SPEED RACER HAREM SYSTEM

Chapter 5: The Attack

“You grab my wife's butt and when she complains, you hit her! You will live to regret it,” the man—who Coyote quickly realized was Katalina’s husband—shouted, his voice thick with rage.

Coyote blinked, dazed and confused. What the hell is he talking about? When did I grab her butt? When did I hit her? The accusations didn’t make sense. But as he looked past the fury in the man’s face and saw Katalina smirking behind him, it all clicked.

She lied. That devious despicable bitch lied.

A brutal punch caught him in the jaw, sending him stumbling back. Another blow struck his ribs. Kicks followed. Coyote tried to shield himself, but the man's fists were fast, relentless. Each hit rattled his bones.

He winced, breath ragged, but in a sudden burst of strength, he grabbed the man’s foot mid-kick and shoved it with everything he had. The man lost his balance and crashed to the ground.

Panting on all fours, Coyote shouted, “I did not touch your wife! She’s a slut that came on to me!”

He pushed himself up, trying to rise—but something slammed into his back with a sickening crack. Pain exploded through his spine as he collapsed again, gasping. He twisted onto his back and saw her—Katalina—standing above him, a baseball bat gripped in her hands.

“What do you want, bitch? You want to kill me for rejecting you? Go ahead, do it!” he roared, voice hoarse with fury and pain.

Katalina didn’t respond. Her eyes were dark, lips curled in satisfaction as she lifted the bat again. But before she could strike, her husband returned, grabbing Coyote by the collar and dragging him upright only to send him crashing down again with another brutal kick to the stomach.

“You think you’re slick, huh?” the man sneered, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Darling, what do we do with him?”

“I think it’s enough. We don’t want to kill him… do we?” Katalina said, her gaze fixed on Coyote, who lay limp and bloodied, barely conscious.

The man looked down at Coyote with a twisted grin, then slowly turned his attention to Coyote’s car that was just a couple feet away from them.

“This car looks like his baby,” he said, his voice low with malice. “Bet he cleans it every day. I'm sure this’ll hurt him more.”

He yanked the bat from Katalina’s hands and stalked toward the car. Without hesitation, he swung hard—once, twice—shattering the driver-side window. The next hit crumpled the side mirror. Then came the windshield, the hood, the lights—blow after blow raining down as if trying to erase every inch of what Coyote loved.

“No! Please, stop! I didn’t touch your wife! I swear to God, I didn’t touch her!” Coyote cried out, sobbing. His voice cracked with desperation, his fists pounding weakly against the pavement.

But the man didn’t stop—not until distant footsteps echoed from the street nearby.

Katalina's expression shifted instantly.

“We have to go,” she said quickly.

Her husband hesitated for a second, breathing hard, then dropped the bat and backed away. He cast one final sneer at Coyote, then turned to follow his wife.

Coyote lay there, broken and trembling, the ruins of his beloved car just a couple feet away. Blood trickled from his mouth. His vision blurred with tears and pain.

As the couple disappeared into the shadows, he was left with nothing but his wrecked car… and the bitter sting of injustice for doing the right thing. Not fucking a married woman.

—

—-

A few minutes later, Coyote stirred back to life. He had blacked out the moment Katalina and her husband disappeared into the night. Now, blinking against a torchlight, his vision remained foggy—until a loud voice snapped him back.

“Boy! How many fingers am I holding up?”

The blurry outline sharpened gradually, enough for Coyote to make out three fingers raised by a bald man in his late fifties, his crooked nose unmistakable.

“Three fingers, Mr. Knox. You’re holding up three fingers,” Coyote muttered, pushing himself upright. Pain stabbed through his back and stomach, forcing a sharp wince as he staggered to his feet.

He turned and limped toward what was left of his car. The sight of it twisted something deep in his chest—windows shattered, mirrors broken, metal torn. Tears welled up and spilled freely down his cheeks.

Behind him, Mr. Knox watched silently at first, then spoke, “What happened to you, boy? Who did you offend? Are you owing loan sharks money? But if it was loan sharks, they’d just take the car, not destroy it.”

He rambled on, clearly worried. He’d had his own run-ins with loan sharks before and knew their methods well.

Coyote didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The lump in his throat wouldn’t let him speak. Instead, he focused on the car, opening the door carefully and beginning to sweep out the shattered glass littering the seats. Each movement sent fresh pain through his body, but he kept going, almost numb to it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Mr. Knox pulling out his phone and dialing a number. Coyote didn’t need to ask—he already knew who he was calling.

“Sir, please stop. Don’t call anyone,” Coyote said quickly, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Why the hell not? You need to go to the hospital, and I need to report this to the police,” Mr. Knox argued, his voice rising.

From his perspective, he was absolutely right. Coyote looked like he’d been through a war. But Coyote had already checked out. He didn’t want help. He didn’t want questions. He didn’t want to live.

What’s the point anymore? he thought bitterly.

“I’ll drive myself to the hospital. I can’t afford ambulance services. You do know they’re expensive, right? Once I’m better, I’ll report this to the police,” he said, his voice tired, detached.

Mr. Knox paused, frowning as he slowly lowered the phone. “I just remembered… everything health-related in this country is damn expensive.” He looked at the car, then back at Coyote. “But seriously, can you really drive that mangled thing?”

Coyote tried to smile, to reassure him—but all that came were more tears.

“Don’t worry about me, sir. I’ll be just fine.” He paused, voice catching. “I know I’ve never said this before, but… thank you. Thank you for giving me a job when no one else would. I mean that.”

Mr. Knox blinked, caught off guard. The way Coyote said it… it felt final. Like goodbye.

Before he could respond, Coyote turned the key. The engine sputtered to life, coughing like it was on its last legs. Bits of the car rattled and fell off as it rolled forward.

And just like that, Coyote drove away, leaving Mr. Knox standing there in silence, a growing sense of dread tightening in his chest.

I hope this boy doesn't kill himself.