Diablo

Nasir pulled into the lot filled with dozens of custom cars, the black canvas of night splashed with bright colors from the paint jobs. He creeped along the parked cars, each one growing multiple heads as if the sight of Nasir’s ride summoned various auto versions of Cerberus. Exotic cars were nothing new in Miami’s underground street racing scene, of course, but Nasir’s 1995 Lamborghini Diablo prodded at every car enthusiast’s childhood dream.

The atmosphere grew humid with flagrant lust and envy. There was no cash pot that night, only pink slips, and every driver present was practically foaming at the mouth. No one had ever seen this man before, not even around the city in daylight. No one knew how he raced, no one knew where he was from, no one cared.

Nasir slowed his car until he was stopped next to a man in his mid twenties smoking a blunt. The man raised one side of his mouth into a smirk, aware that a historical bull fight was about to go down in Miami. Nasir traced the leather steering wheel as the man with the smirk walked around his supercar. This guy looked like a Great Value Pitbull, Nasir laughed to himself. He was bald with a thin mustache and the iconic goatee, but instead of an all-black suit he was donned in black joggers and a matching track jacket. Underneath the jacket was a white wife-beater, and he wore black sunglasses even though it was pushing 2 in the morning.

“This is nice,” the man’s voice grew louder as he slid back to his original spot outside Nasir’s window. Nasir looked in his side view mirror as the man approached, and could see the blunt bouncing between his lips with each word.

“So everything’s good?” Nasir questioned, and the man raised his eyebrows, his smirk growing.

“Oh shit,” the man’s smile stretched to the other side of his mouth, “this night gets better and better. Don’t tell me you’re from the Middle East?”

Nasir closed his eyes and rolled them privately behind their lids. “I’m from Pakistan.” The man’s smirk widened into an open mouth smile. Nasir stayed quiet and began to look around the different cars. There was one man amidst the sea of people and cars who stuck out to Nasir. He was at least 10 years older than everyone present that night, and he undoubtedly had the most expensive car: a Nissan GT-R R35. Nasir studied the Nissan and then its owner, and Walmart Pitbull spoke for the second time:

“That’s Alonzo Jiminez, but people call him Fidel; if you buy cocaine around here, it’s coming from him. He’s snatched up more cars on pink slip night than the police.” The man walked in front of Nasir’s car with his hand raised in a fist, and began doing what looked like tiny donuts on foot with his hand still in the air. Everyone began cheering, and Nasir realized this weird action being completed by the cosplay Pitbull meant the Lamborghini had been cleared and the race was about to begin.

The cars parked along the empty road to watch the race, bright headlights flooding the Miami street like LEDs in a stadium. The occupants emptied out of their cars and onto the middle of the asphalt. Their lust and envy was veiled with excitement as they gathered under the stoplights. The bald man pushed his way into the center of the circle with his hands up, one in a fist like before and one holding a deck of cars. Nasir stayed outside the crowd, waiting to hear whatever explanation this guy was going to give, when he felt someone walk up behind him.

“I can’t wait to sit in that Diablo.” It was the Nissan owner. His attempt at intimidation only made Nasir warm with anger.

“It’s a very nice car,” Nasir stated nonchalantly, ignoring the disrespect.

“Pick a card,” Pitbull yelled to Nasir. Nasir chose the ace of hearts. Fidel smiled and of course, flashed the matching pair.

Nasir’s Lamborghini growled like a young bull exerting dominance. He looked forward, picturing his car speeding toward the finish line. Fidel’s GT-R crept next to the Diablo, and Nasir could feel every eye staring at him. The girl from earlier walked between the two super cars, ready to set the race in motion. Three. Two. One. Her hands fell and Nasir mutated into the bull. Looking nowhere but straight ahead, it was as if Nasir could feel everything his car felt. Every vibration working its way through the tires, into the seats and steering wheel. He felt every groove on the road. The sounds the engine made filled his ears, drowning out sounds and thoughts alike.

Nasir saw a flash of red as the Nissan pushed in front of him. Like a raging bull, he felt the car pull back and fill with a sudden bolt of energy; the Lamborghini chased after the Matador’s cape. Within seconds Nasir was next to and then in front of his opponent. One more second. The Lamborghini spit out fury as it drove over the finish line, half of the crowd screaming and half of the crowd silent with anticipation around what was about to happen between Fidel and the guy who just won Fidel’s car.