Farming Life Starting in Africa

Then he drove the Dodge Ram to the starting line at the west exit.

A crooked line was drawn on the ground with white spray paint, which shimmered with a thin layer of fluorescence under the car headlights.

Four cars were already parked side by side in front of the line, their engines idling, with short bursts of exhaust fumes occasionally coming out of their exhaust pipes.

These people are clearly not environmentally conscious and should be sanctioned by the EU.

At the far end is a dark blue Nissan R34, with a low-slung body and a row of LED light strips on the front bumper.

Inside the car sat a guy dressed entirely in black, so black he blended in with the car seat. If it weren't for the whites of his eyes and teeth reflecting the car lights when he turned his head to look at Rosen, Rosen would have almost thought the driver's seat was empty.

His face was expressionless. He glanced at Rosen and then turned back, his hands resting on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping lightly on the leather. Rosen could feel his tension.

Next to the R34 was a red 1999 BMW M5. There were a few shallow scratches on the side of the car, so it seems that this guy's driving skills are not very good and he is poor, so he can't afford to do bodywork and repainting.

A Latino man sat in the driver's seat, wearing a large headscarf. He had his head down, muttering to himself, with his hands clasped together on the top edge of the steering wheel, as if in prayer. A thin layer of oil could be seen on his forehead.

Rosen glanced at him. Judging from his attire and posture, if he hadn't been certain that the man was clearly of Latino descent, he would have almost thought that there was an Indian man sitting in the car who had just come from the New Delhi airport.

Next up was that white 1969 Anvil Mustang, with its rear end smoothly tapering.

The short-haired woman in the suit sat in the driver's seat, the window half-rolled down, one hand resting on the window sill, holding a still unlit cigarette between her fingers, slowly twirling it.

She saw Rosen's car pull up and stop at the very edge of the starting line, and her gaze fell on him. She raised the hand holding the cigarette and made a slashing motion across her neck, making a throat-cutting gesture that looked very unfriendly.

Last but not least, next to Lawson's parking spot was a yellow Nissan Flying Chicken S14, its wide-body kit's angular edges drawing sharp lines under the lights.

Luke, the big bald guy, was sitting inside. The car window wasn't closed. He leaned out of the window, half of his shoulder and head sticking out, grinning at Rosen, licking the corner of his mouth with his tongue, and then raising his middle finger.

Looking at these two unfriendly guys, Rosen planned to teach them a lesson later. He wouldn't give them any special treatment just because their opponents were women.

As he was wondering where Gisele was, a white Porsche Cayman drove up from the side road and stopped in the empty spot next to the starting line.

The car swayed briefly before coming to a stop. The engine was quieter than the other modified cars around it, not as loud, but the idling sound was more steady and powerful.

Giselle, sitting in the driver's seat, glanced at Rosen. A slight smile played on her lips. Then she bent down, picked up several palm-sized black plastic boxes from the passenger seat, got out of the car, and walked towards the other cars on the starting line.

When Luke saw Gisele, he sat bolt upright in the driver's seat, his voice filled with barely suppressed shock and displeasure: "Hey, Gisele, why are you participating too? This isn't fair!"

Giselle walked to Luke's car window, handed the GPS box through the window, then straightened up and stared at Luke's bald head. "Luke, there's nothing unfair about it. I didn't set the destination. If you have a problem with that, go find Phoenix."

Luke opened his mouth, but in the end he just stuck the GPS box into the center console and silently turned his gaze back.

Although he looked incredulous, he didn't dare to argue back. Gisele's backers were shady characters; a small-time driver like him couldn't afford to mess with them.

After Giselle distributed all the GPS devices to everyone else, she passed Rosen's car window and handed the last GPS box through the window.

When Rosen took it, his fingertips touched the side of her fingers, which felt icy cold.

He plugged the box into the port next to the car's infotainment system, and the center console screen flashed twice, displaying the destination coordinates. A small factory five miles away, marked on the map slightly south of west of Macallan, surrounded by a complex road network that passed through several densely populated neighborhoods.

These guys seem pretty crazy. No wonder you have to stay home at night. Otherwise, if you run into these racers, you might end up killing several unlucky guys.

However, Rosen also got excited. He had never raced against anyone before, and this was a good opportunity to test his reaction speed and driving skills.

Rosen positioned the drone directly above the section of road they were about to travel, allowing him to preview the road conditions via a control terminal on his arm. It was a small form of cheating, but he had virtually no racing experience.

Just as Rosen was looking at the GPS destination and the real-time traffic on the drone, thinking about how to take a shortcut, a woman wearing only underwear walked up to the front of their six cars and stood in the center of the white line.

She was barefoot, her toes touching the asphalt. After standing still, she turned around, her back to them, and reached out to remove the meager amount of fabric covering her chest, holding it high above her head.

The crowd of onlookers erupted in a loud cheer and whistle; some were calling out names, and others were blowing long notes.

Rosen's gaze remained fixed on the woman's raised hand. The piece of fabric was lifted by the wind under the streetlamp, then she whirled around, forcefully waving her hand downwards, sending the fabric arcing through the air before falling to the ground.

Her movement made Rosen glance at her face instinctively; it seemed that the woman was wearing two large hot water bottles filled with water hanging on her chest.

The engines of all six cars roared to life almost simultaneously. Several cars beside them lurched forward, and although Rosen followed, his lack of focus caused him to press the accelerator about half a beat slower than the cars around him.

Luke's car was now almost two car lengths ahead of him, and the white Mustang had also sped off, its rear wheels leaving two short black tire marks on the ground before regaining traction.

Rosen watched his tachometer needle climb rapidly. His gear shift wasn't slow, but the initial delay at the start had already put him in sixth place, with a blue R34 and a red BMW M5 vying for fourth and fifth.

The situation began to change after entering the first straight section. The Dodge Ram's engine's horsepower advantage on the straight gradually became apparent. Rosen pressed the accelerator harder and harder, the car dipped slightly during acceleration, and the vibrations from the steering wheel became increasingly solid.