Neon Dreams

By James Callan

Go on. Take the ride.

Riding coattails to a notorious street racer investigating the disappearance of her brother, Zap's humdrum existence is galvanized into a weird and wild ride of high-octane racing that leads him out of his home town, the megatropolis Troubadour, and into the unknown. On this journey Zap will encounter all

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Aug 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781639880164

James Callan

Originally from Minnesota, James Callan is a writer and fulltime father living on the Kāpiti Coast, New Zealand. His short fiction has appeared in various literary journals and several print anthologies. His first novel, Neon Dreams, was published in 2021.

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Neon

Dreams

james callan

atmosphere press

© 2021 James Callan

Published by Atmosphere Press

Cover design by Ronaldo Alves

No part of this book may be reproduced without permission from the author except in brief quotations and in reviews. This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to real places, persons, or events is entirely coincidental.

atmospherepress.com

To Finn, for being the fuel in Neon Dreams.

To Christine, for being her pit crew.

Without you, she would have never seen the finish line.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

Paladin Square was in the very heart of Troubadour.

Troubadour… city of shit. Nah… not really. Sure, it was a bit of a heap. But it was also a place to live, and living is better than dying. In truth, it was known as the city of poets. A thousand years ago some geezer wandered out of the jungle and sang a song about how he found his true heart’s home. His name long forgotten—known simply as the Poet—he founded a small farming community that over time became the mega-metropolis we now call Troubadour.

Living beats dying, eh? Maybe not. I know some guys born and raised in Troubadour… they chose death. Bought the farm and didn’t bother to ask the price. Just pulled the trigger, popped a handful of funsies on a quaff, or jumped off Poet’s Pride. Tallest building in Troub, that.

Then again, that lot had some shitty parents. Parents will do you dead if you let them raise you too this or too that. Me? I never had any. Or did, off and on. But an orphan’s tale is as commonplace in Troubadour as fishes in the sea. Let’s not go there.

There’s a better tale. And it began in Paladin Square, the very heart of Troubadour.

If you like people-watching, Paladin Square was the place to be. Every sort of person, every imaginable variety, crisscrossed the crowded city space each and every day. Each and every night. Millions of them. Endless. Constant. People, people, people. The commuters and the locals, the business blokes and high-class dames, the street vendors, the shop keepers, the pushers, and the peddlers. The tourists—droves of them. The school kiddies, the cabbies, the couriers, and the cops. The whores and burnouts. The Borgs and Bots. The Vamps and their detestable thralls, the want-to-be immortal dead, the religious goths. The dog walkers and street performers. The regular Joes and the double-take head turners. The homeboys, the homewreckers, and the homeless. The what-the-fucks, the don’t I know yous, the "I want to know yous," and the wholly, absolute, and utterly unremarkable. Every single type.

There was one, however, more remarkable than most. The sight of her was something else. Her? Maybe not. It would take a closer look. Her… Him… whatever. There was magnetism. A real pull.

Sunset cast an orange glow on the paved concrete, a mosaic of chewed bubble gum and tenacious weeds. Spires of brick, metal, and glass glinted blinding yellow light, reflecting the blood-red throes of the day’s glorious last minutes. Squinting in the harsh shrapnel of the day’s last light, s/he sat at a table casually sipping a pisco sour. Woman, I decided. But only by a hair. I could be wrong, of course, but my heart sang loud when I gazed at this one and I’ve never known a bloke to do the same to me. The crowd around me faded to nothing. That girl that might be a guy and her pisco sour was all that existed at that moment. I was hooked.

Her beverage and attire went hand in hand. Lemon-lime vibes all over. Canary and cream, make me scream! Bright yellow leather from head to toe, a second skin, with a stripe of sea green and a slash of fuchsia. Mint and magenta highlights here and there to break up the sheer boldness of the banana peel leather. Fingers capped in lacquered lime and parakeet polish drew circles in the sweat of her drink. At first, she looked bored, but I could tell she was focused. Zeroed in. As much on someone or something in the crowd as I was on her. I tried to follow her gaze but gave up. I’d rather continue to look at her, transfixed as I was.

