- 2,429
- Heaven's Fence
- Anathema-Kure
- Justin Jectlol
Hello all. FE10 here, with what promises to be my best Race Story/fanfic so far.
I have written and finished up to Chapter 9, and am working on Chapter 10 as I type this. I would have liked to wait until I had finished all 30 planned chapters, but I decided to start posting this.
(A Note: This is a GT5 fanfic - but I am stuck using the GT4 photos because my PS3 died, taking my GT5 save data with it.
I've had to re-write a lot of the story to fit into the GT4 timeline - year and photo-wise.)
I hope you all enjoy this.
---
Prologue:
Some people think that the past holds a lot of advice about the future. All the past does for me is remind me of my own failures. The past will always stay in the past for me – it mocks me every time I think of it, turning me into a wreck. And the future... doesn't hold much weight in my life, either.
I live in the present. I live in the moment. Why? Because once you realize the moment is here... it becomes the past. And once you realize the future is about to happen - it becomes the present and the cycle repeats itself.
Again, why do I live in the present? It's a mindset that I've managed to foster. It may seem ludicrous to the rest of the world, but it makes sense from a certain point of view - I don't look forward to the future, or backwards to the past.
I'm not a jobless deadbeat, however. Many people assume that from a first glance - that, or an ex-rock star. I learned long ago that appearances deceive... What may be seen on the outside can be a complete and utter lie inside.
That being said... I hold a day job with a big office company - a 'corporate giant' if you will. Simple, average, 9-to-5 shifts, Monday to Friday. My own house, completely paid for. Still unmarried... and probably will never be happy in a relationship to begin with. Not with who I am as a human being. And... my only true thing that I exhort my pride and emotions on.
My only vice. Only thing I seriously care about in this life anymore. 330 fire-breathing, F20C-powered wild stallions. Nearly fully tuned (non-power-wise.) Sticks to the road like glue – my hidden gem in a field of dull nonsensical 🤬. It's cost me a lot - emotionally and in monetary terms - to find something like this car. I do all of my own suspension tuning and general maintenance.
Who am I? A lone man with a house and fancy car?
Yes... but I am also so much more. That past holds many secrets in the lives of others... and especially mine.
Who am I?
I am John van Druten. American-born, German descent. Only a few close friends. I don't drink, smoke, or anything else like that. I'm a quiet man.
This is my story.
------------------------------------
Chapter I:
Location: Dapplering, Wyoming. Date: March 14th, 2005
"Good work today, John. We'll see you this Monday, after that god-awful race they hold..."
"I feel much the same way. Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Jameson."
"You're older than me, and insist on calling me a sir... Get out of here, you crazy dapper man."
"Will do so, sir."
"Oh Lord..."
Start of the weekend... again. I remember how weekends used to be...
And those memories soured in my mind as I also recalled how much those weekends had cost me. Wasted years...
"See you Monday, Mr. van Druten."
"Yes, ma'am."
Corporate America is run by little men in little cubicles. And also the freaks in Washington. And I happen to be one of the little men in a cubicle, stuck... pushing papers... all day. Even so, I don't enjoy the breaks from doing such work - it provides me with a way to keep my life in track.
That being said... I do enjoy one thing about leaving work on the weekends - or every day, for that matter:
Only real thing I live for anymore - a 2004 Honda S2000 Type-V. It's been modified by my cousin Rex - who happens to be the owner of a nearby HKS store. Life's funny that way - and a real 🤬 to deal with when it's on its period, so to speak.
Generally speaking, most of the people I work with view me as a slightly eccentric loner type who does his job without any questions asked, is respectful, and would be a better fit as a butler.
People make assumptions... and they are defeated by them.
Not many around me know I was once a professional racing driver, beginning at the tender age of 16. Where and in what series... You'll have to guess someday. Even so, the people that might recognize me in the slightest ask if I am indeed who I once was.
The answer is always the same - “Yes. I get that a lot.”
I lie because I don't wish to live those painful memories over and over again. Even so, I do sometimes dwell on them... and see exactly what a mess of my life I had made back then. Lying is a sin - but my form of lying is to protect myself and others from my past. Completely reasonable, when you look at it from that standpoint.
