Skraptorium? We’re about to find out! Drivers, on your mark, get set, GO!!”

Hundreds of engines exploded to life simultaneously, drowning out both crowd and announcer as the death race began. The carnage was immediate: sand and mud were flung in all directions while the drivers struggled to gain traction on the loose desert floor. Sparks of red-hot rusted metal flashed through the air as the out-of-control vehicles collided, accompanied by the curse-filled cries of frustrated drivers.

Spiff was stuck in the middle of the pack, but by a stroke of luck his starting position was extremely close to the wall of the ravine. He grinned with excitement, seeing his chance to break free from the herd – a narrow gap in the cliffside only a few meters away. Just one racer stood between him and escape: a blacked out, round bodied buggy, covered with an assortment of expensive automotive tech. Four of the vehicle’s eight massive tires were already buried beneath the sand, sinking deeper as the driver revved his engine repeatedly.

“All them fancy gadgets but no skill to go along with them!” sneered Spiff, cutting directly in front of his neighbor. He bumped against the front of the stationary vehicle as he blew past, leaving a long scratch in its pristine paint job. An angry yell erupted from the driver’s seat. “C’mon man! Watch it!”

“Say hi to the boys at the Skraptorium for me!” yelled Spiff, leaving the chaos behind as he sped into the narrow opening. The towering rock walls on either side of him muffling the din of the crowd as he continued forward. As he flew forward, the ravine widened slightly with more room to maneuver. Spiff took the opportunity to look over his shoulder, expecting to see some of the other contestants hot on his tail. To his surprise, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He breathed a sigh of relief; now that the ranks had thinned out, it was just a not-very-straight shot to the finish line.

“HEADS UP, SPANNIGAN! KEYAHHHHHHH!”

Wubbulba’s unmistakable voice echoed loudly between the walls of the ravine, yet the horrid creature was nowhere to be seen. Frantically looking for his rival, Spiff half wondered if he’d just imagined the voice due to the stress of the race. Paranoia overtook him and he slammed the vehicle’s thrusters into overdrive, attempting to outrun whatever attack might be coming. In a shower of debris and loose rocks, Wubbulba’s battered buggy came hurtling down from the cliff above. Its tires grazing the top of Spiff’s helmet as it crash-landed in the sand only centimeters away.

Spiff cranked the steering wheel with all his might, desperately trying to avoid a collision with the much heavier vehicle. His own was built for speed, not durability; any more than a couple of hits and its shields would be depleted. And if he’d learned anything seven years ago, it was that you absolutely do not do a high-speed ravine run without shields, no matter how talented you think you are.

The sharp turn caused his buggy to lose traction, skidding across the sand entirely out of control. Slamming into the rock wall, Spiff punched the steering wheel directly with his face, losing consciousness immediately. The sights and sounds of the race faded to nothingness as the middle-aged pilot slumped limply in his seat.

“Ohhh, you hate to see it folks!” lamented the announcer, as the crowd watched the accident unfold. “He’s out of control!” Wubbulba cackled with laughter, zooming off into the distance.

The onboard recovery system crackled to life, scanning the unconscious pilot’s vital signs. The defibrillator attached to Spiff’s chair began to beep, then discharged an electric surge in attempt to wake him. As the electricity surged through him Spiff violently jerked awake, wide eyed and gasping for air while his heart resumed beating once more.

[DEFIBRILATION SUCCESSFUL, WELCOME BACK, DRIVER.]

Spiff frantically began flipping switches, running diagnostics on the vehicle. Shields? Gone. Along with both of his bumpers and the antenna. But to his surprise the engine roared back to life, sounding no worse for wear. The thrusters had overheated but were already stabilizing, and in a moment they’d be back online. “Damn, lucky” he grimaced, in a good amount of pain from the accident. He plopped back down into the driver’s chair, his seatbelt clicking into place as he began to drive forward. “Okay okay, lesson learned”. The thrusters flashed green, and he flipped a large switch on his dashboard.

 [HOLD ON]

“Ya don’t gotta tell me twice!” yelled Spiff, white-knuckling the wheel as the freshly-charged thrusters kicked into overdrive.

***

Against all odds, Spiff was somehow back in the running. He was trapped in third place behind another fellow inmate, Percival Pandlefloom - a wretched old man who had been a captive of the Skabskin clan far longer than anyone else. Percival was a mere twenty years young when he’d entered the very first Formula W.U.B. event. Turns out, Ol’ Percy boy was an extremely mediocre pilot struggling with severe ego issues. Not a great combination if you wanted to leave the Skraptorium alive, unfortunately. He’d become a running joke amongst the Skabskin clan, many of whom placed bets on which decade Percival might finally win his freedom.

“Get outta here, Spannigan! It’s Percy’s time to escape this hellhole!”

“Eat my dust, Pandlefloom!” hollered back Spiff, blasting sand and debris across the old man’s buggy as he forced the throttle forward. Percival broke out into a fit of painful-sounding coughs as the dry desert dust showered his vehicle’s cockpit, filling his lungs. He slammed on the brakes, tires screeching in pain and the vehicle quickly came to a stop, leaving a line of smoldering rubber on the rocky ground behind him. Percival kicked open his door and rolled out of the vehicle, collapsing on the sand below.

