Among the throngs of teenagers in skinny jeans and band shirts, the forty nine year old Aaron Swindale was quite the sight to behold. His denim overalls were spattered from years of work, sweat stained trucker cap on his head and a determined look behind his wrinkle framed eyes as he strode toward a young man sitting behind plastic fold out table counting money.
"Howdy there."
The young man was blisteringly white, his paleness so intense that direct sunlight would probably cause a reflected sunburn in innocent bystanders. His baggy pants matched his oversized hockey jersey and huge calf high sneakers, while his wirey frame and thin, gaunt face contrasted these. He looked up from his work, saw Aaron standing there and scoffed.
"You here to pick up your son, old dude? Or maybe one of the chiquitas hanging off of the boys is your daughter?" He winked. "You should tell her to be more careful esse, those boys can get pretty rough."
Aaron forced out a smile.
"Actually, I'm here to enter in the competition."
The man behind the table spluttered, then sniggered.
"Look around you man, are you sure this is your kinda jam?"
Aaron glanced around. The abandoned parking lot was a bustle of activity, with hundreds of young people chatting, drinking, smoking and gawking at the numerous souped up cars that were currently idling about the place. Each one presented as some kind of neon monster, painted in garish, clashing colours and covered in decals and stickers that further served to cause the viewers eye to slide off, too chaotic to find a point to focus in on. Their drivers were equally shocking in appearance, with hair and clothing in styles and colours that seemed to emulate the cars they ride, and faces studded with enough metal that as a complete package they seemed to be human styled caricatures of their rides.
Aaron looked back, took out a fifty dollar note and placed it on the table. The man leaned forward and picked it up, staring at it for a second before shrugging.
"Whatever man, its your life." He grabbed a pen and clipboard, then raised his head to look around. "I'll need you to point out your ride. You did bring a car, right?"
Aaron pointed towards the shadowy, uncrowded area of the lot, where an unassuming dark gray box of a car sat by itself. The man tapped his pen on his chin and shot Aaron a questioning look.
"Make and model?"
"Volkswagen. Golf. 1992."
"Right. Well." The man tore off a slip of paper and handed it to Aaron. "There's your recipt. Try not to get yourself killed, yeah? We'd hate to shut down the festivities on account of your sorry ass."
"Thank you very much." He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes had a look of such intense displeasure that the kid behind the table quickly glanced down and went back to counting money.