This story contains mild references to smoking, alcohol, and substance abuse. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Zoom Zinger's Great Race (8000 words) By S.P. Hurlsmith

Chapter 1: The Start

The metal screen rose up, whirring in harmony with my breath. The glamour of the stadium shined across the pitch dark hallway. Through it, I could see the audience in their rising seats, from a distance now colored spots moving. Their chattering echoed further, a low hum. The concrete would fade into an alternating red and white stub, and it ran from one end of my peripheral vision to the other. Then, further down, the asphalt road, scrubbed smooth yet imperfect, and with another stub of similar description behind it was a large grass field. I couldn't help but notice the fresh smell of air, cold, and of the essence of confidence, of the essence of action - I liked that.

"Good luck out there, Zinger!" cheered Doobus from behind me. He was a long snooted kitty, so much so he was compared to Bungus. White fur and an orange section around his right eye, and even longer whiskers. I turned back to him smugly, with a striking smirk.

"You know I don't need luck."

The sound of engine revving ringed into our ears. I calmly exited the garage, my floating loaf steering perfectly in symmetry with the rest of the racers, and positioned myself. Heading up, to my left on the side of the field was a small platform, ordained with tin railings and floors. A billboard with orange L.E.D.s was mounted there, and the staff positioned around the railings. The flagholder steadied his revolver up in the sky, his paws shivering.

On my right was another racer: a black cat with a brown streak on their face. Moriah. I kept my poker face, trying not to seem nervous. If she senses weakness, she might strike. On my right, Teatime. Inexperienced racer, this twat's not getting through a lap. At least he's wearing the goggles, the four-eyed naive kid. The engine smoke bubbled and puffed over.

I revved heavily, and waited for the right moment. This was my time to shine; This was my destiny.

Bang!

All the racers sped off, me included. The circular stadium blurred over, now the only clear figures were the other racers, and the blue sky, clear as day.

We all turned to the left, the road tilting us some 20 or so degrees.

A kitty paced over in front of me. I paced over and passed them by the empty side of the road: the stub. Deadly strategy, I know, but it was the only way to pass the prick. Slowly, but surely, I was reaching the end of the arch. The other racers formed a clear diagonal path through. Great! Now all I have to do is angle myself correctly, and time my turn correctly. One second passed.

Screech!

My car overdrifted, the racers ahead quickly grew in size, and I was facing Jose by their bottom right corner. I had to find a quick escape before I crashed. I was leaving tire tracks behind me.

He sped over to the left, and I pulled myself to the right by my axis strength. I fit like a cat in a mug.

We all spread out, the road would be straight for a solid 15 seconds now. There was now an open road ahead of me. Thankfully.

Racing kitties must reach the state of loaf to fully function. To reach that, we must be in complete connection with our mind in order to be in complete connection with our bodies, and to therefore function in a race such as this. I eyed Maxwell watching from the front row up ahead, along with E. Scrunk and Jinx. How thoughtful of him.

I looked back over at the road. Turn up ahead! Just in the nick of time. All the cats whipped across the turn, their engine sounds flicking across the air in short, interluded bursts. We're on our 2nd lap now. I've got to get ahead.

I weaved my loaf across, slaloming the kitties ahead of me 'till there was no other.

Slow down, whip right, speed up, slow down, whip left, speed up.

Clear road, now all I have to focus on is speeding ahead - preferrably before the 3rd lap. We were now approaching the lap line.

I sped up, my eyes locked ahead. I was one with my loaf, one with my body, and most importantly, one with myself. This was my strength. I had 78% loaf structure, way more than any cat out there, only rivalled by the demikitties. My superhuman structure, and aerodynamic face worked best. Long snoots are perfect for racer cats, but a sharp snoot cuts through the air like a knife in butter.

I was pacing left, and right, now weaving elegantly through the scattered racers.

The billboard beeped the digitized success sound! I was right behind the top racer now, and on my third lap. I reached up besides her, now travelling in a dull, blurred remnant of the World's Silly Cat Racing Stadium.

A turn came up ahead. We both whipped out backloafs, screeching with double intensity. Tire smoke puffed up behind us, and I got a glimpse of the race in slow-motion.

In the snap of a finger, I was on the latter half of the stadium.

Me and Moriah shared some short timeframes of eye contact. I heard a loud, obnoxious engine revving from behind me. It got louder and louder, eventually a motorized scream at this point.

"OUT THE WAY" they shouted from behind.

There's a turn up ahead. Crap! How am I going to maneuver myself now.

"No no no no no no!" I muttered under my breath, cold sweats runnning down my face.

"I SAID, OUT THE WAY-"

The crash did the rest of the speaking. Dissonant sounds of metal clashing, ear piercing scratching with the ground, bits of debree smashing into the surroundings, and the crash were in the earshot of the race.

