11-21-2008, 07:42 PM
Okay, another attempt at writing. PLEASE read and review. Thanks.
Twisted Metal: Wrath Of The Wolf
By The Cowboy From Hell
-666-
***
DISCLAIMER:
I DO NOT own Twisted Metal, or any of the crap in this fic. Don't sue, you'll get nothing. I rent.
***
This is a story I've been mulling around for a few years, now, and I finally have a character and a direction to put it in, so, here we go.
This takes place some years after Twisted Metal: Black
******
A lone grey wolf walked through a Junkyard. Brandon Hayley was the wolf, and the Junkyard was now his. He bought it for a few reasons. One, the price was difficult to beat, two, he loved the old iron that sat here in varying states of death, and three, it gave him his own business. Money he desperately needed if he was going to give his Fiancée the life she deserved.
He sighed lowly as he sat on the fender of a smashed '56 Chevy, thinking about her. Her name was Shade Darkhalzen, a rather attractive Akita Inu, who was two years younger than him. She was sweet, funny, cute, and forgiving and caring to a fault. It left the poor wolf each day feeling that he didn't deserve someone as great as her. Hopefully this business would give him what he needed to deserve that wonderful girl.
As his mind drifted back to the present, he noticed a run down quanset hut at the far end of the lot. He never saw it before, in his many trips down to this scrapyard. He looked around, noticing that he was in a formally fenced off area of the yard. Yes...he remembered a tall chainlink fence about forty feet behind him. As he walked back, he noticed the posts of the fence were cut off crudely at the base.
"Why would they take the fence but leave all these old muscle cars?" he asked aloud, confused.
He shook his head, and looked back at the aluminum building. Curiousity got the best of him, and he walked to the building.
When he got there, he saw a rather imposing steel chain and a massive padlock on the doors. He looked down at the keyring he was given, as he looked for a key that would match it. Sure enough, he found the one labeled "Master", and gave it a shot.
He inserted the key, and tried to turn it. Nothing but resistance. Pulling the can of WD-40 out of the cargo pocket of his BDUs, he pulled the key out and gave it a quick squirt. He had expected a few stuck locks from the derelict property, so he came prepared. He banged a rock against the lock, to free up the rust inside, and tried the key again.
*CLICK!*
Success! He pulled the lock away, and pulled the chain out, dropping it at his feet. Trembling with curiousity and excitement, he opened the doors.
Nestled deep inside, next to faded red toolboxes and Olive green boxes of lord knows what was a very odd looking vehicle. From what he could tell, from his failed days as an overland trucker, most of it was a mid-70s Peterbilt, model 359. On it's front bumper, covering much of the grill, was a mid-80s police car, attached by more massive logging chain. The headlights were relocated higher, so that they could still be used. Thick armor plating covered much of the rig, and massive I-Beams protected the fuel tanks, and served as steprails. On either front fender was a 20mm Gatling gun, with belts of ammunition still fed into them. Bullet dents covered much of the rig, and it appeared to be a faded black color. The tires appeared to be Solid-Rubber Military-Spec, and he could faintly see painted on the door, "Darkside". This made a chill run up his spine.
He always had a penchant for killing, and he hated himself for it. He was kicked out of the Marines for killing too much, and fired from the Police for "accidentally" killing a few men. This is what he secretly referred to as his "Darkside". Now, he was staring down the gunsights of someone elses Darkside.
"Darkside...." he said aloud, a tingle shooting up his spine, "...that contest...years ago...what was it called?...Twisted something..."
All of a sudden, he felt very cold. He pulled his trenchcoat closer to his smoke-grey fur, but it didn't help. He heard a voice behind him, that made him spin with unheard-of speed.
"Twisted Metal. My brainchild." The stranger said. He was a human, tall, lean, and bald as a plucked chicken. Scars covered much of his face, and a rather noticeable one ran across his throat, like someone tried to kill him.
"Who are you, and what are you doing on my property?" Brandon growled lowly, flashing his sharp fangs. His left paw rested on his Taurus revolver, Shade's Birthday gift to him.