The crowd cheered as Spiff zoomed ahead, pumping his fist in the air to celebrate commandeering second place. He squinted his eyes in the blinding sun, struggling to see through his dust-covered goggles. A few hundred meters ahead he could just make out the grotesque silhouette of his revolting rival. Wubbulba’s buggy must’ve taken a fair bit of damage from his previous stunt, as there was a lengthy trail of mechanical fluids directly behind him, and the gap between them was closing rapidly.

Spiff reached under his seat, desperately feeling around for anything that would give him an advantage in the last stretch of the race. He grasped something hard and metallic, and pulled the foreign object into his view. It was a long hefty wrench, one of the tools from back in the garage. Sometimes it does pay to be a disorganized slob. “Perfect!” he exclaimed, plotting his revenge as he closed in.

The drained driver was now neck and neck with Wubbulba, the two vehicles zooming across the desolate landscape side by side. Spiff pulled in close, kicking the door of the enemy vehicle with his boot, leaving a large dent.

“Hey butt breath!” he taunted. “Guess who’s back!”.

Wubbulba turned towards his assailant, his many mouths gnashing their teeth angrily at the second coming of Spiff. “IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT, SPANNIGAN? YOUR MOM HIT ME HARDER LAST NIGHT!” he screamed.

Spiff was almost out of track to make a move; it was now or never. He flicked all the switches on his dash to maximum and the Wubjector squirted out the last of its contents, covering the buggy’s engine in a glowing, green film. The vehicle roared with new life and a heavy cloud of sticky vapor began to envelope Spiff.

Lungs burning, Spiff quickly turned in his seat while whipping his arm outward. His fist unclenched at the exact right moment and the wrench left his hand, heading directly for Wubbulba. A one in a million shot; the tool glistened in the scathing sunlight before slipping through the front grill of his rival’s vehicle. Wedging itself between the engine block and the onboard weapons circuitry, the well-worn wrench immediately caused a short between the two components.

“DAMN YOU, SPAAAAANNIGAAARRRRRGHHHHHHHH—"

Wubbulba’s vengeful cry was cut short as a massive arc of electricity erupted beneath him, superheating his vehicle’s engine and causing it to explode in an instant. A massive plume of ash and fire erupted into the sky, while a rain of liquid Wubstep and Wubbulba-flavored shrapnel pummeled the ground underneath.

“WOOOO!!!” screamed Spiff, blazing past the wreckage. He pulled back on the throttle, redlining his engine to its absolute maximum. The wind whipped at his face, dust and debris slamming into his goggles as he ripped forward. Overwhelmed by adrenaline and emotion, he cocked his head backwards and let out a primal scream of victory. “NOW THIS IS WUBSTE—"***

“Ohhh yeah, he’s super dead” exclaimed Dumbledalf, using the butt end of his staff to poke the limp body lying in front of him and the Warrior of Wubstep. “I told you not to throw it!” he scolded his companion. “Hmm, number 118? Oh well, couldn’t have been anyone important if he’s up in the triple digits”.

The Warrior of Wubstep clasped his hands on the top of his head, his face white as he fell ass-backwards onto the sand. Thirty seconds earlier the case of Super Ultra he’d thrown had soared downward into the ravine in spectacularly slow motion. The box flaps ripped open and all twelve aluminum cans scattered through the desert air like some kind of giant shotgun blast. Dumbledalf’s cries of anguish were drowned out in an instant when the cans suddenly exploded into a giant fireball, much to the surprise of both wizard and warrior.

The pair had rushed down from the cliff, their previous spat completely forgotten. They approached the charred ground where the explosion had taken place and Dumbledalf ran over to the mangled vehicle, which had come to a stop against a nearby wall of the cavern.

“Holy smokes, she’s still running!” he exclaimed. Despite all odds it was still operational, even if it had seen better days, aesthetically speaking. “Looks like buddy could build ‘em better than he could drive ‘em hey? Bahahaha…what, too soon?”

“Dude...” the warrior whispered, speechless at his cohort’s callousness.

“C’mon get up, no time for feelings!” urged Dumbledalf, pulling his partner up to his feet. “This is scrapper territory and they’re not the friendliest bunch. Hop in!”

“Hop in…where?”

“Hmm, fair point. Let’s see” muttered the wizard, fiddling with the knobs and switches on the buggy’s dashboard. There was a loud, metallic clunk, followed by a whimsical cheer of success as he rushed to the back of the vehicle. “Any goodies in the trunk? Oh, perfect!”

Dumbledalf stepped back holding a hoverboard, and a triangular shaped handle with a frayed green rope attached. The wizard raised his staff, pointing it at the loose end. “STRANGLOTIMUS” he commanded, in a confident, deep voice much different from his usual tone. The warrior watched in amazement as the rope took on a life of its own. Moving like a charmed snake under the spell of its master, it slipped between the metal frame of the car, looping round and round before locking itself in a rather sloppy looking knot. The rope went limp, and Dumbledalf whistled loudly, admiring his own handiwork.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me” said the warrior. “No way. Never. Not happening”

“HOLD ON” screamed Dumbledalf, a devious look upon his face as he started the engine, drowning out his partner’s desperate pleas…

To be continued…