Death Race: Beyond Anarchy Page #3

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bulk ammo, CAT 5 cable.

Could you hook me up?

- It will be on the next shipment.

- Adios Amigo!

Okay, let's see what

this kid's made of.

Warden, check it out.

What do you have?

They are transmitting the

telecast from the death pit.

It's the final death match.

Welcome to the final death match.

This one is simple easy.

It's called "Capture the Keys".

Here is the rules.

We are not here to see some

MMA submission bullshit.

We are here to see bone blasting.

Spine shattering fun.

It's about kill.

It's about blood...

And bone.

Oh man, somebody's

gonna get a citation.

We are not here to see

some f***ing p*ssy tap out.

The one person who

gets that set of keys.

And sticks it in the ignition of that car.

Wins the last spot in Death Race.

Yes!

Adios, suckers.

Peace out.

Somebody call the police!

He is a challenger.

You can't teach that.

Crush that motherf***er.

That pretty boy can fight!

Yeah, but can he drive?

Who cares, I want to know

if he fucks like he fights.

Rip that motherf***er!

Yes!

F***.

Ladies and gentlemen,

let's hear it for the butcher.

This mountain human has a

tally full of killing under his belt.

Having chalked up 67 body

bags on the kill board.

Submission is not his thing.

Good luck out there, Connor.

You got the keys,

do you have the balls?

Side bet, this pretty boy

doesn't last a minute.

I will take that.

Down goes Freezer!

- Sh*t.

- Unbelievable.

Ah! Made me feel young again. Sh*t!

I got something for you, Frankenstein.

Got something for you baby.

Bring the winner by for a talk.

With pleasure.

That's a bad motherf***er.

You wanna pay now or,

or shall I

throw up on the tab?

I'll pay now.

Frank thought you

might want a fresh shirt.

I thought you might want me.

I'm not into porn stars.

You can't pass this up.

I can.

He might have something

to say about that.

If you think you can make a

go over against Frankenstein,

you're wrong.

I can barely handle him and I

am three times the man you are.

P*ssy.

Was Carley hospitable?

Something like that.

You have impressed me, twice.

That's not easily done.

What were your first

impressions of the Sprawl?

Anarchy.

Any more than the outside world?

I think so.

Do you think you can handle

being king of this mountain?

I'm just here to race.

Yes. But if you win?

Then what?

Are you ready to lead?

To make hard decisions?

The sprawl is self-sustaining,

but it wasn't always this way.

When I arrived it was a wasteland.

Weyland Corporation promote this sprawl

as an alternative to

regular prisons.

That was a lie.

The sprawl was created

as an alternative

to the death penalty.

They throw us cheese and

expect us to act like rats.

They did not expect us to evolve.

But we are, and we will.

I keep this place from anarchy.

What does this have to do

with the street race?

It's not just a street race,

It is who we are.

Who are you, Connor Gibson?

Nobody special.

Oh, that could change

if you wind death race,

if you defeat me.

Why would you be willing to risk losing

all this power?

Death race gives anyone the

opportunity to become king.

Without that to inspire,

we are nothing.

If you win,

what would be your first act as king?

I haven't really thought about it.

I won because I knew exactly

what I wanted to do when

I was king of this hill.

If you don't know what you ask,

you will die on the track.

And the Sprawl would

cheer your death.

So the question is...

What do you want?

Come on baby, get in.

That was insane tonight.

The answer is no, Bexie.

You don't wanna ride

shotgun in death race.

Yes, I do.

It's a death sentence.

Frank has killed people

I cared about.

I want to be part of

putting him down.

I'll think about it.

I thought we could have a drink.

So, who is Merry?

Is she your favorite groupie,

or you just really into Christmas?

It's uh...

My sister, Meridith.

She died when I

was in the service.

Never got to say goodbye.

Can't change it, so...

Seen a lot of bad stuff.

Done a lot of bad things.

Merry was good.

Better than me,

that's for sure.

I was, uh...

I was born in, Little Rock.

Son of a preacher man.

Hardly.

My old man was a grease

monkey in a pair of

His idea of a good time was

drinking Dixie beer on the porch,

and, count the fireflies.

Spent most of my young life in

Sweet water, Texas,

on a salvage yard.

Merry, passed away in Long Beach.

So I ended up there.

So, the good news is

the V8 standard transmission

and it runs,

but the bad news is that

it needs tires, brakes

and toll engine over haul of it,

fuel cell, armor, weapon needed

Man, don't pull me with it, Lists.

Bottom line, it needs everything.

What the hell is this thing?

Your tombstone.

Bullet-proof titanium plate,

protects your fuel cell.

You got a navigator yet?

Hell yeah, he does.

I'm the motherf***er riding shotgun.

The hell you looking at?

I got anti freeze in my brains.

Let's build this sh*t.

The speedometer has been calibrated

to 200 Miles per hour.

Is that all she's got?

Let's find out.

This Death race,

is one lap, one day.

The race begins and

ends at the airfield.

Nice speed here, few obstacles.

Second day, is on Interstate 94.

Most of ballistic cars will be

taken out on this long stretch here.

Watch out for the highway gang,

this is their turf.

And then,

you hit the projects.

All kind of bad boys' in there.

You come out of there alive,

you end up in the

Meatpacking District?

Home free.

Driving is more important than killing.

Shoot only when you must.

Think slow, drive fast.

Rule no. 1, keep your ass alive.

That was incredible.

Don't f***ing touch me.

Hi.

So you like cars?

Yeah.

I like American muscle.

I had a Vett.

Rebuilt it myself.

A 1970 LT-1.

Sting ray.

Used to love the opener

upon highway to Vegas.

Paddle to the floor, 370

horses running hard.

Holley and Rochester Quadrajet Carb

getting the mixture just right.

Momentum shift,

stay off the brakes,

get her on her toes.

Man, could she fly.

How about you talk like

this to all your girls?

I got nothing outside these walls.

Merry was my last connection

to anything real.

So when she died

I made a bad decision.

Wind up here, not caring

'bout anything

or anyone.

But now...

But now?

We come for you!

Sergeant Gibson.

No one has called me that

in a long time.

Connor Gibson, is not the

man we're coming to know.

He is a warrior.

A very decorated and

specialized warrior.

Known in the shadow world of government

killers for his wet work in the CIA.

Target and killing is his forte,

and I am his mark.

He is here at the behest

of Weyland International.

Sent here by the fascist from the outside,

because they think I've

gained too much power.

They fitted him with a strap,

and he hangs around their

waist like a hatchet.

There is a helicopter

ride to freedom,

waiting for him at the finish line.

Tell me Sergeant,

am I wrong?

Kill! Kill!

Kill him!

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