"My name is Calypso, and I came here to talk, Staff Sargeant Brandon Hayley, Dishonorably Discharged from the United States Marine Corps in 2012." He said, smirking.
"H-how do you know that?" he asked, his deep lupine voice faltering, as he took a step back.
"I know a lot about you, Brandon." Calypso smirked, as he walked slowly around Brandon, "you got discharged in 2012, fired from the Police Force in 2015, fired from a rather large shipping firm in 2017, enrolled in Community College, and dropped out within three months. Currently engaged to be married to Shade Darkhalzen, whose parents are Stripes and Bash Darkhalzen. Need I say more?"
Brandon growled lowly, as his darker side took over. In a flash, the revolver was out, hammer cocked, and pointed at Calypso's head, "What do you want from me?"
"The last driver of this vehicle, a rather pitiful girl we called Dollface, commited suicide shortly after losing to Sweet Tooth in our last contest. I ordered the previous owner to lock up her vehicle, and keep it safe until the appropriate driver came along. You, Brandon Hayley, are that driver."
Brandon's ears, which were laid back in anger, perked up slightly, "driver for what?"
"Why, the new Twisted Metal Games, of course." He said, smiling darkly, "should you accept, I haven't had anyone turn me down yet, you'll get to feed that darker side of you. The side of you that stems from years of abuse as a young pup. The side that wants to kill. If you win, I can show you what you need to do to deserve Shade."
"...and what do I have to do to win?" he asked, lowering the large revolver.
"Survive." Calypso replied, "I shall return in 48 hours to receive your answer."
With that, he turned and left. Brandon looked at the truck, and back at Calypso. He was gone. No footsteps in the dirt, no shadow around the corner. Flat GONE.
Brandon shook his head, and leaned against the truck. He had seen a ghost. It HAD to have been a ghost. Being more canine than human, he was attuned to such things, which would explain why he held a conversation with it. His superstitious mind explained it to himself, as he closed the doors behind him, and left the Junkyard, lost in his thoughts.
******
He stepped inside the sad little trailer he shared with Shade, and took his cowboy hat off, hanging it on the nail by the door. He was greeted by the short, lithe, black blur that practically tackled him, licking his muzzle in a doggish, but cute, way.
"How was your day, baby?" she asked, her golden eyes gleaming at the wolf she loved.
"Boring." He lied. Well, partially lied, "exploring the property, mostly. Gonna open it up tomorrow."
"Well, that's good. I haven't seen you as happy as when that nice old man handed you those keys." She smiled, hugging him tightly.
"So, how was your day?" he asked, always interested in what she told him.
"Perfect, as usual." She smiled.
He sighed inwardly. They barely made rent, the place was a shithole. He hated it, and he knew she did, too. She was only saying that to make him feel better. She cared too much about him to say otherwise.
After a quiet meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes, the thought of Calypso still plagued his mind.
"Say, Shady," he started, trying to find the words in his mug of coffee, "what would you say if I entered a contest?"
"What kind of contest?" she asked, cocking her head in a way that made him smile.
"A Demolition Derby." He partially lied, "I've got enough on the lot to piece a car together, and we could really use the money."
"As long as it makes you happy baby." She smiled, placing a reassuring paw on his.
"I might be gone for a few months. Do you think you can handle the Junkyard by yourself?" he asked, not having the heart to tell her that losing meant more than the contest.
"Pretty sure, baby. The pricebook is still under the counter?" she asked.
"Never moved it, love." He smiled, as he sipped the bittersweet swill.
"Well, then, I can handle it. If not, I can call Frank from down the way. He said he'd lend a helping paw." She smiled, as she put her plate in the sink.
Brandon followed suit, wrapping his scarred, muscular arms around her, "I swear, everyday I tell myself there's no way I could love you more, and everyday you prove me wrong."
Shade giggled, and turned her head to kiss the side of his muzzle, "I love you too, wuffy."
******
The next two days passed with relative boredom. The occasional gearhead or greasemonkey would stop in, and offer a friendly chat, and he made a few sales, but, it was quiet and sedate. His calmer side loved it.
