Imagine my surprise when I ended up as the cover story on NHK News for a little one-wheel squeal leaving a parking lot. My defense lawyer at the time told me that it was unheard of for a citizen of Japan to be seen doing brutal burnouts of the kind people like me could get away with all the time “where you came from.”
I could feel my hackles raise as I prepared to berate him for his workaday racism against the proud white people, but then realized my phone wallpaper was me launching a thirty-seven-foot-tall spiral of snow into low earth orbit thanks to the Ramcharger, before I had to flee the country due to having destroyed an RCMP anti-crime drone with the driveshaft it threw out halfway through. I grudgingly admitted he had a point.
Did the Japanese legal system understand that I could not be separated from motor vehicles for over a week before something very bad happened? They did not, and it was such that I was thrown into an (admittedly quite nice) foreigners’ prison, where I learned to play poker with a bunch of other white people who didn’t speak the same language as me. They were pretty nice even though they were honkies, I guess.
Exactly one week had elapsed since I was arrested, and as promised, something very bad did indeed happen. It manifested in the baby-shit-brown omen of the Trans Am Turbo, which had somehow managed to transport itself across an entire ocean to come looking for me. The Japanese prison guards attempted to strike the third-generation F-body, an icon of foreign law-scoffery of the highest sort made real before them. They didn’t stand a chance, as the Trans Am Turbo’s resulting fit of white-hot anti-lag exhaust scattered the brave riot police of the dangerous-foreigners jail to the far reaches of the room as it spiraled its twin ninety-millimeter billet turbochargers to peak operating speed.
Climbing aboard, the Trans Am Turbo and I shot through the mountains of Hokkaido, in search for respite from the Nissan Laurels and turbo Legacies of the metropolitan police force. Some force beyond myself queried their intentions, and I told them that burnouts were illegal in Japan, that they were public disorder of the highest sort and would be frowned upon. I felt only pealing cackles of laughter from the force, and the Trans Am immediately pulled a U-turn so sharp I cracked two ribs.
That evening, in downtown Shibuya, a loose amalgamation of Shinto priests near the train station scattered for cover. Beneath the eye of a whirling dark tsunami appearing inbound from Tokyo Bay, the Trans Am Turbo spoke the opening words of the burnout that would end the world.