Her face was perplexing. A work of art. Makeup loud and proud in certain spaces, totally bereft in others. Baby blue eyes flanked in dark teal eyeliner, geisha motif, and upper-lip-only glossed in ultra-pink. All of this under a close-cropped quiff of poorly bleached blonde hair. It had an intentional look, that rusty yellow. Cheap and trashy, but with effect. There were no accidents here. She knew what she was doing. Her style was somewhat garish, I’ll give you that, yet in measure, it remained subdued and tasteful. I’m no expert, but the look had as much class as it did cool. When I think back upon that moment, I think upon jewels on junk. Diamonds scattered on crumpled magazines. Treasure on trash. Sparkle and flash.

No attempt had been made to blot out the imperfections. A moderate bruise under the cheekbone and a small constellation of acne along the jaw. Badges of authenticity. A real girl. That’s good. Manufacturers weren’t likely to equip one of their robo gals with bruises and acne.

Living, breathing, flawed… perfection. She barely sipped at her pisco and set it down in such a way. I didn’t miss a detail. Full absorption. I must have been in outer space, staring at this girl, because I was getting odd looks and irritable remarks as I stood stone still, an obstruction, in the otherwise fluid throng. Piss off, I half-heartedly muttered to someone who cursed me as they passed. I edged in closer, worming my way through countless annoyed strangers, and found a comfortable spot at the north fringe of Paladin.

Wax palms edged the buildings in a line, growing an impressive fifty metres from enormous ceramic tubs. I hoisted myself up onto the lip of a container, wondering just how many layers of graffiti coated its surface. Thousands of tags and crude marks, each overlapping the other, a cycle of pointless and futile branding of the self… a model of impermanence; an urban anicca.

From here I had a better vantage of my sweetheart. Her pisco had been drained, I noted. That was fast work, considering how diligently it had been nursed. Perplexing. Or not. Hell, maybe the thirst came upon her. It was the hour… I had a thirst myself.

Banana Leather’s leg bounced from underneath the table. Nervous? Anxious? Couldn’t put my finger on it – and, oh, how I wanted to put my finger on it—but the whole process had some awkwardness to it. And not a little. Her movements were intermixed, a grab bag of clumsiness and grace. The pisco doing its thing? I doubt it. Unless it was her third, or I mistake her character entirely. This chick looks the type that can knock back a few and brandish her wits all the same. But how the hell should I know the least thing about her? Simply put, I didn’t.

A thought crossed my mind; maybe she’s a he in drag? That would be a major drag. It would explain the movements and mannerisms at odds with the external package. Whatever, I’m in love either way.

Erstwhile golden hues of the dying day had given way to night and the city came to life in a barrage of light and stimuli. An ejaculation of electric splendour burst forth from the placidity and mundane of the diurnal. Neon signs flashed slogans and advertisements, each a steady metronome of unique pace and buzzing colour. Mammoth screens flaunted videos of mega-models holding this or that product with seductive promise and allure. A toothbrush, a golf iron, a portable vacuum. Fuck me with your eyes and buy my products. Megaphone and loudspeaker competing for attention. A flood of music from each and every open door of each and every shop. Call girls calling out. Drunkards shouting bad jokes and opinions. Little ants, all, under Troub’s biggest and brightest… corporate spires and residential towers, bathed in brilliance, each trying to outdo the other, each belittled by Poet’s Pride. The big P.P. Shining golden, a massive monolith piercing the very heavens. You could never lose your bearing in Troubadour… not with the Poet looking over you.

The fountain at Paladin Square lit up. Its central figure, the Poet, moved to tears by the beauty of his song, wept two luminescent streams from his eyes. Spotlights trained inward onto the buildings of the square, shining alternate purple and orange. The wax palms cast huge, slender shadows behind them, and the atmosphere of the public space became less business-like, more relaxed. More rowdy.

It was enough to distract me momentarily from the plucking of my heartstrings. Jesus… I sound like the Poet himself. The pisco had been replaced with a new one, untouched. Again, that beautiful androgynous stranger zeroed in on something. It pained me to remove my gaze from her glory, but I was determined to learn the subject of her interest.

A parting in the crowd revealed a gang of unsavoury scabs. Stim Junkies, by the look of them. Seven or eight, all making a right raucous, no respect. One of them leaned over the lip of the fountain to fill a cup with the poet’s tears. He looked half-dead, a gray shadow of a man, but lit up real fast—mega smile and wide eye—as soon as the cup touched his lips. His lank hair came out in clumps as he pushed it aside to upend the heavily chlorinated soup, washing down the three or four zebra-print funsies he popped into his gob. Shit... that’s an early start to a heavy night. If he lives...

