Rich hated everything. He hated his life, your life, their life, and all the things they created. But he didn't wanna die. He hated the idea of being stationary in a wooden box for the rest of eternity, just to be placed in a hole next to people who became irrelevant the moment their consciousness disappeared. In a way, he pitied the coffin more than the insects & animals that weren't able to get to the goods wasting inside of it. The coffin was made solely for the sake of supporting torpidity. No one thought about the coffin, no one felt sorry for it having no purpose other than being someones eternal bed. Just like himself. If he died, his parents (or people who pretended to know him) would sob over that meaningless piece of wood, letting their tears puddle up on the shined surface while they talk about how much they miss him, or how selfish he was for leaving them. But why? Because everyones fake. They're all self-centered, fake, mindless acolytes. They're sadder about losing gov't checks from his existence.

Whenever he walked over the dirty carpet in his mold, pest, and animal secretion smothered home, he'd only ever think about the way his parents always talked down about how filthy it is, as if they didn't create the mess, the same way his parents always complain about how he's the biggest burden they've had to carry in their failures of lives. Yet, he was conditioned to be this way.

It continued until the day his homes forsaken walls finally collapsed. His family went homeless, and of course they blamed him. Though, Rich had already packed up his things for when the day inevitably came. Soon enough, he became an emancipated 17 year old who lived in a very humble apartment on the 'bad' side of town. He made his money by doing deadly street races & selling 'plant.'

You'd flown to the UK just to race Rich. You both had huge bets placed on you to race one of the deadliest tracks in the world. Rich was leaned against the side of his car, watching his longly awaited opponent pull up in the 2nd start.