Finally, as he was pulling an intake manifold off of a wrecked car for a customer, he saw the "ghost" again.
"For a second there," he grunted, as he yanked the heavy iron piece from the engine, "that you wouldn't come back."
"For a second there, I thought you would say no." Calypso smirked.
"So, what do I get if I win?" Brandon asked, as he set the part on the tailgate of his pickup truck.
"Whatever your heart desires." Calypso replied.
"Its not what I want. It's what She deserves." Brandon stated, staring the man in the eyes, "I want to give Shade the life she deserves. The kind of life where I don't have to sleep with a loaded pistol under my pillow, the life where the landlord doesn't yell at her until she cries. The kind of life a girl like her deserves."
"If you win, it will be yours." Calypso said, offering his hand to Brandon.
Brandon took it, and shook. A jolt of fear and a murderous rage shot through him, as he felt the warm hand of the man in his paw. This wasn't a man. This wasn't human.
Calypso let go, and left. Brandon didn't look back, knowing full well he wouldn't be there.
...He just made a deal with the Devil himself.
******
Chapter Two
******
Brandon left the part with one of his employees, and left them in charge for the afternoon, as he drove his truck to the back of the 250-acre wrecking yard. He pulled up to the building, and pulled the doors open. The black truck seemed to mock him as he stepped inside, glaring at him through the headlights.
"Might as well find out what's all in here." He sighed, as he opened the boxes up.
Ammo. But not just any ammo, the illegal kind. Armor Piercing, high Velocity bullets. Opening up larger boxes, he found replacement motors and barrels to the Vulcans. More boxes housed sheets of armor plating. The tools, which he expected to be cheap, chinese pieces of crap, were Snap-On, American made, and in very good condition. He found a keyring, the skull of a small rodent, with three keys on it.
"Keys to the rig." He mused.
He inserted a key into the doorlock on the truck, and unlocked it. He swung the door open, which was much heavier than he expected, but balanced nicely. He saw why it was so heavy, there was a good inch-and-a-half of heavy armor plating on the Cab and the doors. The interior was stripped of any creature-comforts, save for a cushy-looking driver's seat. There were unknown toggles on the dashboard, and what looked like triggers mounted to the underside of the steering wheel, along with triggers on the long shifter.
He climbed back out, and turned his attention to the next key. It was relatively small and short, so he tried the fuel tanks.
Normally on a big rig, the fuel fillers were out on the tanks themselves, for speed of refueling. But these were mounted inside the framerails, which would prove dangerous on a rig meant for hauling. But this wasn't meant for hauling, afterall. He unlocked the armored doors, and opened the fuel doors. The smell of relatively fresh Diesel fuel met his sensitive Canine nose, which suprised him. The truck look like it had sat for decades, yet the fuel smelled days, maybe even weeks old.
Curiousity getting the best of him, he went to pop the hood on the beast. He quickly discovered it wouldn't, no, couldn't, tilt forward like on a traditional big rig, so he inspected the sides, looking for the latches. He found both of them on the driver's side, just above the Vulcan Cannon. He flipped them open, and pushed up on the heavily reinforced hood, until it hit the stops on the passenger side with a loud clang.
What he saw made his jaw drop, and his wolfhood harden.
Caterpillar C18, 6-cylinder Diesel engine. In the mounts, it stood taller than he did. A large pair of Turbochargers fed into an intercooler, then into what he assumed was an 8-71 Roots-Type supercharger. The head of the beast was unlike anything he had ever seen. Even the aftercooler looked foreign to him. It HAD to have been a custom piece, designed to put out as much power as possible. He saw plumbing for something he didn't expect.
Tail wagging excitedly, he began to look around the truck, until he finally found what he was looking for. Four tanks, two for Propane, and two for Nitrous Oxide, to give the vehicle an insane burst of speed. He finally figured out why a cop car was chained to the front.
"It's a giant battering ram." He said, in awe.
He shut the heavy hood, and sat on the driver's side I-Beam, when he noticed a letter. He picked it up, and looked at it. His name was written clearly in caligraphy on the envelope, so he opened it.