Another one of the stim-heads openly groped a half-conscious girl. She part giggled, part belched, so strung out on this and that and whatever she could get that her very own name was likely unknown to her at this stage. Neck smothered in wet violent kisses, savage nibbles, her head lolled back and vacancy took her. Backward into the fountain she went. Splash! A wave rushed over the fountain and onto the square wetting the nearest passerby. Fuckin’ Hell! He shouted. Goddamned idiots!

The stimboy who had allowed the girl to fall laughed full in the stranger’s face before turning to vomit into the fountain. He paused to study a holographic projection of a large koi distorted by the flotsam of his last meal. Some random and concerned stranger fished out the drowning lady from the Poet’s tears. Saved me the trouble.

I returned my gaze to the girl with the pisco. Such was the contrast from heinous to heavenly that I stumbled and nearly fell from my lofty perch upon the ceramic tub. I steadied myself, back leaned against the coarse trunk of the wax palm and reflected just how enraptured I was by this odd stranger. I blinked like an idiot in disbelief, like some cave dweller emerged to face the morning light. She had me, heart and soul. This woman that I am 70 percent sure is a woman and dressed like a radioactive banana. She had me. I am hers. Me, a puppet bound and commanded by strings of infatuation, attraction, and who knows whatever other unknown force. And her, my pisco princess, pulling the strings. Fucks sake... I really have become the Poet.

My enamored state put on hold, I sobered to note the fury and concentration settle over my girl’s oh-so artful face as she stared down those stupid stim fucks. She gripped her drink with force and buried those beautiful blues in downcast eyebrows. She stared with intent. And with deadly promise. She was fucking pissed. Even so... beneath the rage, I could discern the ghost of a smile. She was pissed, but she was excited.

At that moment, an unease settled over me with palpable force. The air around me suddenly became heavy and the mood within Paladin Square carried with it a sudden flavour of violence. An imminent danger. I reached in my coat pocket and fingered my Colt .45. Her cold metal edge reassured me. Big Blue. That’s what I called her. Some fucker I know borrowed her to use as a cosplay prop and spray-painted her sky blue to suit whatever moronic guise matched this or that beloved comic book character. So yeah… she was blue. And she packed a giant-sized wallop. Big Blue.

Tension was building in Paladin Square. Tonight was bound to be a head fuck, I thought.

…I wasn’t wrong.

RAT RACE

The Stims had had enough of their early evening comedown. The time was nigh for a pick-me-up. Tonight they were on Juice. Live hard, die fast. That was the common slogan of a Juicer. The drug stimmed you up real good. Made you a god. Made you strong. Made you fuck like a rock star. Casanova meets King Kong. A real beast.

But the comedown was hard. It took years off your life. Slowed metabolism to a virtual standstill. Wreaked havoc on your insides. Pushed your heart to the limit. Vision blurred and other senses weakened with repeated use, dexterity and common functionality slowed. Thoughts became disjointed, speech slurred. Some heavy users even lost the use of their limbs.

The highs were high and the lows made you die. Typical creed of a Juicer.

The junkies fell quiet upon the arrival of their Stimlord. Some tall, pale creature with a dangerous look that said rather frankly to the world, "Fuck with me. I dare you." The look of him made me shiver. Even Big Blue felt pointless in my pocket.

Despite his villainous look and overall cast of menace, he approached the group with a warm and endearing smile. Ratlings, he greeted. Time for some cheese! His hands plunged into deep pockets and surfaced with fists full of contraband. If someone was expecting a wedge of camembert or cheddar no one showed surprise or disappointment. He tossed the drugs before his feet like treats for a pack of dogs.

The Stimmies went wild. They were popping, sniffing, injecting, inhaling. Glazed-over eyes became sharp and aware. Gaping, slack-jaw mouths snapped tight. Loose limbs became ridged. Limp dicks, erect. Slow, labouring heartbeats quadrupled their pace. It was like watching corpses rise from the grave.

Things really started to feel like they were heating up. Shit was cooking. And shit felt like it was about to burn. I turned to check in on Yellow and, sure enough, she was hot and bothered, all worked up. Ready to blow. She sat still as you please, ass firmly on chair and hand idly holding drink… but her eyes. Those big baby blues. They were alive and they were on fire. Zeroed in on that Stimlord and his so-called ratlings. This was what she had been waiting for. This was why she was here.