For a moment again, I was in the air, locked in loaf position. Time slowed down to the exact moment of instantaneous change, fast enough to experience space -time, slow enough to lose motor control. I was spinning out in the middle of the air.

Peering over to my left, to what was behind me: A tabby cat, loafed in the air, but far below me. He was 1 real-world second from slamming his face into the asphalt and dragging out. He was turned such that his stomach was more exposed than his back to the air.

Suddenly, the air whipped past me. My eyes locked to the asphalt, and...

Crash! I hit the floor. Before I could assess the situation, Haru crashed into me back-first! Crash again!

And everything past that was a blur; a series of moments pulled together by complete and utter darkness. They all faded in and out of each other.

The first image. Multiple kitties huddled around me: Jinx, Maxwell, E. Scrunk, even the staff. They cleared way for my friend Doobis, who on my sight was in utter shock.

The second image. I was in the backseat of E. Scrunk's car. He was in the driver's seat, speeding through the city. Doobis was besides me, saying something. I couldn't hear it, my ears were ringing too loudly.

The third image. I was in a bed on wheels. Hospital lights, surgeons, beeping, the smell of chlorine. I think they put me on nitrous oxide because I can barely remember any of it after that.

Chapter 2: The Hospital

The darkness surrounding blinked into the real world. A migraine-inducing light mounted on the ceiling, pointing right into my light receptors, probably. I knew this feeling far too well: it was waking up in the morning. I rose my head up, at least I attempted, before a resistance pulled me back. How was my head this heavy? I blinked manually multiple times, and tried to scan my surroundings.

On the left, curtains up ahead which blurred behind the closer image: a stand with an IV fluid connected over by a butterfly wire to my left paw, bruised and bandaged all over. Focusing in further, a grey wall, bluish in comparison to the sunlight blocked by the baby blue curtain hanged from a metal pipe mounted up on the wall. I could see some dust marks on the fake marble borders of the window behind. Further over the corner, a modern-style chair with leather seat and back, steel supports painted black, and patterns on the texture. The wall ahead was blank, with a black-tinted glass table placed besides the chair, some volumes of magazines and booklets probably either strictly about the hospital, or about some random thing the staff expected patients to be interested in, I assume.

Down under my field of view was a blue blanket with white borders, some kind of nylon based fabric maybe? My paws were placed by my sides, and for the first time ever, it wasn't as awkward as I remember it to be. Speaking of that, my head aches pretty bad. It's like if somebody hit a tungsten ball with a bat and kept all the vibrations in my head. Blood pumped all the way over there, and my fingers and toes felt cold.

To my right, a small circular table of the same description as the previous, but this one had a tall glass of water besides it. Around the glass, some couple of yellowed-out handwritten papers stacked assortedly, and a paper-wrapped boquet of lavenders, daisies, and white flowers. The table stood in front of another curtain, one that was hung on a bar with wheels, of the same description as the previous one.

I'm in a hospital. This makes sense. What happened between all of this?

My head ringed loudly now, I laid a paw to my temple. I felt a rough fabric, layered across. I reached for the glass, and took a generous sip, before laying it back where it was to see what the papers were about. I took the time to count, and there were 3 in total.

Time to read these through...

"To my dear brother Zoom Zinger,

Hello! I've found out you will be in here for a bit of time: 2 months to be exact. I will visit you on the weekends, but you know I have a wife and children to care for, so please, excuse any further lack of arrivals.

By the way, because of your crash back there, the event was cancelled for a later time. The officials - though uncommon for many of their position - had the dignity and respect of the racers in mind, and left lots of time for us to practice, so you could keep that on your mind whilst you're hospitalized. I know you love racing, but for now, just take a break.

Wishes and prayers come to you from my family and friends and all I know.

With sincerity, Doobis."

Okay, next letter.

"To my dear cousin Zoom Zinger,

Hi Zinger! I saw the crash, and I want to tell you that me and all my friends wish your health. You're a champ for taking on that and living another day! You're a legend, even. Anyways, I know you're in the hospital now, so get well soon!

With love, Your cousin, Maxwell."

Reaffirming. Now, to the next letter.

"DEAR UNCLE ZINGER,

HI UNCLE! I SAW YOUR RACE. I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT THEY HIT YOU LIKE THAT. THEY EVEN HIT THE OTHER RACERS AND THEY MADE A KITTY MOUNTAIN. NOT COOL.

I HOPE YOU'RE OKAY THOUGH. NOBODY LIKES A DEAD UNCLE. I HAVE SOME QUESTIONS, WHAT'S IT LIKE IN THE HOSPITAL? DO THEY SERVE YOU GOURMET FOOD OR IS THAT WHAT I'VE BEEN TOLD TO BELIEVE?

FROM YOUR GODNEPHEW, JINX."

