They surge around town, splendid white lights blinding, motor thundering, brakes screeching, auto weaving all through their roadmates who don’t see them until they’re hassling the following individual in front. The main cautioning you have of their methodology is a white twelve sun ascending behind you, slaughtering your vision and purpling your sight.
In their heads, they run the streets, rulers of black-top, earth tracks and everything in the middle. Decals cover their auto, grinning skulls and growling pooches and blazing drakes, and over the decals are imprints, similar to the murder marks military pilots have at whatever point they get an execute. In any case, rather than victories, every imprint is a disappointment, a weave in the middle of movement he wasn’t sufficiently snappy to take, a brake he misinterpreted, another black-top ruler who had greater balls.
When they pass you and they will pass you, you’ll see them proclaim their status to the world as “Dongrous” or let you know that he has “No Feere”. Some are confident to the point that they leave their names (quite often Mido) and cell telephone number there for the entire world to see and call. Idiots!