Alright, my ratties! The Stimlord shouted. You’ve had your feed. You’re feeling good. Your little rat feet are ready to run the wheel. He was not close, but I heard him clear and distinct. He was centre stage and all of Paladin Square seemed to hush when he spoke. His voice carried like an orator. Yeah… I reckon it’s time.

Time? Time for what?

Blue-Eyes twitched and seemed to enter another realm. Her focus was supreme. Her devotion to that focus, almighty. Her awareness funnelled into a pinpointed target. That target, alas, was not me. This allowed me to vacate my post and edge closer to her, unnoticed. With each step, my infatuation deepened. I stopped when I had got rather close. The view lent a tremendous image. I think I sighed out loud. A proper swoon.

Despite the appeal to her visage, a well-masked anxiety did not go unnoticed. White knuckled and almost imperceptibly tense—but tense as fuck—all but a few subtle signs would have you believe she was as cool as a cucumber. More like a hot red pepper. Nothing mild about it.

Well, then? The Stimlord slyly addressed his ratlings. Shall we?

A pause.

Silence.

Gulp. I swallowed.

Paladin Square held its breath as one.

Daddy rat flashed a wide and wicked grin. Let’s rev and ride!

Rat race! The ratlings answered, fists held high by bony limbs.

And now his grin became positively demonic. That’s exactly right, ratty rat rats. A truly frightening sight. Then he took up some sort of disgusting rousing carol. Rev and ride. Rev and ride. Rev and ride. Rat race! The chant was fevered. Manic. Spasmodic. Rev and ride. Rev and Ride. Horrid, crazed, tribal weirdness. Gave me the fucking creeps. Rat race! Mega willies. Heebie-fucking-jeebies.

Pretty Pisco calmly reached across the table and unfolded a pair of yellow leather gloves. Her attention never diverted from the stimmies as she methodically pulled them taught over her lovely lacquered outstretched fingers. She threw some coins on the table and pushed back her chair. She looked on, silent. One last analysis. Then stood with intent and purpose.

You can finish it, she said. To whom she spoke or what she referred to was anyone’s guess. You can finish it, she repeated, then turned to look me straight in the eye. My drink, she urged. You can have it. Don’t let it go to waste.

Her gaze entranced me through and through, body and soul, and I stood there, idiotic, and stared. My heart skipped a beat—probably several—and I drowned fully in the depths of those baby blues. Go on, she coaxed. Or not, and shrugged. And quick as can be she walked away and into the crowd, confident strides lead to the general direction of the chaos presently witnessed.

I blinked. Took a breath. And stared some more. She must have been aware of my presence the entire time. Of course she had. Silly dumb fuck! She’s legit. Mega badass. And me? Acting all covert… what a joke! Oh man, I felt a right ass. Embarrassment, full stop.

Still… a giddiness took over me. She looked at me. She spoke to me. She offered me her drink! Don’t kid yourself, fool. She only did that to show that she was on to you. Still… my heart fluttered.

I shook my head and came to my senses. Lovesick and dumb, I blinked away the malaise, the confusion. I turned to the crowd. There, in the throng, a vague shimmer of bright yellow. Let that be my beacon.

But first…

I rushed over to the pisco sour and cupped it in my hands like it was the Holy Grail. I held it dear and placed my upper lip just so over the imprint of ultra-pink left on the rim. My heartbeat quickened. My loins stirred. I let the alcohol slowly enter my mouth and held it there for a lingering series of seconds before swallowing in one, massive draught. Divinity. Utter bliss.

I set down the pisco and turned to pursue the woman—or man—of my dreams. I went to follow the beacon. Don’t you dare lose sight of it.

I won’t.

* * *

And I didn’t.

Not for a second.

Though strangely, it’s much harder to person-watch than to people-watch. Even if they are dressed in loud yellow leather from head to toe. For that, at least, I was grateful. In the mighty throng of Paladin Square, a single sardine blends in with the shoal. Still, I managed. And a good thing too, because right about now that gaunt fucker of a stimshit was squaring down my golden girl, vibes all threatening, predatory posture.