Aww, It's my godnephew, Jinx. She's probably too young to understand this, but credit to her for trying to be helpful I guess. She doesn't seem to understand that most writing is in lowercase, not uppercase.

Okay, well, that's it now.

I sit up in my bed, now lost as to what to do next. Never before in my life had I ever been in this state, I've always had a plan as to what to do next, somehow, someway. But why now do I have to stay here. What could possibly be waiting for me here?

The curtain on my right folds from the back to the front to reveal another patient in similar condition to me. Thankfully, theyre here. I take a quick glance at them. It's... Jose? It's Jose, from the race, right. It's going to take me a while to understand this whole situation - I mean to get over it - whatever.

Jose takes a confused glance at me for a moderate time. It's an awkward pause in between. I refuse to look at him.

"What's the matter? Why so quiet?" speaks a beer-stricken, dusty voice with a spanish accent.

I snapped over for a split second back to Jose, just to make sure that's what he actually sounds like.

"Err, hello?"

"Hi." I blurt out.

"Huh, never thought you to be a shy sorta person." he snickers.

"I am not!"

"Well then why didn't you say so?"

"I don't know."

"You seem confused."

"How'd you get into this? Wait- no, don't answer that. You also got into the crash."

"Bravo, buddy!" says Jose, clapping his hands. I can't tell if he's sarcastic or not. He continues, "I'm guessing that you have no idea how you got here too?"

"I do, and I'm getting tired of your jokes."

"Whatever then. You keep brooding. You do you, buddy."

"My name is Zoom Zinger, not buddy. And it's none of your business."

"Why are you in such a bad mood?"

"I just remember that moment. How could I just get in a crash like that. A person like me shouldn't be in this state. I know myself. I know I'm more capable than this."

Jose makes a salad-cutting sound with his mouth and reprimands, "That's where you go wrong. You're no king or divine entity to have fate go your way all the time. That's how all of us live. The closest thing you can do is brush yourself off. But I guess this isn't any of my business." He lays back, with his paws behind his head, grinning ear to ear.

I glance at him for a moment, then away for a moment. It kind of makes sense, but I don't have the spirit to agree verbally. I took a deep breath, and sighed. Why am I even this hostile to him? I don't know.

Chapter 3: Adaptation

Weeks have passed. I've been taken from a bed, and they said they have to put me on a wheelchair for some time before I regain complete motor function. Doobis was true to his promise, and he came multiple times to talk to me. This being one of them. Its been the second week in this thing. Jose, though - by some miraculous feat, considering his alcohol addiction and bad lifestyle - came out completely fine, and no longer bedridden. He got out scotch-free, so why not me?

I pulled my wheelchair to the front, and passed through the hallways of the hospital. I kept the note tucked in my pocket. It read:

"Dear Zinger,

Been talking to some of the doctors, heard you can finally walk out now. I couldn't miss this great opportunity. Meet me outside the hospital gate at 3:00 PM. You'll get a great surprise!

With sincerity, Doobis."

The dingy hallways were laden with leather-seated modern chairs, staff walking through, patients of varying states of function, some with facial deformities even.

Eventually, I passed by a turn, and arrived at the elevator. I reached out to the button from my chair, and sat back, waiting for the door to open. The sound of metallic whirring intensified as it reached my floor, reminiscent of the screen at the race. Sigh.

The bell rings, and the doors scroll behind for me to enter. I turn my wheelchair's wheels afront, and turn them 180 degrees as I get in. I reach out for the buttons. 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, G, P. The G button glows an ominous red as I press it. Everything I do now is a chore. The elevator pulls itself down ever so slowly, whirring metallically again. Even the air here is reminiscent of the racing stadium. Sigh.

Eventually, the elevator reaches the ground floor. I turn my wheels afront, out of the elevator, and into the ground floor. Every time I turn my wheelchair I must turn my back in sync with it too.

As I slowly scroll ahead, I can only look at the scenery. Ahead of me lays a wide hall, the floor laid with polished beige tiles, and the walls painted a neutral, soulless blue, all lit by the yellow fluorescent lights of the hospital, arranged in a grid.

Crowds of cats are here, mostly walking into the several hallways at the sides of this hall, and some sit on the chairs provided by the sides to look at the stone monument of Halo, the mythical god of healing. This whole hospital is named after her: "Halo Hospital for the Ill and Debilitated." HHID for short. I scroll myself to the right side of the hall, and continue pulling myself forward.

Eventually, I reach the reception section of the hall. The receptionist is sat at his chair, playing solitaire on the hospital computer, behind the counter on the right side. Facing him, on the left side, is a couple of chairs. A girl writes something on her notepad on one of the chairs. Oh well.

Finally, ahead of me is the glass doors of the reception. It's a turning door, so I eventually maneuver myself past it and into the outside. The floor is a grey marble cut, true marble. There are stairs in the center, supported by metal railings ornamented by glass spheres, and on the sides are 2 pillars. Besides the pillars are wheelchair stairs, and so I pull myself down them.