"Brandon Hayley,
If you are reading this, than you have chosen to become the new driver of Darkside. We have taken the liberty of doing maintenance on your new vehicle, as well as replacing the old ammunition with new.
I know you are a technical man, so here are the specs on the Vehicle you will be driving in the contest.
VEHICLE: DARKSIDE
YEAR: 1979
MAKE: PETERBILT
MODEL: 359
COLOR: BLACK
ARMAMENT: 2 - 20MM VULCAN CANNONS
4 - HEATSEEKING MISSILES
4 - SPECIAL MISSILES
1 - SPECIAL
SPECIAL ARMAMENT: NITROUS OXIDE/PROPANE INJECTION, TO PROVIDE INSTANTANEOUS ACCELERATION FOR VEHICULAR RAMMING
DEFENSIVE:
1.75 INCH ARMOR PLATING ON CAB/ENGINE BAY
SOLID RUBBER TIRES
BULLETPROOF GLASS
ENGINE:
DISPLACEMENT: 19.5 LITRES
NUMBER OF CYLINDERS: 6
CYLINDER PLACEMENT: INLINE
POWER ADDERS: 2 - 90MM GARRETT TURBOCHARGERS
1 - 8-71 ROOTS-TYPE BELT DRIVEN SUPERCHARGER
1 - SINGLE CORE INTERCOOLER
1 - TWO-STAGE AFTERCOOLER
DRIVETRAIN:
TRANSMISSION: 5 GEARS MANUAL, 4 GEARS AIR-SHIFTED/ 20 FORWARD GEARS
AXLES: ROCKWELL INDUSTRIES HEAVY DUTY UNITS
FINAL DRIVE RATIO: 5.44:1
FUEL TYPE: HIGH SULFER DIESEL
Please say your goodbyes to Shade tonight, and meet us for orientation in Midtown at midnight tomorrow.
~Calypso
Twisted Metal: Wrath Of The Wolf
By The Cowboy From Hell
-666-
***
DISCLAIMER:
I DO NOT own Twisted Metal, or any of the crap in this fic. Don't sue, you'll get nothing. I rent.
***
This is a story I've been mulling around for a few years, now, and I finally have a character and a direction to put it in, so, here we go.
This takes place some years after Twisted Metal: Black
******
A lone grey wolf walked through a Junkyard. Brandon Hayley was the wolf, and the Junkyard was now his. He bought it for a few reasons. One, the price was difficult to beat, two, he loved the old iron that sat here in varying states of death, and three, it gave him his own business. Money he desperately needed if he was going to give his Fiancée the life she deserved.
He sighed lowly as he sat on the fender of a smashed '56 Chevy, thinking about her. Her name was Shade Darkhalzen, a rather attractive Akita Inu, who was two years younger than him. She was sweet, funny, cute, and forgiving and caring to a fault. It left the poor wolf each day feeling that he didn't deserve someone as great as her. Hopefully this business would give him what he needed to deserve that wonderful girl.
As his mind drifted back to the present, he noticed a run down quanset hut at the far end of the lot. He never saw it before, in his many trips down to this scrapyard. He looked around, noticing that he was in a formally fenced off area of the yard. Yes...he remembered a tall chainlink fence about forty feet behind him. As he walked back, he noticed the posts of the fence were cut off crudely at the base.
"Why would they take the fence but leave all these old muscle cars?" he asked aloud, confused.
He shook his head, and looked back at the aluminum building. Curiousity got the best of him, and he walked to the building.
When he got there, he saw a rather imposing steel chain and a massive padlock on the doors. He looked down at the keyring he was given, as he looked for a key that would match it. Sure enough, he found the one labeled "Master", and gave it a shot.
He inserted the key, and tried to turn it. Nothing but resistance. Pulling the can of WD-40 out of the cargo pocket of his BDUs, he pulled the key out and gave it a quick squirt. He had expected a few stuck locks from the derelict property, so he came prepared. He banged a rock against the lock, to free up the rust inside, and tried the key again.
