He looked left and right before letting out a hearty laugh. "Ha-ha! Alright, let's head over there then."
With the pink-haired kid's agreement, both mounted their rides and sped off side by side down the endless desert highway. The old-timer pushed his throttle wide open, forcing the kid to adjust his speed and hold back just to stay alongside the bearded old devil.
They came to a sudden halt as a massive herd of nearly fifty giant bison crossed the asphalt road ahead.
"You do drugs, kid?" the old man asked, killing his engine and turning to face the youth.
"No, sir. I ain't messing with that stuff, even if my buddies try to peer pressure me. I just wanna work at a garage and earn an honest living to help out my family."
"Heh-heh... Good for you. I got a family myself... Sigh~ Got mouths to feed, too. Come to think of it, the world's changed a hell of a lot."
"Sure has. It's an era where the old gotta adapt, and the kids gotta adjust. So what's your line of work, pop?"
"Oh~ hard to say. I'm retired from service. Right now, I'm just trying to overhaul myself."
The young kid's eyes widened. "Were you DEA or something?"
"Nope~ Not DEA, but damn good guess. Hmph!"
VROOM~!! BANG! BANG!
The old-timer revved his engine, making it roar, and fired two pistol shots straight into the sky. The gunshot echoed across the dunes, sending the herd of bison scrambling and scattering into the desert dust.
"Now that's the easiest way." The bearded old man holstered his handgun at his waist once more.
Eighth rule: Put fear to good use if it gets the job done.
The young man's jaw dropped. "Whoa! How'd you know those bison wouldn't just charge us?!"
The old man smirked. "There's a few decades between my age and yours, kid."
Ninth rule: Experience teaches you what you don't know. Gather every bit you can, 'cause you're gonna need it sooner or later.
They pushed on toward the northeastern stretch of the desert, where they arrived at a small, bustling settlement that boasted noticeably higher technology. A glowing 3D holographic billboard greeted them as they crossed the town line:
'Welcome To Rock's Town,'
"Rock's Town... Probably the nicest-looking town in this whole district," the young man remarked.
Both motorcycles slowed to a crawl, taking in the town walls plastered with campaign posters for the upcoming mayoral election. Hovering just ahead of them was a wheel-less hover-truck cruising slowly through the streets, broadcasting election promises to the townspeople.
"Vote for your new mayor tomorrow! Michael Danus, the man who shall banish poverty from this town!"
A clunky tin-can robot clad in a black suit held a microphone close to its vocal speaker as it stood on the truck bed, hollering campaign spiels.
"Go cast your votes, folks~! Choose Mike now and you'll never be disappointed again~~"
Suddenly, the hover-truck lurched to a sudden halt.
"...ev-ev-ever again~~"
CRASH!
The tin-can robot flipped backward, crashing headfirst onto the asphalt right in the middle of the intersection.
"...ev-ev-ev-ever... g-g-gone..."
Its neck spun wildly in place as its internal circuits fried, finally giving out completely.
The old man let out a suppressed chuckle, shaking his head. "Heh! Same old tricks from these clowns, huh~?"
Local teenagers hanging around the corner started pelted the hovering campaign truck with tomatoes and rotten fruit.
"Boo~~~ You're fucking shithead!" As the commotion flared up, an official law enforcement drone hovering overhead swooped in, arming its stun taser and pointing it straight at the agitators.
"Drop the acts immediately! Do so, and we will not press charges against your parents," the drone barked in a synthesized voice.
"There's a rumor that Danus got caught on camera hanging around a casino a while back, and someone leaked the photos online. So, yeah... that happened," the kid explained.
The old man nodded. "Mmm-hmm. Serves him right. Not even a PR team can sweep shit under the rug anymore." When the traffic signal turned green, both riders twisted their throttles, speeding past the sleek, futuristic hover-cars lining the street.
Tenth rule: Hover-cars might look fancy, but they can't beat the raw grit of real rubber on roads.