Outside, the sky is cloudy, and sunny at the same time, the various buildings lay the foundation for a jagged skyline. Despite it's unnatural composition, I feel just right under these skies, laden with scattered clouds of various weights.

"Hey! It's good to see you're finally back."

Down ahead of me by 2 or so metres is an old, navy blue 70s car, complete with sided spikes at the back. In the driver's seat is my good brother Doobis. He motions for me to get in, before realising you must carry the disabled in and out of cars, at which point he immediately rushes out, jumping over the hood, opens the passenger seat, and carries me by the armpits into the car.

I close the door myself, and take a deep breath. I look around. Black leather all over, manual gearshift, and a handbrake besides it. Above it, an old-timey car radio, and two knobs side by side, station buttons, the whole express package. Above all, he laid an egg-white shaggy rug on the top of the dashboard. It's all lined with metal. "Doobis sure loves to keep his car clean," I think to myself.

The trunk is popped shut behind me, and Doobis gets in the driver's seat and turns the key a couple of times, and lays his hands on the steering wheel. The car rumbles lowly, and the engine rumbles in unison. Doobis takes out a cigarette and lights it up with his lighter, lays the lighter besides the ashtray, and takes a big puff.

"So, how was it?" asks Doobis, cigarette in mouth.

"How was what?" I say.

"How was being in a wheelchair? Ya like it?"

"The doctors said-"

"Forget what the doctors said, what do you think?"

"Well, it's all good. I'm just grateful that I can continue my life, somehow."

Doobis picks up his cigarette, and laughs out a cough. "Better a brawler than a belly acher, 'eh?" he says.

We both laugh. I look out through the tinted glass out into the blurry streets sulkily.

"How's the wife and kids?"

"Good. You know how wives can be sometimes, but it's the best it could possibly be."

We share a chuckle. Awkward silence continues. Doobis takes a puff of his cigarette, and lays it on the ashtray for a bit.

"So, where are you taking me?"

"Well, I just figured a good stroll around town would be nice."

"To talk? You just drive me and we talk?"

"Well, that and Red Pawbster."

"Oh -oh, okay. Thanks, I guess."

"How do you feel about your racing career, Zinger?"

"I have hope. I really hate Haru and what he did to me anyway. Who speeds like that and expects everybody to get out the way for him? Hope that guy gets banned for a year or something of the sort."

"Well, you've got some strong feelings."

The car slows down, as we approach the city beach. The sun is beginning to set down, and Doobis parks us around the sidewalk.

After a bit of maneuvering, and in-and-out-you-go-ing, I was back on my wheelchair, and outside the car. I scrolled ahead. The skyline was now a hot, vibrant yellow, passed over by the grey clouds, and the ground and everything aside it painted a warm orange. The sidewalk was made up of pale reddish-pink blocks with a grey concrete stub. The road was full of little rocks and pebbles, and besides me on my right, after the dark wooden fence, was the beach, its calm waves and swash, and the warm beach air. Many kitties and cats were having fun, some running, some swimming, some building sandcastles, etc. I kept scrolling the wheels ahead.

Looking ahead, up to the northeast of my position, wooden planks carved a road in the sand into a platform for fishing, the wood of a color similar to the fence. Aside it, built on platforms with supports cutting into the sea by that point was a haphazardly constructed wooden shack with some platforms ahead of it laid with chairs and tables. Some couple of cats were there, and the undisputed sillhouette of Carlos sat at the edge, fishing.

Doobis was approaching an opening in the fence to enter the beach, presumably to get to Carlos' fishing shack.

Eventually I pulled myself to the shack on the wooden boards, creaking under the weight of my wheelchair. Approaching the platform ahead of the shack, which was covered ky by the bamboo fabric hung atop it.

To my left was a table were two cats playing cards. A yellow cat with a sombrero, and a black tuxedo cat. Maxwell and Jose. 2 cups of milk lay on the table, half finished, with stains around the edges. After declaring he has won, Jose greets me.

"Hey! Zinger! You'rep and in good condition!"

"Hi there, Zinger! Ya seen my letter?"

"Yeah," I chuckle, "I read it. Thanks for caring."

"Anything for my cousin, right?"

"Right."

Carlos turns back from the sea, holding his fishing rod. He was a black cat with disjointed digits and puffed fur, and his left ear had a small cut on it. Don't let his humble appearance fool you, he is a rich businessman. He joins in on the conversation.

"Well, if it isn't the great racer, Zoom Zinger. You're a real champ for getting through that. You earned my respect."

Doobis chuckles out a cough as he lets go of his cigarette, leaning on a stand with one leg folded, "Zinger gets through a lot of stuff. That racing business stuff isn't as easy as it looks."

