Debbie looked at Heather, her life-partner and driving companion, sparing only a second to glance into the rear view mirror.
"Are they still on our ass?" Heather asked, her brows knitted with worry, biting her lower lip. Debbie gave a solemn nod and said, "Like a cheap thong."
Behind them only a scant few meters, the dreaded Redhead Rebellion was cruising up at 99MPH, giving them a chilly run for their money. The driver, the infamous Crimson Nail and her crew chief, Monkey Wrencher, were glaring daggers at their damaged, smoking car, only barely in the lead.
"What do we do?"
Debbie looked to the one woman she never wanted to let down again and shifted into overdrive, hammering the car forward against the wind, the frame rattling, tires squealing and passenger dripping a small pool in the seat beside her.
"We give 'em a run for their money, sweetness," she said, patting Heather's tanned, taut thigh. Slowly, her hand migrated up to the knee and beyond, to the dashboard, where it brushed lovingly against a switch rarely used, marked with three letters.
After it was flicked, behind their car, a stream of red oil slicked the track, sending the Redhead Rebellion into the guard rail and a section of empty seats, out of the race and into the headlines.
"PMS saves the day, sweetness," she said, her tongue licking her lips luxuriously. Beside her, still quivering with anticipation of the fun to follow in the winners' circle, Heather unbuttoned another clasp on her top, sighing softly...
And that is the opening splash text.