*CLICK!*
Success! He pulled the lock away, and pulled the chain out, dropping it at his feet. Trembling with curiousity and excitement, he opened the doors.
Nestled deep inside, next to faded red toolboxes and Olive green boxes of lord knows what was a very odd looking vehicle. From what he could tell, from his failed days as an overland trucker, most of it was a mid-70s Peterbilt, model 359. On it's front bumper, covering much of the grill, was a mid-80s police car, attached by more massive logging chain. The headlights were relocated higher, so that they could still be used. Thick armor plating covered much of the rig, and massive I-Beams protected the fuel tanks, and served as steprails. On either front fender was a 20mm Gatling gun, with belts of ammunition still fed into them. Bullet dents covered much of the rig, and it appeared to be a faded black color. The tires appeared to be Solid-Rubber Military-Spec, and he could faintly see painted on the door, "Darkside". This made a chill run up his spine.
He always had a penchant for killing, and he hated himself for it. He was kicked out of the Marines for killing too much, and fired from the Police for "accidentally" killing a few men. This is what he secretly referred to as his "Darkside". Now, he was staring down the gunsights of someone elses Darkside.
"Darkside...." he said aloud, a tingle shooting up his spine, "...that contest...years ago...what was it called?...Twisted something..."
All of a sudden, he felt very cold. He pulled his trenchcoat closer to his smoke-grey fur, but it didn't help. He heard a voice behind him, that made him spin with unheard-of speed.
"Twisted Metal. My brainchild." The stranger said. He was a human, tall, lean, and bald as a plucked chicken. Scars covered much of his face, and a rather noticeable one ran across his throat, like someone tried to kill him.
"Who are you, and what are you doing on my property?" Brandon growled lowly, flashing his sharp fangs. His left paw rested on his Taurus revolver, Shade's Birthday gift to him.
"My name is Calypso, and I came here to talk, Staff Sargeant Brandon Hayley, Dishonorably Discharged from the United States Marine Corps in 2012." He said, smirking.
"H-how do you know that?" he asked, his deep lupine voice faltering, as he took a step back.
"I know a lot about you, Brandon." Calypso smirked, as he walked slowly around Brandon, "you got discharged in 2012, fired from the Police Force in 2015, fired from a rather large shipping firm in 2017, enrolled in Community College, and dropped out within three months. Currently engaged to be married to Shade Darkhalzen, whose parents are Stripes and Bash Darkhalzen. Need I say more?"
Brandon growled lowly, as his darker side took over. In a flash, the revolver was out, hammer cocked, and pointed at Calypso's head, "What do you want from me?"
"The last driver of this vehicle, a rather pitiful girl we called Dollface, commited suicide shortly after losing to Sweet Tooth in our last contest. I ordered the previous owner to lock up her vehicle, and keep it safe until the appropriate driver came along. You, Brandon Hayley, are that driver."
Brandon's ears, which were laid back in anger, perked up slightly, "driver for what?"
"Why, the new Twisted Metal Games, of course." He said, smiling darkly, "should you accept, I haven't had anyone turn me down yet, you'll get to feed that darker side of you. The side of you that stems from years of abuse as a young pup. The side that wants to kill. If you win, I can show you what you need to do to deserve Shade."
"...and what do I have to do to win?" he asked, lowering the large revolver.
"Survive." Calypso replied, "I shall return in 48 hours to receive your answer."
With that, he turned and left. Brandon looked at the truck, and back at Calypso. He was gone. No footsteps in the dirt, no shadow around the corner. Flat GONE.
Brandon shook his head, and leaned against the truck. He had seen a ghost. It HAD to have been a ghost. Being more canine than human, he was attuned to such things, which would explain why he held a conversation with it. His superstitious mind explained it to himself, as he closed the doors behind him, and left the Junkyard, lost in his thoughts.
******
He stepped inside the sad little trailer he shared with Shade, and took his cowboy hat off, hanging it on the nail by the door. He was greeted by the short, lithe, black blur that practically tackled him, licking his muzzle in a doggish, but cute, way.
