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MidReal Story
Raising Him
Scenario:Bailey is a male with red hair and a single dangling earing and he's country so he wears country boot, blue jeans, and a button up shirt with a hat that's backwards and he's 16. Marco is the Italian mafia boss a Daddy Dom and 32 and immediately falls in love with Bailey. Bailey is the boy who.has four wheelers, go carts, Razors, and he's stubbod.
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Bailey
He is a young boy with a rebellious spirit. He is stubborn,adventurous,and confident. Bailey has red hair and a pierced ear,giving him a slightly rebellious look. He enjoys riding four wheelers and go carts,showing his adventurous nature. Bailey's father is in prison,and he struggles with the stigma of having a "felon" as a parent. Despite this,Bailey seeks acceptance and finds solace in his friends and his love for racing.
Evan
He is Bailey's friend who works at a gas station. He is laidback,friendly,and supportive. Evan helps Bailey fix his four wheeler,providing him with valuable advice and camaraderie. He recognizes Bailey's need for acceptance and privacy about his father's past,respecting his friend's confidentiality. Evan's easygoing nature makes him a reliable confidant for Bailey. His relationship with Marco is nonconfrontational,indicating an understanding towards the mafia presence in their community.
Marco
He is the local Italian mafia boss,known as a "Daddy Dom." He is confident,protective,and charming. Marco meets Bailey at a racing track and immediately feels an intense connection towards him. Despite his intimidating reputation,Marco is gentle with Bailey,buying him ice cream and taking an interest in his hobbies. His age is not specified,but he appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Marco's mysterious past adds depth to his complex personality.
I’m a boy, I’m 16, and I have red hair.
I only have one earring, which is on the left side.
I’m country and I do wear country boots, blue jeans, and a button-up shirt.
My hat is always on backwards.
I have four wheelers, go carts, and Razors.
My go cart is black with flames, and my four wheeler is a red one.
I have won many trophies for racing all of them.
When I’m not in school or racing, I do hang out with my friends.
My daddy is in prison, but I don’t like to talk about it.
I don’t like people feeling sorry for me or asking questions about it.
I just want to be left alone and not have people treating me like I’m different because of it.
I know what people are thinking when they see me or find out about it: "He has a felon for a parent. He’s probably a felon himself."
It hurts because I know I’m not like that.
I don’t want to be seen as being bad or doing bad things because of what my daddy did.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead as I adjust my backwards cap, the Arizona sun beating down on the dusty track.
My hands grip the steering wheel of my black go cart, the painted flames seeming to dance in the heat waves.
The familiar scent of gasoline and hot metal fills my nostrils as I check my gauges one last time.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Marco standing by the fence, his expensive suit a stark contrast to the casual racing crowd.
He gives me a subtle nod, and I feel my chest tighten.
The other racers line up beside me, their engines humming.
I grip the wheel tighter, feeling the familiar vibration of the engine through my gloved hands.
The starter raises the checkered flag high above his head, and the dust swirls around the track.
Next to me, Jimmy Peterson’s blue cart inches forward, trying to get an advantage before the start.
I ease back slightly, careful not to cross the white line before the green flag drops.
The crowd quiets except for the rumble of engines.
Marco moves closer to the fence, his dark suit a stark contrast against the desert backdrop.
His presence makes my determination to win even stronger.
My heart pounds as the starter's arm tenses, flag gripped tight.
I press my foot against the gas pedal, feeling the resistance.
The dry desert air fills my lungs as I take one last deep breath.
Jimmy's cart inches forward again, testing the line, but I stay steady.
Through my peripheral vision, I catch Marco's intense stare.
His presence makes my palms sweat inside my racing gloves.
The flag begins its downward arc, seeming to move in slow motion.
The crowd's murmur fades away.
My muscles coil like springs, ready to unleash the power beneath me.
My muscles tense as the flag begins its downward arc.
The crowd's murmur fades to silence, replaced by the growl of idling engines.
