SPEED RACER HAREM SYSTEM

Chapter 7: A Suicidal Stunt

An hour later, Coyote pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned race track, just as Jax had directed. Jax sat silently in the passenger seat, arms crossed, watching the shadows stretch across the cracked pavement.

Coyote turned to him. “Wait, so this is the place where all the races take place?”

“This is one of the spots they use,” Jax replied, stepping out of the car. “Back in the day, they ran on public roads, but after too many run-ins with the cops, they decided to switch things up and use this place.”

Coyote got out as well, looking around. “So, how do I go about joining the race?”

“You leave that to me,” Jax said. “I hate that I’m doing this, but I’ll handle everything. You just take your car over to where the other drivers are prepping. And please, try to keep your mouth shut. These guys are dangerous. You don’t want to piss any of them off.”

Coyote gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

Jax shook his head. “Fuck you very much.”

“There’s no need to be rude, sir,” Coyote said, grinning.

Jax turned his back, walking toward the entrance and flipping him the bird as he went.

Coyote climbed back into his car, the smirk lingering on his lips. I’m really going to miss this, he thought, wherever I end up in the afterlife. He drove over to the lineup of high-performance vehicles, the gleaming machines of seasoned racers. As he approached, several heads turned, eyes locking on the beaten-up red Chevy.

“Jesus! I hope you’re not planning to race with that thing?” one of them scoffed.

Coyote said nothing, recalling Jax’s warning.

“Hey, Ghost!” the man shouted. “Looks like this guy wants to race in that rickety piece of junk!”

The six drivers gathered around, encircling Coyote as he stood beside his car, hands in his pockets, calm and quiet.

A tall figure stepped forward—tattoos crawling up his neck, black leather jacket with GHOST stitched across the back. He radiated authority, eyes cold and sizing Coyote up.

“I guess someone wants to be smooshed against the fence,” Ghost said. “Dude, what’s your name?”

Despite better judgment, Coyote replied, “My name is Coyote, and I’m going to use this rickety car to defeat you all.”

Laughter erupted. The whole circle echoed with mocking howls. Still, Coyote stood steady, his expression unreadable.

Just then, Jax arrived at his side. “You are one lucky motherfucker, you know that right?”

“What happened?” Coyote asked with a chuckle.

“They normally only let six drivers race,” Jax explained. “But they were willing to make an exception the moment they heard your name. Actually… one high-class lady was pushing for it. The rest didn’t seem to care either way.”

“Well, thank goodness she was there.”

Jax grabbed his arm gently. “There’s still time to back out. You don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll win this—and we’ll laugh about it,” Coyote said, sliding into his driver’s seat. “By the way, what’s the prize money?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Jax said. “And just so you know, everyone’s betting against you.”

“That’s fair,” Coyote said with a smirk. “I’ll prove them wrong.”

A few minutes later, the engines roared.

The race began.

The whole area was thick with smoke, gasoline, and anticipation. Floodlights flickered over the cracked concrete of the abandoned race track—once a prestigious venue for speed and glory, now a pothole-riddled battlefield for the desperate and the damned. Engines growled like beasts at the starting line, six slick machines gleaming under the low lights.

And then there was Coyote’s car—a battered red Chevy, barely held together by bolts, duct tape, and willpower. Its hood was dented, the windshield cracked like a spiderweb. But its engine still roared, and that was enough.

Jax stood in the stands, heart pounding as the flag dropped.

The race began.

The six other drivers surged forward with violent precision, their modified rides gliding smoothly over the uneven terrain. Coyote’s car lurched, coughing smoke, tires screeching in protest. But he stayed with them. Barely.

The first lap was a blur of chaos. One driver in a sleek black Mustang clipped Coyote’s side, spinning him toward the potholes. Another in a neon green Charger slammed into his rear, jarring his spine. Metal screeched against metal as they tried to take him out early, treating him like prey. Every bump made Coyote wince—but he gritted his teeth and kept going.

Jax leaned forward from the bleachers, gripping the rusted railing. “Come on, man… don’t let them kill you.”

By the second lap, Coyote’s side mirror was gone, one headlight flickered uselessly, and his front bumper hung like a broken jaw. Yet he began to study the track, committing every dip, crack, and sharp turn to memory. He saw how the others took wide paths to avoid the worst parts—he didn’t have that luxury. He made the potholes his allies.

The third lap changed everything.

As one silver Camaro tried to sideswipe him, Coyote feinted left—then jerked right, forcing the driver into a crater he’d learned to avoid. The Camaro flipped twice before skidding into a wall, sparks flying.

“I guess you thought could keep fucking me. Well, now go fuck yourself!” Coyote yelled, as adrenaline surged through him. He hasn't felt this way in a long time.

Another attacker, emboldened by aggression, tried to pin him against the fence. Coyote braked suddenly and let the driver surge ahead—right into a pile of broken concrete that split the undercarriage clean. The third casualty happened when a blue Mazda misjudged a sharp curve trying to ram him—Coyote had taken it earlier with ease, but the Mazda flipped and rolled off into smoke and screams.

Three down. Three left.

By the fourth lap, Coyote’s car looked like it had survived a war—but it was still moving. His hands trembled on the wheel. Blood trickled from a gash above his brow. He could barely hear over the rattle of the engine and the roar of the crowd.

Then came the final lap.

One driver remained ahead of him—a ruthless racer known only as Ghost, his obsidian vehicle built like a predator. They were neck-and-neck, tires skimming the edges of craters, engines howling in protest.

Coyote pushed forward—until his steering locked up. The front axle gave a jolt. He knew: the car wouldn’t survive another hit, and he couldn’t outpace Ghost. Not head-on.

Then he had a wild idea.

Without hesitation, he yanked the gear into reverse.

“What the hell is he doing?!” Jax shouted from the stands.

The crowd gasped as Coyote’s car screeched into backward motion. The Chevy flew in reverse, its taillights glowing like defiance. Ghost surged forward in disbelief, but Coyote—somehow—kept the car straight.

The finish line loomed. Inches separated them.

And then—Coyote crossed it first, and gave Ghost a wink.

He won.

“Fuck! I fucking won!” Coyote yelled at the top of his lungs.

For one glorious second, silence reigned.

Then—

CRUNCH.

Coyote, unable to see behind, slammed into the concrete wall at full speed. The impact crumpled the rear of the car like paper. Smoke billowed. Jax screamed his name.

Coyote smiled in sweet surrender, his life as he knew it was over. He accepted his fate.

But then—a blinding white light erupted.

A pulse of energy zapped through the wreck, engulfing the mangled Chevy. In a flash, Coyote’s body was ripped from the seat by an invisible force—hurled clear just before the car exploded in a roaring fireball.

Debris scattered across the track. Flames licked the night sky.

Jax scrambled down the stands, eyes scanning the smoke. Somewhere, amid the wreckage, Coyote lay. Alive or dead, nobody knows.