Before long, the two riders pulled up outside an auto repair shop illuminated by a towering neon sign that glowed like a retro gas station. A holographic projector beamed live simulations of custom vehicle mods for all to see—the mark of a master mechanic who could turn scrap metal into luxury classic rides.
'Richard Sport' a banner featuring a Western national eagle fluttered in the desert breeze. The old-timer pulled up and parked right in front of a thick-bearded man wearing a cowboy hat, who was sitting there scanning the internal frame of another vehicle with a hand-held laser scanner.
VROOM!!
The bearded old devil brought his ride to a rude, sudden stop right in front of him.
"What the hell?!" the mechanic barked, thoroughly annoyed, until his eyes caught the distinct scar on the old man's face. "Oh~ shit! Look who it is! Who else could recognize that mug besides me, huh? Heh-heh... if it ain't the shooter, Cat Lakshmi~!" He pointed at the old-timer with easy familiarity, shouting out his real infamous handle.
"Richie~ Or should I call you 'R' instead?" The old-timer dismounted his motorcycle to greet his old pal.
"That name's lame as hell. Or would you rather I call you by your real name, Hu..."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold it right there, cowboy," the old-timer cut him off sharply.
"Cowboy? This freaking 'cowboy' can turn a tractor into a damn tank, baby! Wa-ha-ha! So, what brings you 'round?"
Richard stood shooting the breeze with his old friend for a moment before the old-timer turned to address the young rider. "So, kid... "You ever race against that Dormitory before?" the old man probed. "Just how heavily modded is his ride?"
"Oh, you mean the Dominator, he's running a EV12 engine with motocross tires designed for sandy terrain. But honestly, pop, a EV12 on raw asphalt alone wipes the floor with anyone. Ten seconds after the line, I'm still choking on the red warhorse's dust," the youth reported.
Hearing this, the young man turned to see Richard leaning casually against a luxury car behind him, wearing a relaxed smile.
"Ooh~ so my apprentice thinks he knows how to tune a ride now, huh? News to me," Richard chuckled. "The thing is, a EV12 isn't inherently better than the older models. It's strictly an electrical engine built for track racing, and most people pair it with an overclock boost to skyrocket when it accelerates. The catch is, if you keep the overclocking engaged continuously, the engine overloads and—BOOM! Trash. Notice how every single time after he finishes a race, a pickup truck has to tow his ride back to the garage? That's the giveaway! I used to watch you guys race—it's dead obvious the kid plays dirty."
Richard laid out the cold, hard facts for the young rider to digest.
"So... you're saying he cheats by using nitro mid-race?" The young kid scratched his head in realization.
"Let me ask you this: who the hell collects the track rental fees?" Richard asked, already seeing right through the ruthless rider's scheme.
"Oh~... OH!" As the realization hit, the young man slapped his own forehead. "No wonder that guy wins every single time!"
The old-timer gave the kid a pat on the back. "Take it as a lesson from the number one mechanic in Rock's Town."
Eleventh rule: Think things through carefully, and never play someone else's game if it puts you at a disadvantage.
"I'm still holding onto your most prized possession, Richard," the old man said, dangling a set of keys in the air.
Richard stroked his beard with a deep sigh. "Oh, boy~ are you trying to find another way to stiff me again?" He narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
"Don't tell me you forgot—without this ring of keys, nobody can get into the ride you love taking your wife out on honeymoons with." The old-timer tossed the keys over to his old friend, then pointed at his own favorite chopper. "Consider us settled up. Now take care of my steed—give me those sweet, crisp rev-limiter pops, and tune it so it runs for a lifetime."
"You..." The master mechanic bit his lip, pointing a finger at the old-timer in mild frustration. "...Why am I always two steps behind you, man?" Richard grumbled softly, before adding, "...Thanks."
He offered his gratitude as he held the keysม a set that meant the world to his family, now finally back in his hands. "My wife's gonna weep her eyes out when she sees these back," the head mechanic admitted, a tear welling in his eye.
"Anytime, Richie," the bearded old devil called back over his shoulder.