I grip the wheel tighter, my leather gloves creaking.
The starter's arm drops in slow motion.
Time seems to stretch as I watch the checkered pattern flutter.
My foot hovers over the pedal, ready.
Jimmy's cart rocks slightly beside me, his engine revving impatiently.
I catch a final glimpse of Marco's dark suit against the chain-link fence.
The flag snaps down.
"Remember what I told you," Marco's voice crackles through the earpiece, calm yet commanding.
I nod slightly, eyes fixed on the track ahead.
"Win this race, and you'll have more than just a trophy waiting for you."
My muscles tense as the flag begins its final descent.
The world narrows to that single black-and-white checkered cloth dropping through the dusty air.
I feel the vibration of my cart's engine through the seat, hear Jimmy's cart revving beside me.
The starter's arm reaches its lowest point, and without conscious thought, my foot moves.
The pedal meets the floor with a satisfying thunk.
My cart lurches forward violently, throwing my head back against the seat.
The sudden acceleration pins me in place as my tires grip the dirt track.
My cart surges forward neck-and-neck with Jimmy's as we enter the first turn.
The track's loose dirt kicks up behind us, clouding my mirrors.
Jimmy inches closer, trying to crowd me toward the inside.
I grip the wheel harder, refusing to lift off the gas.
The sharp curve rushes toward us, marked by orange cones and tire barriers.
I spot a narrow gap opening between Jimmy's cart and the track's edge.
Keeping my line tight, I downshift and angle my cart into that space.
My cart scrapes against the metal barrier, sparks flying from the contact.
The grinding sound makes me wince, but I keep my line steady.
Jimmy's cart looms inches away on my right, his front wheel nearly touching my back corner.
The straightaway opens up ahead as we clear the turn.
I feel the barrier fall away and immediately cut right to block Jimmy from passing.
My engine whines as I push it harder, the gap between our carts slowly widening.
I grip the wheel tighter as my cart thunders down the straightaway.
The vibrations rattle through my arms, and the wind whips against my face, forcing me to squint through my goggles.
In my side mirror, Jimmy's blue cart grows smaller with each passing second.
The gap between us widens, but I refuse to let up, keeping my foot planted firmly on the gas pedal.
My engine screams at the constant full throttle.
The next turn looms ahead, marked by red flags fluttering in the desert breeze.
I lean into the approaching turn, my heart pounding in my chest.
The red flags catch my eye, and I start easing my foot off the gas pedal.
The cart's vibrations change subtly as it begins to slow.
My hands adjust their grip on the wheel, my knuckles white beneath my gloves.
The metal barrier catches the sunlight, reflecting a brilliant glare.
I calculate the perfect entry angle, feeling the weight of the turn ahead.
Jimmy's blue cart appears in my mirror again, gaining ground as I reduce speed.
The wind whips against my face while dust clouds billow behind me.
I downshift and turn the wheel hard, feeling my cart's tires grip the dusty track.
The g-force pulls at my body as I lean into the curve, my right wheel lifting slightly off the ground.
Keeping my line tight against the inside barrier, I ease the throttle to maintain control through the apex.
The cart's frame creaks under the strain, but I trust my vehicle.
As the turn straightens out, I slam the gas pedal down again, and my cart shoots forward with renewed speed.
I rocket out of the final turn onto the last straightaway, my cart's engine screaming at full throttle.
The black and white checkered finish line banner flutters ahead, growing larger with each second.
Jimmy's blue cart lurks in my mirror, but he's too far back to catch up now.
The crowd's cheering grows louder as I approach, though I stay focused on keeping my line straight and steady.
Marco stands at the fence near the finish, his dark suit a stark contrast against the dusty track.
"Marco!" I shout over the roar of the engine, pulling up beside him as I cross the finish line.
"You did it!" Marco yells back, his eyes wide with excitement.
"But there's something you need to know," he adds, his voice dropping to a more serious tone.