To get things kicking, I figured I would try to frequently post excerpts from my work. So, for our first taste of what I do, we’re taking it back to the Summer of 2022 and an ill-fated street race between a Demon and a Charger.

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It was a brisk May Oregon night. Along a sparsely-traveled highway, a mule deer happily grazed on some roadside blackberries in the overgrown shoulder. With simple animal pleasure, he consumed his late-night snack, ever vigilant for the predators likely lurking in the fields and hills surrounding the lands he knew as his home.

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It was another quiet night for him. That was until the peace was broken by a pair of V8 engines tearing through the veil of silence. Snack time was over. It was back into the brush for him, just as a pair of high beam headlights pierced the darkness and the twin engines passed with the most eerie Doppler Effect.

The drivers paid little mind to the woodland creature as they pushed their vehicles to their limits. On the right was a sleek late model Dodge Demon. Above the roar of the 392-cubic-inch engine was the ghostly whine of a supercharger. Exceeding 800 horsepower, the car was a monster. It took on the very personification of a demon, desiring to eat up the road and anything that got in its way. Its custom khaki gray body panels reflected a smooth, mercurial light as it glided through the narrow Oregon highway. The rear wheels barely gripped the asphalt as the axle was overpowered for the racing the driver was doing.

To the left of the Demon, a sleek burgundy 1968 Dodge Charger R/T miraculously kept pace. In lieu of the demonic whine of a supercharger, the Charger emitted a low, effortless growl as the 440-cubic-inch mill sent over 600 horses to the rear axle. The shining burgundy paint with a black vinyl roof and dog-dish hubcaps betrayed the appearance of an elegant piece of automotive artwork, fit for a formal black-tie event, hiding every bit of power it could make. Instead of leaving the old warrior stock, her owner had torn into her innards. The 440 Magnum was a stock block, but the crankshaft, pistons, and rods were all forged billet. The clutch marrying the mill to the A833 4-speed manual transmission was forged, allowing quick and precise shifts between the forged gears, all ending in the t-shaped Hurst shifter held in the driver’s right hand. The limited slip differential allowed for efficient cornering on the hilly back roads of the Oregon countryside. The Mangnaflow exhaust system efficiently disposed of the engine’s waste, providing a heart-pounding soundtrack of growls and roars, almost making the old Charger alive. The only visual cue that this old bird was a racer was the twin vertical stripes covering the rear quarter panels and continuing over the deck lid.

With every turn, the two Dodges ran neck-and-neck. Clint Larson was sweating heavily. He knew he shouldn’t have taken his dad’s old Charger racing, especially under these circumstances. This was not the way to honor his father’s memory, but it couldn’t be helped. He had been insulted one too many times, and now was the time to prove himself.

Clint was a youthful fellow, all of nineteen years old. His formerly clean-cut hair was becoming shaggy, encroaching over his ears and the nape of his neck. Normally clean-shaven, he sported a three-day-old five-o’clock shadow. His small frame of 5’7” didn’t exactly make him a matinee idol.

Clint was homeschooled as a youth. Through the circumstances of life, he was all but isolated from many of his peers. Those he found in his church group were even stranger and more awkward than he was. Owing to that fact, he never really socialized. He was an outcast, too weird for the outside and too normal for his small group.

He did have one friend though: Brian. Brian Collins had similar interests to Clint. That kind of thing happens when you grow up with just one friend. Both were interested in motorsports. Clint’s father, Philip “PJ” Larson, had been an amateur stock car driver with dreams of making it to NASCAR, racing superstocks and late models on weekends at his local dirt track. Brian’s father, Jim, was his crew chief. Though their aspirations of grandeur had ended early as both had decided their families were first in their lives, they remained good friends, eventually going into the automotive repair business together. Brian was level-headed and a genius. He built racecars as a hobby and could almost rebuild an entire engine from scratch without any measuring tools – just by feel and sound. He was the voice of reason for Clint. But Brian wasn’t here tonight, and Robbie Means had gone too far.