Only my closest friends know something of who I once was (and even then, they do not know who I truly am or what my true story is.) If you can call about three people my closest friends. The only time you might see a flash of my past - is on the previously mentioned drives home.
Just me, the S2000, and the winding roads of El Capitan.
The sensation of the G-forces pulling and pushing me around - the tautness of the suspension, feeling every bump and dip in the road surface.
Throw the car into the corners with reckless abandon like I used to - I know the limits, now. And far too late to learn them, in my opinion. I wasn't trying to match my driving with Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence by Dream Theater, but it just seemed to happen... automatically. Instincts, long forgotten - show the extent of my former life to no one but myself.
The approaching whine of a car coming up from behind me made me snap out of my reverie and begin to come back into myself. I'd rather not be recognized by some kid in a ricer with 400lbs of bodykits - my S2000 is one of only three in the area. And, if you didn't see from earlier... my boss doesn't care for anything about racing. His son died in a racing accident, I'm told...
"Hey, foo... Wanna race, me versus that little dillweed of a ricer you got there....?"
Interesting. A Dome Zero. I had little reason to believe that they had existed outside of Japan, and I'm sure that it would be terribly expensive to import... Probably some kit car that's been slapped together and held up with spit, Band-Aids and duct tape.
"Yo dawg, you're fast... but are you fast enough, man?"
I passed him on the outside in the following left-hander.
“Dayum... Dis guy's got the shizz rollin'. I'd better not mess with his 🤬."
I sped away into the growing darkness, wondering what guy would be that stoned and try to drive a car in his condition... I'm sure he was also drunk in addition to being high, and I'd learned long ago - drugs, alcohol, and cars do not mix.
I made my way home following the posted speed limit of 15 MPH - or, at least in the development where I lived. I lived on the top of a hill, with about a good 50+ yards of space between any other houses around me. The solitude... helps during the nightmarish nights I experience sometimes.
A two-story Colonial with a mainly brickish construction, the place I'd come to call home wasn't anything to look at. It was in good condition, however, and was well-maintained. Keeping things in order is my main goal in life these days, and I think I've managed to do that admirably.
Something... just didn't feel right though. It wasn't the sense of being watched... it was the sense of something to come. An 'ill foreboding', if you will. After parking in the garage, I shook it off, and went upstairs to make myself a dinner while I watched the local news.
As I did so, I noticed my iPhone was buzzing like it had to go out for a leak. I had forgotten it while heading out today, and I'm not usually bothered by anyone... anyone but my friends. And even then...
I picked it up and read the new notification, while also silently cursing in fluent Russian under my breath.
It read;
“Hey John; I entered my Camaro SS in a race tomorrow on Trial Mountain. I need some help on getting around the track and some racing tips. Can you come help me out early tomorrow morning?
Listen; I know that you are thinking that I am a fool. Maybe I am. But... could you please help me out for old times' sake?
-Ricky”
Good Lord, help me. Ricky Robledo is a classic car enthusiast with a lot of money and time, but not enough brains. And surely not enough talent to handle the wallowing pigs he usually likes to drive.
Every year since I'd moved to Montana after leaving the military, he'd try to get me to enter the annual SuperSport charity weekend that the city of Dapplering, Wyoming, would hold on Trial Mountain.
I'd always decline, because I don't enjoy racing in front of fifty thousand spectators – I prefer to be alone. Sure, the $10,000 cash prize was always tempting, but my desire for privacy always won out. Plus, I'm sure I would get fired from my job.
I supposed he finally worked up the courage to enter the SuperSport event. I knew it would probably end badly, but I after a while of deliberation, I decided to help him. He is a good friend with a kind heart, but a little... out of his element when it comes to anything but cars. I figured since I'm not racing, I can just spectate like usual and be his 'spotter', as the term in NASCAR is.
As I got ready for bed, I made my decision and began typing out a reply on my phone;
"I'll be there at eight AM sharp. You owe me one, though..."
