La Toren shimmering in the distance dunes, the occasional Truck mark we passed hinted at the distance left. It was truck-mania city, any petrol head worth their weight came here to get their fix. I could feel the adrenaline already, fuel hazes, dusty rings and the sweat slicked tattoos shinning from the stands.
Our approach of the town gate grinds to a sharp halt. Right on the causeway, a trio of Inked Trucks, hoods permanently ground shoved. A mere half of the shells grazed our dust reddened sight.
There my moto-mania mentors sat. Empty. Their guts and legs pulled from underneath them.
The transport roared to life, snapping me from my revere. Tearing my gaze away as we shot by was hard, staring at La Toren’s gate i couldn’t shake the feeling that something nightmarish nasty crawled out of the dust rings while i was away.
This was just the welcome sign.