"The Melbourne Grand Prix….
The Shanghai Grand Prix…
The Suzuka Grand Prix…
Is the three time world champion Vladimir Yusupov losing his way in the race circuit?"
"Or was the car not your expectation, Vladimir?"
"Maybe you're getting old in these games Mr Yusupov? Will it be a surprising retirement? Or perhaps a wedding with Scarlett Romlov?"
A vague twitch at one of the sides of my lips curled.
I clench my jaw as they laugh on a non-existential joke.
A howl of laughter threatened out my throat and show these puny fuckers their place. Should I knock their teeth by hand, agonisingly one by one. Grinning at them as I lick the blood out my thumb, showing how much of a nightmare they were toying with…
Calm the fuck down…
My throat bobbed with bloodlust. Maniac tendencies chaotically threading into my blood stream.
All comes to a standstill as finally my dopamine hits my neurotic brain cells that the car failed to give me.
I swallow the fresh salivating saliva down my throat slowly as I breathe through the stifle air, inhaling grime sweat and stale beer's scent that filled my lungs instead of what I needed- the dripping metallic hemoglobin or fear.
Disappointment.
A particular scent caught my nose. Mysterious. Intriguing. I whip my head towards that direction, searching for something, someone. My eyes twitched in anticipation.
Excitement booze like alcohol mixed with fucked up drugs. Yet my dick fails to rise up to occasion or never ceases to amuse me when it has its own mind from the moment I turned fifteen.
No women. No men, can make it erect. I thought I was pussy but no I have very healthy fucking cock with potential sperms.
Still no holes satisfied me or particularly that shit. Ever.
Too clean, mundane. Too boring to invest in warm holes.
Now, where were we? Right, reporters. A shivering hand among the many. A tiny woman, compared to my six foot three in height, caught on my mood of how muted my eyes are dropping- second by second. Still not the mysterious smell had my eyes twitching.
Nevertheless, good for her. I might give a few words to these pissants.
I bend a little, keeping my unblinking eye contact with her,
"Tell me sweetheart, do I look lacking?"
It was a rhetorical question. I smirked.
A silent wavered down the commotions.
I prefer this after the engine sound during the race. I continued,
"Marriage? Which women? The woman I keep for an image or the women who warms my bed?" I flipped her id, of course Netflix always had hot women at their disposal and they do want my thoughts too so they can film in their show- 'Drive to survive'.
"Carol, sweetheart… Wanna know?" I spoke in my deep voice which always got the women doing my deeds, true killers and better than men when trained actually.
"Thank you for the brief interview, Mr Yusupov"
Oh… sad. I thought of giving hilariating jokes for what they joked at me. My bad they left. I pouted internally.
I walked through the garage where a piece of crap displayed like royalty.
Total garbage. It needed to be burned along with those underrated plastics. Or better, I will crash this shit in the next race beyond repairing means. Such that the team could at least provide me with a better version of a car that I could drive and live in the field of potential momentum with the throttle.
Why? Continuous three fucking race circuits I have failed to either make it to the pole or lost it entirely. Never got the hit of adrenaline or what-so-ever, just pure rage and pent up frustration.
Perfectly functional yet unfunctional dick, all more reason why I should draw blood, sigh in ecstasy, breathe in the power… Oh… imagining it- those screams, begging… Hmm…
No. I am not him… I am not fucking him…
Three times world champion into the drain when I could get myself a relief. This was my supposed replacement and this should have fucking worked until I lose the ability to breathe or better off die.
The result- Shit gone to south. Wrecked.
"You did good, Mr Yusupov"
Someone wants to die. Great. I am trying to contain but people are there to instigate. Monsters are not born but made.
My team principal and the appointed CEO of the Votichna C4 Racing- Frederick Riverwood.
Other than this dickhead who else has the guts to talk with me.
Finally, I let my maniac laughter out at his posh british words,
"Good?" I licked my teeth with my mouth open,
"Of course. Good, Frederick. I pay you millions of dollars to just produce a show trash for me to drive, and you think getting P4 is good?" I grinned holding his shoulder as he shuddered with the contact.
"I suppose not, sir."
"Aww… I suppose not, sir" I mocked with a pity expression. I pulled him closer and snarled dangerously,
"Then you, should of all people known how to fucking please me. Riverwood."
He should be happy that there wasn't a bullet hole between his eyebrows and his dipshit-like body not flowing by the river Thames as we speak because I could, and I would.
"Mr Yusupov, I understand your frustration" Well dumbass- you don't. "There is no surprise that our car is lacking when the aerodynamics lead design just switched his team."
"Then find a replacement. I don't like babysitting your adult body as you seek my advice in each and every department. I put you as a CEO to get the work done. If you couldn't produce the result, get your ass fired. I don't have time for your punny whining."
"Well sir…" The hesitation as he pauses makes my blood boil. Motherfucker, truly wants to die. I am barely holding by the edge and he surely has guts to pause, gulp the saliva down, frantically looking at all the directions as if looking for someone who can save which isn't going to happen any-fucking-way. He continued,
"I did get a replacement. As far as I have seen she's better than the temporary aerodynamics design lead we have right now." She? A woman? More funny jokes in one day.
Fantastic, I chuckled menacingly,
"Is the company sinking Frederick?" I hold onto his collar of the team's shirt pulling him closer to my face. "You are hiring a woman? And I should let that little bitch to design my car?" I snapped at him.
The whole garage tune downed into absolute silence as I smelled the fear rolling out in waves from them all.
"Baby… calm down…" Another bitch. Lovely.
A trembling, manicured hand of my contracted slut, Scarlett holds onto my arm. I am nauseated by the dread perfume of floral in cheap rugs. Even from the slight erection from the excitement and bloodlust I had before is now completely cold.
Scarlett Romlov thinks herself too important in my presence as her daddy in one of the board of directors in my brother's company, how wrong she is.
I shot a nasty glare putting her into place that she is just my fuck hole where I never cummed. Nothing more. Nothing less.
"Where is this so-called 'she-genius' you speak of Frederick?" Rumbling of my harsh voice re-echoed in the garage as the room temperature dropped down to the notch.
"Sir…"
"SPEAK." Cold perspiration adorned his forehead. He opened and closed his mouth like gasping golden fish. "I SAID SPEAK!"
"At Barcelona." Federick croaked. I let go of his collar.
"I will be the judge of her geniusness. If I am displeased, be ready to seal your fate in my hands."
My words cut the tension and a calmness of silence, release of breaths surfaced into the garage. They didn't know that yet another storm had brewed which was going to hit them brutally. I don't leave any leftovers. Including this.
I walked into my personal cabin, letting them deal with whatever shit show they are ready to present it to me. As a matter of fact, they are too eager in provoking my beast and I'll give them what they are asking for.
Patience. Belovence. Waiting. Never was my game. Let's see how much of a grim reaper I could become at the end of the next race.
The nicotine hit my lungs as I puffed my cigar.
Simply. Lovely.