He'll need the early morning practice. Now... to see if he gets his lazy posterior up and out of bed before 3:30, when the race actually starts.
Fin Chapter I
I have written and finished up to Chapter 9, and am working on Chapter 10 as I type this. I would have liked to wait until I had finished all 30 planned chapters, but I decided to start posting this.
(A Note: This is a GT5 fanfic - but I am stuck using the GT4 photos because my PS3 died, taking my GT5 save data with it.
I've had to re-write a lot of the story to fit into the GT4 timeline - year and photo-wise.)I hope you all enjoy this.
---
Prologue:
Some people think that the past holds a lot of advice about the future. All the past does for me is remind me of my own failures. The past will always stay in the past for me – it mocks me every time I think of it, turning me into a wreck. And the future... doesn't hold much weight in my life, either.
I live in the present. I live in the moment. Why? Because once you realize the moment is here... it becomes the past. And once you realize the future is about to happen - it becomes the present and the cycle repeats itself.
Again, why do I live in the present? It's a mindset that I've managed to foster. It may seem ludicrous to the rest of the world, but it makes sense from a certain point of view - I don't look forward to the future, or backwards to the past.
I'm not a jobless deadbeat, however. Many people assume that from a first glance - that, or an ex-rock star. I learned long ago that appearances deceive... What may be seen on the outside can be a complete and utter lie inside.
That being said... I hold a day job with a big office company - a 'corporate giant' if you will. Simple, average, 9-to-5 shifts, Monday to Friday. My own house, completely paid for. Still unmarried... and probably will never be happy in a relationship to begin with. Not with who I am as a human being. And... my only true thing that I exhort my pride and emotions on.
My only vice. Only thing I seriously care about in this life anymore. 330 fire-breathing, F20C-powered wild stallions. Nearly fully tuned (non-power-wise.) Sticks to the road like glue – my hidden gem in a field of dull nonsensical 🤬. It's cost me a lot - emotionally and in monetary terms - to find something like this car. I do all of my own suspension tuning and general maintenance.
Who am I? A lone man with a house and fancy car?
Yes... but I am also so much more. That past holds many secrets in the lives of others... and especially mine.
Who am I?
I am John van Druten. American-born, German descent. Only a few close friends. I don't drink, smoke, or anything else like that. I'm a quiet man.
This is my story.
------------------------------------
Chapter I:
Location: Dapplering, Wyoming. Date: March 14th, 2005
"Good work today, John. We'll see you this Monday, after that god-awful race they hold..."
"I feel much the same way. Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Jameson."
"You're older than me, and insist on calling me a sir... Get out of here, you crazy dapper man."
"Will do so, sir."
"Oh Lord..."
Start of the weekend... again. I remember how weekends used to be...
And those memories soured in my mind as I also recalled how much those weekends had cost me. Wasted years...
"See you Monday, Mr. van Druten."
"Yes, ma'am."
Corporate America is run by little men in little cubicles. And also the freaks in Washington. And I happen to be one of the little men in a cubicle, stuck... pushing papers... all day. Even so, I don't enjoy the breaks from doing such work - it provides me with a way to keep my life in track.
That being said... I do enjoy one thing about leaving work on the weekends - or every day, for that matter:
Only real thing I live for anymore - a 2004 Honda S2000 Type-V. It's been modified by my cousin Rex - who happens to be the owner of a nearby HKS store. Life's funny that way - and a real 🤬 to deal with when it's on its period, so to speak.
Generally speaking, most of the people I work with view me as a slightly eccentric loner type who does his job without any questions asked, is respectful, and would be a better fit as a butler.
People make assumptions... and they are defeated by them.
Not many around me know I was once a professional racing driver, beginning at the tender age of 16. Where and in what series... You'll have to guess someday. Even so, the people that might recognize me in the slightest ask if I am indeed who I once was.
The answer is always the same - “Yes. I get that a lot.”
I lie because I don't wish to live those painful memories over and over again. Even so, I do sometimes dwell on them... and see exactly what a mess of my life I had made back then. Lying is a sin - but my form of lying is to protect myself and others from my past. Completely reasonable, when you look at it from that standpoint.
