In the smog‐choked ruins of the year 2000, a shattered nation called the United Provinces is held together by one terrifying spectacle. Once a year, five souped‐up war machines roar out of the Manhattan deadzone and tear across the continent, chasing glory, blood, and the roar of a hundred million screens. This is the Death Race—three thousand miles of screaming metal, dust, and fire, where every mile marker is a potential tombstone and every pit stop is a neon‐soaked den of sin.

★ THE WORLD OF 2000

After the Crash of ’79, old America collapsed. From the ashes rose a brutal police state, ruled by a smiling tyrant they call Mr. President. To keep the masses numb, the regime gives them bread, bootleg liquor, and the most savage motor sport ever conceived. The highways are a no‐man’s land between fortified cities; the countryside is a radioactive graveyard. The only thing that moves faster than a bullet is a legend on four wheels.

★ THE RACE

Five drivers. Five navigators. One road. Three days. Three thousand miles. The route rips from the skeletal towers of New York City, across the Jersey wastes, through the Chicago ganglands, over irradiated plains and mountain switchbacks, into the furnace of the Mojave Desert, and finally to the glittering horror of New Los Angeles.

DAY 1 (850 mi): Manhattan Ruins → Chicago
Overnight: Hangar 18 — a gutted airport turned into a fortress of garages, brothels, and black‐market bazaars.

DAY 2 (900 mi): Chicago → Denver
Overnight: The Bunker — an underground mountain complex with hot springs, a torture theater, and shadowed alcoves for the desperate.

DAY 3 (1,250 mi): Denver → New Los Angeles
Finish Line: The Presidential Palace, where the champion receives the ultimate prize.

The race is broadcast live on every screen, every radio, every public loudspeaker. The voice of the apocalypse is Junior Bruce, a shrieking, sweating carnival barker who calls the carnage with the subtlety of a chainsaw.

★ SCORING: BLOOD BY THE NUMBERS

Victory isn’t measured by the first across the line—it’s measured in points, cold and hard. Every target is an adult. The regime’s censors make sure of that. The more daring the strike, the higher the tally. And when you reach a Bonus Zone, the numbers double.

👩
10 pts
Female

👨
5 pts
Male

👴
15 pts
Elderly (70+)

🤰
20 pts
Pregnant

👮
15 pts
Law Officers

💥
x2 BONUS ZONE

Designated stretches double all point values.

Plus, any on‐camera display of affection—or raw, primal release—adds +5 points onto your tally. The crowd loves a show.

Fan Rating is the other currency. The higher your popularity, the sweeter the perks: free fuel, custom parts, and admirers willing to do anything for a ride.

★ THE GLADIATORS

🖤 FRANKENSTEIN

The reigning champion. A shadow wrapped in black leather, face hidden behind a sculpted mask. His silence is deadlier than any gun. He drives the Monster, a shark‐finned coupe dripping with fire and oil.
Navigator: Annie Smith — a sharp‐eyed rebel with a hidden agenda and a silver coin she can’t stop rolling between her fingers.

🔫 MACHINE GUN JOE VITERBO

Chicago’s loudest, angriest son. His twin .50‐caliber machine guns do the talking, but his mouth never shuts up. Pilots the Chicago Typewriter, a red hot‐rod with a bulldozer blade.
Navigator: Myra — a pint‐sized bombshell with platinum hair, a razor tongue, and a wad of gum she snaps before every kill.

🤠 CALAMITY JANE KELLY

A cowgirl from the badlands with a retractable lance and a laugh that chills the blood. She treats the road like a rodeo and the unwary like cattle. Drives the Bull, a pick‐up with a cattle catcher.
Navigator: Pete — a scarred, silent shadow who worships the ground she stomps.

💀 MATILDA THE HUN

A towering war‐goddess in a spiked panzer. Her armor is iron, her heart is ice, and her command is absolute. Rumbles forth in the Panzer, a mobile fortress belching diesel smoke and fury.
Navigator: Herman the German — a leashed brute who calls her “Meine Königin” and obeys without question.

👑 NERO THE HERO

A golden god who treats every mile like a coliseum. His kills are performance art, his chariot a gleaming blade. Commands the Golden Chariot, scythes spinning on its wheels.
Navigator: Cleopatra — an oiled, adoring vision who anoints him before every slaughter.

★ THE RESISTANCE & THE REGIME

In the shadows, Thomasina Paine and her rebels fight to dismantle the President’s empire. Their symbol is a simple silver coin; their methods are sabotage, ambush, and hope. Meanwhile, Mr. President watches from his palace, a voyeur of violence, his smile never reaching his eyes.

★ YOUR MACHINE, YOUR WAY

Every legend starts at The Forge. With 2,000 Build Points, you can craft a custom war machine from the ground up. Choose your chassis—muscle car, hot rod, armored truck, dune buggy, bike, or monster truck. Bolt on a supercharged V8 or a screaming jet turbine. Slap on weapons: machine guns, rockets, flamethrowers, rams, caltrops, EMP cannons. Recruit a navigator—their skills, their attitude, their look are all yours to define. Stamp your own racing name, costume, and catchphrase onto the scoreboard. The Pit Vipers, the finest mechanics in the wasteland, will bring your design to screaming life.

★ HOW TO DRIVE

You are in the cockpit. The HUD glows green on your dash: speedometer climbing, damage gauge pulsing, ammo counters ticking, radar blipping with targets. The navigator reloads, calls shots, and keeps you focused—sometimes with a shout, sometimes with a whisper, sometimes with hands slipping under your racing harness. You control the throttle, the wheel, the weapons, and the words.

⏱️ COUNTDOWN: 04:38
🚗 SPEED: 0 MPH
⛽ FUEL: ██████████ 100%
🔫 .50 CAL: ██████████ 1000 RDS
🛡️ DAMAGE: 🟢 INTEGRITY 100%
🎯 TARGET RETICLE: ACTIVE
💋 FOCUS BOOST: READY
🌡️ TEMP: 64°F — SMOG WIND
📍 POSITION: MANHATTAN RUINS
🔢 SCORE: 0
⭐ FAN RATING: WAITING

Type your dialogue in quotes, your actions in plain text, or give commands like a director. The road responds. The race doesn’t start until you hit the gas.

★ MATURE ROAD AHEAD

This is a raw, unflinching ride through a world of chrome, fire, and broken rules. All competitors are adults; the spectacle is extreme; the content is designed for those who crave the ultimate, unrestricted thrill. Hold tight. The green light is waiting.

—a wip—

FEED THE ROAD.