What’s the point of living, if you don’t take chances?

I hit the excellarator and let the car fly. Jackson was a wimp; he wouldn’t last long. He’d probably swerve before our two cars met. I watched his wide brown eyes, behind the windscreen, swarming with terror and fear. I smiled; chicken games were so much fun. I loved the sensation of fierce winds pulling at my hair, while another car raced towards mine.

My gang stood on the sidelines waiting to celebrate my victory and harass the chicken. My girlfriend was also cheering me on, her tight shirt nicely accenting her best features.

Although I kept my poker face, sweat started to drip down my brow. Our two cars were less than 30 meters apart. Jackson would swerve soon, he just had to. I hit the excellarator harder. If I was going to go, I might as well go with a bang.

The sound of shattering glass masked the screams of my audience. I took a fleeting glance at Jackson, before fainting in my own blood.

But I’m glad. Better dead than called a chicken.

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