Only my closest friends know something of who I once was (and even then, they do not know who I truly am or what my true story is.) If you can call about three people my closest friends. The only time you might see a flash of my past - is on the previously mentioned drives home.
Just me, the S2000, and the winding roads of El Capitan.
The sensation of the G-forces pulling and pushing me around - the tautness of the suspension, feeling every bump and dip in the road surface.
Throw the car into the corners with reckless abandon like I used to - I know the limits, now. And far too late to learn them, in my opinion. I wasn't trying to match my driving with Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence by Dream Theater, but it just seemed to happen... automatically. Instincts, long forgotten - show the extent of my former life to no one but myself.
The approaching whine of a car coming up from behind me made me snap out of my reverie and begin to come back into myself. I'd rather not be recognized by some kid in a ricer with 400lbs of bodykits - my S2000 is one of only three in the area. And, if you didn't see from earlier... my boss doesn't care for anything about racing. His son died in a racing accident, I'm told...
"Hey, foo... Wanna race, me versus that little dillweed of a ricer you got there....?"
Interesting. A Dome Zero. I had little reason to believe that they had existed outside of Japan, and I'm sure that it would be terribly expensive to import... Probably some kit car that's been slapped together and held up with spit, Band-Aids and duct tape.
"Yo dawg, you're fast... but are you fast enough, man?"
I passed him on the outside in the following left-hander.
“Dayum... Dis guy's got the shizz rollin'. I'd better not mess with his 🤬."
I sped away into the growing darkness, wondering what guy would be that stoned and try to drive a car in his condition... I'm sure he was also drunk in addition to being high, and I'd learned long ago - drugs, alcohol, and cars do not mix.
I made my way home following the posted speed limit of 15 MPH - or, at least in the development where I lived. I lived on the top of a hill, with about a good 50+ yards of space between any other houses around me. The solitude... helps during the nightmarish nights I experience sometimes.
A two-story Colonial with a mainly brickish construction, the place I'd come to call home wasn't anything to look at. It was in good condition, however, and was well-maintained. Keeping things in order is my main goal in life these days, and I think I've managed to do that admirably.
Something... just didn't feel right though. It wasn't the sense of being watched... it was the sense of something to come. An 'ill foreboding', if you will. After parking in the garage, I shook it off, and went upstairs to make myself a dinner while I watched the local news.
As I did so, I noticed my iPhone was buzzing like it had to go out for a leak. I had forgotten it while heading out today, and I'm not usually bothered by anyone... anyone but my friends. And even then...
I picked it up and read the new notification, while also silently cursing in fluent Russian under my breath.
It read;
“Hey John; I entered my Camaro SS in a race tomorrow on Trial Mountain. I need some help on getting around the track and some racing tips. Can you come help me out early tomorrow morning?
Listen; I know that you are thinking that I am a fool. Maybe I am. But... could you please help me out for old times' sake?
-Ricky”
Good Lord, help me. Ricky Robledo is a classic car enthusiast with a lot of money and time, but not enough brains. And surely not enough talent to handle the wallowing pigs he usually likes to drive.
Every year since I'd moved to Montana after leaving the military, he'd try to get me to enter the annual SuperSport charity weekend that the city of Dapplering, Wyoming, would hold on Trial Mountain.
I'd always decline, because I don't enjoy racing in front of fifty thousand spectators – I prefer to be alone. Sure, the $10,000 cash prize was always tempting, but my desire for privacy always won out. Plus, I'm sure I would get fired from my job.
I supposed he finally worked up the courage to enter the SuperSport event. I knew it would probably end badly, but I after a while of deliberation, I decided to help him. He is a good friend with a kind heart, but a little... out of his element when it comes to anything but cars. I figured since I'm not racing, I can just spectate like usual and be his 'spotter', as the term in NASCAR is.
As I got ready for bed, I made my decision and began typing out a reply on my phone;
"I'll be there at eight AM sharp. You owe me one, though..."
He'll need the early morning practice. Now... to see if he gets his lazy posterior up and out of bed before 3:30, when the race actually starts.
Fin Chapter I
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