Ho! Ho! Little ratties! What have we here? The rodents scurried to his summons and huddled together. They poised, ragged breaths, fully amped and drugged up; a sickly, super-charged posse. Looks like the Neon Queen has come to pay her disrespects. Treat us ratties like vermin. Take the cheese and eat it too. The juice was doing its thing. Eyes manic, teeth gnashing, veins bulged and pumping stimmed-up blood at full pelt. The Stimlord and his crew were itching for some action.

No one takes the Rat King’s cheddar. No one but the Rat Man, himself. His cronies hooted and frothed and gnashed, salivating at the notion of savagery and sadism. What have you to say, Lady Bright? Any words for the rat?

This "Lady Bright, the Neon Queen," she stared nonchalantly. A picture of calm. Perfectly poised. Hell, she looked positively bored. She paused for just a moment, gloved hand raised, and I swear it was to stifle a yawn. Bad. Fucking. Ass. When she spoke, it was in a tone both confident and serene. You sure do talk a lot, cheese breath rat bastard. Are we going to race or what?

Cheese Breath scowled at his adversary but remained deathly silent. Paladin Square was rife with tension. He reached crosswise over his lanky form to fondle a scabbard at his hip. Rat Man cocked his head and sneered, and slowly—ever so slowly—unsheathed his blade. His rodent posse held their tongues but heaved with laboured breathing. He pointed his sword at Banana Leather. Except it wasn’t a sword, I realized. It was a crowbar.

There he froze, fully dramatic as if posing for a movie poster or waiting for the curtain to fall at the end of a dramatic performance.

Well? Neon broke the silence. Hand on hip. Cool as hell.

Well and good. The Rat King nodded. Well and good. He sheathed his crowbar—I got the feeling he liked to draw it and sheath it often and readily. He offered one last withering glare. This is the last night you’ll ever race, bitch.

Sure, rat. Sure. Half amused, half impatient. Neon smirked and tapped her foot.

Well let’s not fuck about then, eh? His face a frenzied nightmare. Let the rat scramble begin!

And all hell broke loose.

The juicer gang burst into action. Frantic and overeager, they made a mad dash for the fringes of Paladin Square. There, illegally parked in a bold collection of blatant disarray—a fuck you to the basic edict of city ordinance—were the various rides, all gunmetal and matte black, belonging to the stimmed up rat-riders. They jumped and slid over hoods. Ignited engines. Revved and honked and burned rubber in circles and figure eights. Such was the synchronicity of their movements that the whole thing could have passed for some choreographed show. Perhaps it was…

One of the figure-eights ended by crushing over a bewildered pedestrian. Her howls were drowned in the roaring of the rat engines, screams lost entirely to wild cacophony. Clutching at a shattered mess of bone and ragged flesh spilling from her skirt, the hapless victim flailed in sheer agony. Her handbag spilled all manner of personal belongings as a crew of vultures descended to claim whatever scraps they may. Shit was going down…. and shit was going bad. Blood pooled on the pavement. Paladin Square went fucking nuts. Sheer motor madness. Pandemonium.

Rat King, hands in pockets, leaned back against the boot of his ride. In the midst of the chaos, he was a picture of calm. A focal point to the madness. The eye of the storm. All around him people scurried and screamed. Rat riders swerved and sped over Paladin Square like it was a playground for their high-amped antics. Shit hit the fan. Hit left, right and centre.

No matter, it would seem. No big deal to the Rat Man. He observed the chaos around him with casual acknowledgement, mild amusement, and general approval. It pissed me off. Made me fucking sick.

Yo, rat cunt! Big Blue was out and locked in on that dip-shit cheddar breath. Call off your goons or I’ll turn you into Swiss Cheese. It was lame but seemed in theme.

If the Stimlord was perturbed he gave not an inkling of indication. The Rat Race is on, boy. Nothing can stop it now. Not you, he chuckled. Not that blue toy, neither.

No one calls Big Blue a toy. Race is off, rat bitch. I declared. The gun made me bold. Made me act bigger than I was. Gave me powers that I didn’t actually have. "Stick your hamster prick in someone else’s ass… this is my town." It made me downright silly. A bonafide clown. A real fool.

I trained my Colt .45 on the front wheel of the Rat King’s ride. I gave that bastard a cocksure smile and pulled the trigger. That will surely end his stupid race.