"How was your day, baby?" she asked, her golden eyes gleaming at the wolf she loved.
"Boring." He lied. Well, partially lied, "exploring the property, mostly. Gonna open it up tomorrow."
"Well, that's good. I haven't seen you as happy as when that nice old man handed you those keys." She smiled, hugging him tightly.
"So, how was your day?" he asked, always interested in what she told him.
"Perfect, as usual." She smiled.
He sighed inwardly. They barely made rent, the place was a shithole. He hated it, and he knew she did, too. She was only saying that to make him feel better. She cared too much about him to say otherwise.
After a quiet meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes, the thought of Calypso still plagued his mind.
"Say, Shady," he started, trying to find the words in his mug of coffee, "what would you say if I entered a contest?"
"What kind of contest?" she asked, cocking her head in a way that made him smile.
"A Demolition Derby." He partially lied, "I've got enough on the lot to piece a car together, and we could really use the money."
"As long as it makes you happy baby." She smiled, placing a reassuring paw on his.
"I might be gone for a few months. Do you think you can handle the Junkyard by yourself?" he asked, not having the heart to tell her that losing meant more than the contest.
"Pretty sure, baby. The pricebook is still under the counter?" she asked.
"Never moved it, love." He smiled, as he sipped the bittersweet swill.
"Well, then, I can handle it. If not, I can call Frank from down the way. He said he'd lend a helping paw." She smiled, as she put her plate in the sink.
Brandon followed suit, wrapping his scarred, muscular arms around her, "I swear, everyday I tell myself there's no way I could love you more, and everyday you prove me wrong."
Shade giggled, and turned her head to kiss the side of his muzzle, "I love you too, wuffy."
******
The next two days passed with relative boredom. The occasional gearhead or greasemonkey would stop in, and offer a friendly chat, and he made a few sales, but, it was quiet and sedate. His calmer side loved it.
Finally, as he was pulling an intake manifold off of a wrecked car for a customer, he saw the "ghost" again.
"For a second there," he grunted, as he yanked the heavy iron piece from the engine, "that you wouldn't come back."
"For a second there, I thought you would say no." Calypso smirked.
"So, what do I get if I win?" Brandon asked, as he set the part on the tailgate of his pickup truck.
"Whatever your heart desires." Calypso replied.
"Its not what I want. It's what She deserves." Brandon stated, staring the man in the eyes, "I want to give Shade the life she deserves. The kind of life where I don't have to sleep with a loaded pistol under my pillow, the life where the landlord doesn't yell at her until she cries. The kind of life a girl like her deserves."
"If you win, it will be yours." Calypso said, offering his hand to Brandon.
Brandon took it, and shook. A jolt of fear and a murderous rage shot through him, as he felt the warm hand of the man in his paw. This wasn't a man. This wasn't human.
Calypso let go, and left. Brandon didn't look back, knowing full well he wouldn't be there.
...He just made a deal with the Devil himself.
******
Chapter Two
******
Brandon left the part with one of his employees, and left them in charge for the afternoon, as he drove his truck to the back of the 250-acre wrecking yard. He pulled up to the building, and pulled the doors open. The black truck seemed to mock him as he stepped inside, glaring at him through the headlights.
"Might as well find out what's all in here." He sighed, as he opened the boxes up.
Ammo. But not just any ammo, the illegal kind. Armor Piercing, high Velocity bullets. Opening up larger boxes, he found replacement motors and barrels to the Vulcans. More boxes housed sheets of armor plating. The tools, which he expected to be cheap, chinese pieces of crap, were Snap-On, American made, and in very good condition. He found a keyring, the skull of a small rodent, with three keys on it.
"Keys to the rig." He mused.
He inserted a key into the doorlock on the truck, and unlocked it. He swung the door open, which was much heavier than he expected, but balanced nicely. He saw why it was so heavy, there was a good inch-and-a-half of heavy armor plating on the Cab and the doors. The interior was stripped of any creature-comforts, save for a cushy-looking driver's seat. There were unknown toggles on the dashboard, and what looked like triggers mounted to the underside of the steering wheel, along with triggers on the long shifter.