Jose gulps from his cup and bangs it on the table as he speaks in his crumbled spanish-accent ridden voice, "Go figure. The whole thing takes some real expensive training, and you've got to be genetically built well. Genetics does the heavy lifting, whilst practice is for chumps who weren't born to the right parents."

Maxwell interrupts, "Hey! That's bull. You've got to practice loaf structure as much as you can, and just mentally focus. That's all training for loaf-racing really is."

Jose laughs, "Easy for you to say that, you're 15 and have no experience in racing."

"Doesn't make me any less wrong!"

We all share a laugh.

"He got you on that one!" chuckled Doobis, taking a puff of his cigarette, and ashing it in the sea behind him.

Carlos says, "You think you can ever get back to loaf racing someday?"

I answer, "If I was built with a pointy snoot, and can achieve 78% loaf structure naturally, then I'm bound to get into racing again someday. I better."

Doobis interrupts, "Yeah. Notice the emphasis on the word 'someday.' You need time to heal, and you need time to take a break. A problem with you, Zinger, is that you run through life too fast."

"I live life fast because living fast brings me to destiny. I want my destiny. My life is racing."

Carlos takes a minute to ponder and collect his words, and then he begins, " Abandon the ideas of destiny, because you will assume every mistake for the blazing of a new path. Destiny, is a place you find through trial and tribulation, not a star you run in the direction of. I heard that in a book once."

That's quite a thoughtful thing to hear from a person like Carlos. He seems well educated for his looks.

Doobis tosses his cigarette butt on the ground, and stomps it repeatedly. "Well, it was nice talking to you, but we've got to get going. Y'all have fun."

Fast forward to a later time...

We're at Red Pawbster, it's past the night, and I'm just having a dinner and chatting with my brother. The chairs here are red leather, fitting for their name, the floor is made of off-white tiles, and the tables a polished brown. This is a pretty fancy place. The waiters here even have suits and walk like ballerinas.

Besides me is a tinted window into the dark cityscape, set behind a road intersection. On my right is the rest of the resturaunt. The lights here are few, and spread apart. Incandescent bulbs hung from the ceiling, laden with red bricks and glow a warm yellowish-white on the place. I can hear the sounds of peaceful classical music echoing across the walls.

On the table lays a wooden salt shaker painted black and red, with the resturaunt logo on the sides, a white plastic napkin holder, sorted collections of silverware ordered up neatly side by side, and a porcelain plate with drawings of flowers on the bottom. One set of this fiasco for both sides. We kept the silverware ordered, courtesy of those who put it here. I ordered spaghetti with cheese, parsley, and meatballs, and Doobis ordered swedish cordon bleu with salad.

Doobis swallows some food and begins speaking, "You like the food?"

"Yep. This has been my favourite ever since I was young. This, and marmalade, of course," I reply.

"Of course. Old habits die hard, 'eh?"

We pause for a moment. Awkward silence filled by the prosings of the likes of Meowzart.

This spans for a couple of minutes. I can't handle to wait any longer.

"Why do people keep insisting to ask on my racing career?"

"Because to them, you're a legend racer, Zinger. Believe me, this crash is nothing but a mishap."

I mumble, "Legends don't have mishaps."

"They do." he speaks back.

"Doobis, why is it that you've got to always try to smooth it out. I'm not getting into racing anymore."

Doobis bangs his hands on the table, "Don't say that, Zinger. You fought your entire life for racing!"

"Racing didn't fight for me."

"Are you going to give up on your life dream just because of one simple mishap? That isn't the Zinger I know."

"I know. It just seems hard to get over it. I'll probably never get my motor functions back."

Doobis took a deep breath. "If you do, promise me that you'll get back to racing, like the Zinger I know," he said, tears threatening his eyes.

I sighed, "Okay, I promise."

Silence passed. We continued eating. Doobis wiped the tears from his eyes.

Suddenly, a gunshot fired from above the building besides us. We got up, but I was pulled to my wheelchair. Still, I rushed over to the entrance to see what was going on.

I rushed out of the door, and looked across the sidewalk. To my right up ahead was a bleeding cat. A tuxedo cat with soap suds on their head. Bubble cat?! I rushed up ahead, and the crowd followed behind me. When I got up there, we saw Bubble cat lying on the floor, gasping for air, almost choking.

"Somebody call an ambulance!"

Doobis, who caught up besides me to see the commotion, was in shock again.

"We're in no state to deal with another accident, let's get out of here, Zinger."

Chapter 4: Sleepless nights

I found myself back in my apartment, the bedroom specifically. A dark place, a compressed layout of two beds separated by a study that faces the window, and a closet from behind. It was too dark to make out any of the details now.