Yeah… not so much…

Clean ricochet. What’s worse, someone screamed and hit the floor. I think Big Blue took down a man. Bystander.

Them’s my cheese wheels, son, the Rat King proudly remarked. "Mega ‘P.,’ those. Forged off-planet and harder than even your thick skull."

I lowered my gun and looked on, dejected. The Rat’s ride was black as ink, windows and all. It could have passed for the Batmobile, a true work of badass. Ultra cool.

Its wheels, however, were different. They stood out from the rest. Bright orange. The colour of flame. The colour of sharp cheddar. They had that particular gloss… Mega Plastic. Off-world shit. Synthetic armour. So Big Blue was a toy, after all.

The rat laughed. He must have seen my spirit sink to the gutter. His hands emerged from his pockets and I looked on as he did what only a stimpunk would ever do. He took a cartridge of juice and inhaled once, twice, thrice. Like some kid trying to put down an asthma attack. He let the empty contraband fall to the floor and proceeded to pop some funsies. One after the next. Zebra, Tiger, Snake, Crab, Eel. Five. Each its own flavour. The man was fucking insane. Certified. One hundred percent. No less.

There was a general rule of thumb regarding funsie consumption. A simple guideline. Your basic need-to-know should you consider taking any. If you were a stim junky it was etched deeper in your brain than the ‘ABCs.’ It was as common as common knowledge could get.

Rudimentary funsie 101. Goes like this… One for some casual fun. Two for the hard user and the addicts. Three was risky. Four was stupid. Five… five was fatal. Six or more? Just a waste of money and perfectly good funsies.

Three breathes of the juice and five funsies in one go? The man was suicidal. Dead already. His bloodstream was a reservoir of a week’s worth of hard drugs. If he lived the hour I’d be fucking stunned.

Oh baby! The Rat shouted. "Now THAT does the trick. I’m ready to ride. Ride HARD." He stepped into his vehicle and turned the ignition. He revved so hard it was a REVolution. He rolled down the window and turned to face me with the craziest pair of drugged-up eyes I’ve ever seen… by a long shot. Say, my friend, he said calm and cordially. just who in the fuck are you, anyway?

I gulped back the pisco that had been rising in my throat. I’m pretty sure I was trembling. Big Blue shook in my grip. I searched for words…

Out of my peripherals an angel came to the scene. Saved by the Neon Queen. My shining beacon. My beauty. I jerked my thumb in her direction.

I’m with her.

The Rat took it in. He frowned. There was some real bad blood between those two. He looked at me and gave me the head-to-toe. You ain’t half bad, stranger. He smiled warmly. But I’ll be killing you before sunrise. Killing you real slow. There’s something of a rule, my son… His smile withered. "You don’t fuck with the Rat."

His back arched in a wild spasm before he regained control. Can’t hold back this high no longer. I’m ripe for the race. Ready for the ride.

And he was gone. Zero to sixty in a blink of the eye. The noise and shock made me fart involuntarily. It was like a bloody gunshot. Those wheels could move.

And on the turn of a dime, his entourage followed suit. A pack of frantic rats. They raced in the wake of their Lord down the nearest street at a breakneck pace. Taillights left motion trails in the night. A dust cloud formed and eventually settled. Paladin Square when silent. Troubadour’s citizens were nonplussed. Then all at once they turned to their neighbour and shouted about whatever the hell had just transpired.

Neon looked on as the rat crew sped off down the lane, then turned her attention to me. "I’m with her," I had said. I winced, expecting a reprimand. Surprisingly, she smiled, then quickly hurried off past the edge of the crowd. She turned a corner down a narrow back alley.

Follow the beacon. My mantra.

I caught up to the Neon Queen just as she was getting into her ride. And wow…. what a ride. It was its driver, personified. Elegant but strong. Smooth but hard-edged. Beautiful but badass. Hard-fucking-core. A lovely enigma.

Canary yellow with streaks of lime. Magenta highlights that surfaced in an opalescent shimmer depending on how it caught the angles of the light. This thing was a work of art. And something else… something strange. Along the sides of a translucent body was a collection of interwoven tubes. What they were was well beyond me. Neon revved the engine. Then it suddenly became clear.

The tubes lit up in synchronicity with the revs. Each vroom illuminated the night with echoes of light. Yellow, pink, and green.