He climbed back out, and turned his attention to the next key. It was relatively small and short, so he tried the fuel tanks.
Normally on a big rig, the fuel fillers were out on the tanks themselves, for speed of refueling. But these were mounted inside the framerails, which would prove dangerous on a rig meant for hauling. But this wasn't meant for hauling, afterall. He unlocked the armored doors, and opened the fuel doors. The smell of relatively fresh Diesel fuel met his sensitive Canine nose, which suprised him. The truck look like it had sat for decades, yet the fuel smelled days, maybe even weeks old.
Curiousity getting the best of him, he went to pop the hood on the beast. He quickly discovered it wouldn't, no, couldn't, tilt forward like on a traditional big rig, so he inspected the sides, looking for the latches. He found both of them on the driver's side, just above the Vulcan Cannon. He flipped them open, and pushed up on the heavily reinforced hood, until it hit the stops on the passenger side with a loud clang.
What he saw made his jaw drop, and his wolfhood harden.
Caterpillar C18, 6-cylinder Diesel engine. In the mounts, it stood taller than he did. A large pair of Turbochargers fed into an intercooler, then into what he assumed was an 8-71 Roots-Type supercharger. The head of the beast was unlike anything he had ever seen. Even the aftercooler looked foreign to him. It HAD to have been a custom piece, designed to put out as much power as possible. He saw plumbing for something he didn't expect.
Tail wagging excitedly, he began to look around the truck, until he finally found what he was looking for. Four tanks, two for Propane, and two for Nitrous Oxide, to give the vehicle an insane burst of speed. He finally figured out why a cop car was chained to the front.
"It's a giant battering ram." He said, in awe.
He shut the heavy hood, and sat on the driver's side I-Beam, when he noticed a letter. He picked it up, and looked at it. His name was written clearly in caligraphy on the envelope, so he opened it.
"Brandon Hayley,
If you are reading this, than you have chosen to become the new driver of Darkside. We have taken the liberty of doing maintenance on your new vehicle, as well as replacing the old ammunition with new.
I know you are a technical man, so here are the specs on the Vehicle you will be driving in the contest.
VEHICLE: DARKSIDE
YEAR: 1979
MAKE: PETERBILT
MODEL: 359
COLOR: BLACK
ARMAMENT: 2 - 20MM VULCAN CANNONS
4 - HEATSEEKING MISSILES
4 - SPECIAL MISSILES
1 - SPECIAL
SPECIAL ARMAMENT: NITROUS OXIDE/PROPANE INJECTION, TO PROVIDE INSTANTANEOUS ACCELERATION FOR VEHICULAR RAMMING
DEFENSIVE:
1.75 INCH ARMOR PLATING ON CAB/ENGINE BAY
SOLID RUBBER TIRES
BULLETPROOF GLASS
ENGINE:
DISPLACEMENT: 19.5 LITRES
NUMBER OF CYLINDERS: 6
CYLINDER PLACEMENT: INLINE
POWER ADDERS: 2 - 90MM GARRETT TURBOCHARGERS
1 - 8-71 ROOTS-TYPE BELT DRIVEN SUPERCHARGER
1 - SINGLE CORE INTERCOOLER
1 - TWO-STAGE AFTERCOOLER
DRIVETRAIN:
TRANSMISSION: 5 GEARS MANUAL, 4 GEARS AIR-SHIFTED/ 20 FORWARD GEARS
AXLES: ROCKWELL INDUSTRIES HEAVY DUTY UNITS
FINAL DRIVE RATIO: 5.44:1
FUEL TYPE: HIGH SULFER DIESEL
Please say your goodbyes to Shade tonight, and meet us for orientation in Midtown at midnight tomorrow.
~Calypso
The last mutt standing.
The one and only, Cowboy from Hell.
******
Bury me with my guns on,
So when I reach the other side,
I can show him what it feels like to die.
I can show him what it feels like to die.
Bury me with my guns on,
So when I'm cast out of the skies,
I can shoot the Devil right between the eyes.