I've been in this apartment with my brother ever since our parents died, and right the moment before Doobis married happily. Doobis worked as a postman for the new postal service, and I pursued racing. For a while, we were okay; things were nice. We could add up our profits and make a living. I gained my racing notoriety in this era, probably because it was the best one.

Then, Doobis left for a new house uptown, and this dingy place was only left with one owner, a loaf racer. The money couldn't add up, so I had to double job it, and work at grocery stores. Life got harder here, but as long as I was happy with the weekly race, I was happy with myself, and I got to live another day.

I liked the racer life. Racing became my living, both literally and metaphorically. I only got from the fish shop at Carlos' and played cards with him, but anything else was left to the sidelines.

Then, word got around to me that I was accepted for the year's World's Grand Silly Cat Racing Competition. I was ecstatic. I spent all my days in preparation racing, and drifting, and racing, and drifting, and I never got tired of it. Worked like a dog.

Here is where the crash happens. After that, life got hard. I got into a hospital for one month, and I am spending the second month debilitated. How am I supposed to get back in shape? How am I supposed to bring Zoom Zinger back? I'm only Zinger Zoomer.

When I was young, I was obsessed with the idea of destiny. A warped, naive idea of destiny. The idea that my life was to an ultimate purpose, that I had found it, and that all I had to do was run a perfect path to it. I assumed racing as my destiny, and began. But over and over again I get the same message, that chasing my destiny is somehow wrong. Every single damn time I attempt to complete my purpose, I am hit with a problem, and set all the way back.

What did Carlos mean when he said that I should abandon destiny? Is he saying I should just ignore my life purpose and do nothing all day? Is he saying that I should just pass through with no idea on what to do? That sounds awful. I can't do that.

For an example, when I was young, I used to loaf race with Maxwell all the time. Then, all of a sudden, my parents had to move again, and I lost everything. I had to begin all the way on place zero. New school, new people, new life, and most importantly, no racing. I hated it. I hated it so damn much. Who were they to take away everything I do, and tell me to start again? I grew so hateful of my parents. And then, when I was at the ripe age of 15, they died to cancer.

Even the racing part with Maxwell, I wasn't always with Maxwell. I only knew Maxwell when we moved to a house near my uncle's. Before it, I used to live in Vulture City. An apartment complex camp. I used to race with the few kids that went outside so much. We raced in the streets, but then one of them died. Everything fell apart from there. I couldn't attend his funeral. Zwip Zwap. Rest in peace. That's how I got to know Maxwell.

So why, why, why do I have to lose everything I love to this stupid, putrid sport I call racing? Racing took everything I love from me! The worst part is I was robbed blind of it all!

I snap up from my bed, and rush to the lights. Flick! The room is lit up in a beige-ish yellow colour. All across the walls are assorted posters of varying sizes. I can barely see the wallpaper. The table is full of cups, papers, pens, a clock, various figurines of racing champions. The ceiling has teascale on it, and the mounted light on the top is full of moths.

My breath rapidly increases, my blood pumps through my veins like the pulse of a thousand rocking strikes of lightning. I rush across to the wall, climbing on the bed with my feet, and rip the walls apart from the posters till my nails are sore. Then I head over to the other wall and do the same, violently screaming as I do. I get off of Doobis' bed and head to the study, and sweep everything away. The cups crash in an ear-piercing dissonant sound, just like the crash. The papers are stained with old coffee, and the chalk figurines are broken into thousands of little pieces.

I took a deep breath in, and a deep breath out. Destroying my bedroom sure takes a lot of energy. I whipped the door open, stomped my way to the kitchen, and turned on the light. Flick! The ground was carpeted with a shag beige fabric, and the counters were stained. The table is full of assorted mail, the dishes are stacked on top of each other in various piles around the place. There are moths flying around the ceiling, orbiting the light at the top. Sigh.

I walked over to the counter, took out a bottle of catnipped milk from the top cupboard, and an ordained glass cup from the bottom. Pour pour pour... I feel as if I am pouring my troubles away. I took both of these to the kitchen table, sat down, and gulped half the cup straight away into god-knows-where.

Sigh.

Then, I couldn't help but break out into tears. First a chuckle, which devolved into a silent crying, to full on sobbing. I've never cried like this in my life.

When I was done, I wasn't sure what to think about. I pushed away the milk and the cup, and stood up.

...

Wait a minute, I'm standing up?! I'm standing up! I'm standing up! Yes! I jumped high up, and again and again! I was grinning ear to ear! Yes! Finally! I'm no longer debilitated! Finally! My body is back! Yes! I've never been happier than this my entire life!

Chapter 5: Tying up Loose ends

I stepped down the crusty, rusted iron stairs, running the palm of my paw through the railing as I went down, and slid the black iron gate of the apartment complex aside, mentally anecdoting about the ornamented lines and railings around the borders, and indulging in split-second glancing at the fleur-de-lis ornaments used to fill in the gate. Through it, I walked out into the sidewalk, shoving my paws into my nylon jacket's zip-access pockets.