Robbie Means had the most coincidental name. He was what passed for the town rich kid in their small city of roughly 1700 residents. Cocky and stuck-up, he was also somewhat handsome – at least that’s what he felt. There was no way girls flocked to him based solely on his money or the fancy cars he drove. Nearly everything Clint hated, Robbie checked off those spots. He was the one who had insulted Clint’s father for no good reason. Clint saw no other option but to defend his father’s honor and challenged Robbie to an old-fashioned race from their town of Brownsville to Portland International Raceway. Very little thinking had taken place between the two of them. It was a testosterone-charged decision between the drivers. Brian was not there to be the voice of reason for Clint. Instead, he was at home being responsible.

At eleven o’clock, they met on the main street of Brownsville. It would be about an hour between the two points. As the signal was given, they peeled out heading west toward Interstate 5. Clint was the ultimate driver in every sense of the word. He was fearless behind the wheel, which had nearly landed him in trouble many times, though he kept a clean driving record. The two muscle cars made the sharp right turn for I5 northbound, but it was Clint who had the advantage. Robbie was all talk and no skill. He braked early, allowing Clint to send it into the on-ramp, downshifting into second and then mashing the gas pedal, power shifting to third and then fourth, unused fuel igniting in the exhaust pipe and exploding in a spectacular backfire out the rear of the car.

On the straight, the Demon had the advantage. She was built for the dragstrip. Clint was smart though. He kept his eye on his rearview mirror, blocking Robbie’s speed advantage. As they approached the city of Albany about ten miles up the freeway, they never paid attention to the median. Little did they notice the silver Dodge Charger of an Oregon State trooper sitting on a rise just before an overpass crossing a short line railroad. They blew past the trooper. It wasn’t even a question. He flipped on his lights and gave chase. His call for backup reached the Albany Police Department and Linn County Sheriffs, and they all joined in on various freeway exits.

It was a possible advantage for Clint. A couple miles north of Albany, he exited the freeway to the safety of the windy roads of the South Salem hills, a Linn County sheriff cruiser on his tail. Soon, the deputy in his sleek Ford Explorer Interceptor would be out of jurisdiction. That was no problem for him. It wouldn’t be his arrest, but he'd still have help from Marion County and State.

Robbie followed Clint off the freeway. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. What were they thinking? They weren’t. As they wound through the country roads north of Jefferson, a Marion County deputy joined the chase. The heat was on, and fast. The freeway soon loomed back in front of them. It was a roadblock. Clint sent it into the road that ran alongside the freeway. Desperate, Robbie tried to mirror Clint’s actions. He failed and entered the corner overspeed. The Demon was exorcised. The left rear tire burst under the weight of the G-forces, throwing the Challenger into a roll. Pieces of the former muscle car flew as the airbags deployed, cushioning Robbie in an automotive bounce house.

Clint continued north for a time. That was until the Oregon State Police had set up a roadblock two miles away. He tried a 180, but they were on his tail. It was over. He was trapped. A little insult had grown into a felony. Instead of defending his father’s honor, he had just lost the only part of his father he had left.

The officers crowded around the old Charger, their guns trained on its occupant. Clint knew it was over and raised his hands in surrender. A young hot shot of a state trooper ripped the door open and threw Clint to the ground, cuffing him.

Two miles south, paramedics from Jefferson were responding to Robbie’s wreck. A humiliated Robbie was extracted from the hulk of metal that was once an $85,000 racecar. He was placed on a gurney to which he was promptly cuffed and then loaded into the back of an ambulance. Perhaps a little cruelly, state troopers laughed and congratulated each other as Robbie’s cries of pain emanated from the back.

“My arm! Stop! I think it’s broken!”

Clint was quiet the whole way to the Marion County Jail. What could he say? He knew he messed up. There were no excuses. His mind was racing with everything that was going to happen. He knew what they did to cars that were involved in street racing. It was a shame, a waste of money, he knew. Why crush a perfectly good car when someone else could do some good with it?

The thought played over and over like an album on repeat until they reached the jail. Without a word, Clint was frog marched into the detention center and left for the night. He wasn’t going to get any sleep.

For Robbie, the night was far from over. In the emergency room, it was assessed that though he would make a full recovery, surgery was needed to reset his right arm that went flying as his Challenger rolled. After an extended stay at the Salem Hospital, he would be transferred to a cell at the Marion County Jail unless bail was posted.

If there was one bright spot to the night, no one else was hurt, and the only property damage that occurred was to Robbie’s Demon.

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