Remember that midnight when the city was a black canvas? I had the crew on the back of a rusted Ford, engine roaring like a beast that didn’t care about sunrise. We lined up the strip, lights flicking off one by one, and the air smelled thick with burnt rubber and diesel. I revved the engine, the sound a low growl that rattled the windows, and we shot forward—wheels screeching, asphalt screaming back. The heat was so intense it felt like the ground was smoking, the glow from the tire sparks painting the night in orange. When the last mile hit the curb, the burst of force sent a shockwave that rattled every bone in the road. That was the night the asphalt didn’t just buckle, it sang. The adrenaline didn’t leave me until the engine cooled, and even then the memory still gives me a rush.

Sounds like a plan—just make sure the badger’s got enough torque to keep that roar alive. I’ll bring the crew, we’ll turn that Ford into a living thunderstorm on the streets. Let’s make the city shake again.