The sky was sunny and greyed-out, spread with clouds of varying weights, and sparse spots where sunlight passed through. Below it was the layer of city smog and billowing smoke afar of factories, fading into the altitude range of the towers of the city, and way under was the jagged city skyline, followed by the street I was walking on. The air was full of tingling breaths of passer-bys running through, and the seeping, radiant heat of the light from rooms within. The buildings were constructed of red bricks, yellow stones, concrete and tin roofs, and were varying in size and shape.

I took a turn over the corner, and pulled my flip phone from my tracksuit pocket. I hit the speed dial number 1, and was greeted by the digitized ringtone of my favourite song before the other side picked up. I laid the phone besides my ear.

"Hello?-"

"Hey! Zinger, it's nice to hear from you after all that time. How's it hanging?"

"All good, and as for you mister Doobis?"

"Good enough."

"Alright, so I've got some good news-"

"You can walk again?"

"Correctapino!"

"Woohoo!! Yeah! You're not kidding, are ya?"

"Nope."

Doobis shouts in happiness again.

"So, what are ya going to do after this? You finally getting into racing like you promised?"

"I'll think about it. Tell Jinx and Maxwell I'm alright after all."

I shut off the flip-phone and shove it deep into my pocket as I hail for a taxi on the road. Soon enough a taxi pulls over besides me. A regular seeming car, painted gold yellow with a taxi sign above. I hear the engine rumble as it stays in place right a few feet in front of me.

The taxi driver reaches over and rolls down the window, as he yells over to me, "Where ya wanna go?"

"Fishing shack by the beach, how much for that?"

The driver stutters a bit, before landing on a reasonable price of 12 silly bucks. I agree, and enter the car's backseat. The driver tries to land a conversation with me.

"You know somethin' kid?"

"Hm?"

"You look just like that Zoom Zinger fella on TV."

"You know something?"

"What?"

"I am Zoom Zinger."

"Nice. Well, what bring's you to Carlos' shack?"

"Old friends of mine hang there, and Carlos has connections. Thinkin' about stuff."

"I see..."

I lay my head on the window, and gaze out to the blurred streets. Soon enough, I find myself back at Carlos' shack.

I walk over through the dark wooden fence, and pace over to the wooden planks carving the road to the fishing platform. As I walk over, I run my hands through the dark wood planks, rusting metal bolts and nuts scattered around the hatched building. The planks are imprinted with musing lines curving down. I lay my eyes over on the beach to my right.

It's empty, apart from some plastic bottles half-buried in the sand every here and there. It's high tide here. The swash is frothy and thick, and the water is bluer today. The floorboards creak under my steps, joining the sound of the washing of the waves. As I pass into the platform, I look up at the cuts in the roof, where the light shines through a bit, and back at the empty horizon, now gazing.

An accented voice speaks from behind me calmly. I'm not even surprised by it.

"I see you've healed fully now," said Carlos.

"Yup, I've come here to ask you some questions."

"Well, if you're asking about the race, it'll be here in a week or so. You don't have to go through signing yourself up all over again, heh."

I turn back. A lone table and chair sits before me. A black cat with fluffy, puffed up hair of simple appearance, extruding digits which seem to be holding a handkerchief and wiping it on the delicate glass cup, which seems to have some white stains on it, and eyes dark as the night sky. On his face is a nostalgic smile.

"Seriously?"

"Yep. Didn't your brother tell you already."

"Yeah, but I thought he was just smoothing things over so I don't feel bad."

"Doobis loves you too much to lie to you. You know that."

I chuckle. Carlos is far more than what he shows, as I can see. Besides, I've got a race to get back into. I better plan things out.

Chapter 6: Second Chance

I've been planning things out, practicing for hours upon hours. Now all I have to do is finish this. I'm in my garage. The hanging light swings nonchalantly on the greyed out garage walls and oil-stained concrete floor. Yellow shelves of racing materials, repair tools, cardboard boxes with several labels on both left and right sides. Piles of tyres lay at the back wall, half-rusted screwdrivers, nuts, bolts, and wrenches lay on the floor leading over to the metal screen that opens to the racing stadium, and a white plastic table and chair set with stains on the back and the supports. The place reeks of kerosene. Doobis and I are sat, drinking tea.

Doobis puts down his teacup onto the table, "Today's the big day. You ready?"

"Like hell I am," I reply.

"Good thinking, but don't get confident. You know what happened the last time you did that?"

I chuckle, "Yep. I've learned my lesson. This is my second chance, a chance to redeem myself."

We both stand up, and I turn to loaf form after calling my brother to pull the screen up. As I walk over to the exit, the room gets darker. The light from the outside shines in, but not as glamorously as before. The sky is rendered a dark gray, and the road is littered with puddles from the ongoing rainstorm. The stub is washed out from erosion, the grass is wilted from the water which seeps out through slits and cracks in the concrete, and thunder strikes far away.

Doobis called out for me for a second.

"Stop."

I turn back to him and ask, "What?"

"Remember this, Zoom Zinger. You make your own destiny; you make your own fate. Got it?"

"Understood."

I turn back, my eyes stuck on the road, and approach the other racers. Once I was in place, I begin revving my engine heavily, waiting for the moment of the gunshot. I learned my lesson. This is my second chance.

Bang!

I sped off with the racers. We all scattered out. I tilted my loaf left and right, passing through the racers.

A turn is coming up ahead! We all whip through the turn like bees, the revving of our engines buzzing past in bursts, and the puddles splashing about us. 15 seconds left until the next turn, and I'm in the middle of the road.

I take a deep breath, and accelerate, tilting over to the right side of the road, where no racer dared. The rain got stronger, every drop on my fur felt like a bullet. Lightning could be seen, and the shockwave of thunder entered our ears.

Then, the time came right for the turn. I drifted across, crossing the arch quickly, and splashing the puddles off violently. Tire smoke puffed and billowed behind me, and the other racers left wet tire-marks on the asphalt road. I tilted over to the centre, and accelerated as hard as I can. My engine roared louder than the thunder.

The billboard played a set of beeps. I'm on my second lap now. A racer tilted over in front of me. I slalomed past them, and continued to slalom further, weaving my way through the kitties. The stadium quickly blurred now.

All the kitties ahead of me formed a wall. They swinged left and right in separate intervals. There's only 3'22" seconds before the next turn. I had to think quickly. One of the racers is losing their loaf form, they will stay stuck. If I time this correctly, I could pass through him in time for the turn.

One second passed. I swinged through the wall, and...

Screech!

The puddles splashed violently away from me, my backloaf was overdrifted 60 degrees now. The rain is even colder now. The thunder strook louder than ever. Now the stadium was a blurred remnant of what it was. The rain remained, splashing in our eyes, and the racers slowed down. This is a chance!

I weaved my way, swinging through the kitties. Every second matters. I quickly approached the front of the racers, where all the fast fellows were. Only 6 left to go. Turn up ahead!

Splash! We all whipped past the arch. I was now besides the 6th racer. I knew it was Jose just by the wet sombrero on his head.

"Hey, Amigo! You sure are getting fast now."

"Yeah, that's for sure. Good luck."

"Yeah, good luck."

Teatime is ahead of me. I swing around him, and...

Whip!

The puddles splash, the lightning strikes, the thunder rings, and the engines roar. Soon enough, I passed the buildiing, and was on my 3th lap. 2 more to go. There were only 4 racers left at the front.

I swinged from side to side, looking for an empty area to pass through safely. Zilch. A turn came up ahead. Our engines roared in harmony for a second.

Now Haru and teatime got closer together. I could whip past them. Teatime is going to pass a puddle. If the water blinds Haru for 22 milliseconds, I could pass through no problem. Just wait for the right timing, and stay right behind Teatime until the opportunity presents itself.

Splash!

Screech!

Now that I had passed them, I was only left to pass Moriah. I accelerated. 5 seconds to the next turn, and 3 seconds to the lap counter. 8 seconds to finish this job. By the time I was besides Moriah, it was time to pass the arch.

Screech again!

The lap counter was just in front of me. Just accelerate a bit harder. Moriah seemed to be thinking the same, because on her face was an expression of struggle. Come on, Zinger! Focus, focus, focus!

The billboard beeped the 4th lap behind me. Now was my final lap. Focus, Zinger, Focus! A turn was approaching us in 82 milliseconds. If I turn at the moment I align with the centre of the arch, and pull myself to the left at the midpoint, I'll be past her in no time. Calculating my speed, I'll have to do this in an interval of 41 milliseconds.

Whip, Turn...

Screech!

I passed Moriah. All I have to do is stay at the front. I felt my loaf loosen. Crap! If I don't reach the lap counter in time, I'll spin out. This was no longer a race between kitties, this was a race against death!

5 seconds to the next turn. The rain got in my eye a bit. The stadium was now a fluid, distorted remnant. Only luck could help me now. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...

Whip!

Every second matters now. Come on Zinger, just push a little bit harder. The end is right there. Come on, come on, come on...

Ding, ding, ding! Finally! Yes!

I brake my car to a halt. The rain calmed a bit, but still very violent and heavy. The audience cheered loudly in a collection of shouts, cheers, and clapping. Then, they began chanting, "Zoom Zinger! Zoom Zinger!" I saw Maxwell and Jinx cheering from the front row. Uncle Zinger won the World's Silly Cat Racing competition.

Then the staff came, and handed me a medal. The rest is history.

THE END.