Second Chance is about a cheetah named Kasi, an aging race car driver offered a seat back in motorsports biggest event. Kasi must decide if he is ready to get behind the wheel while dealing with his natural instincts to chase, hunt, and kill, which are becoming stronger and more deadly after every race.

Today’s story is the first of two parts of “Second Chance” by Sean Duroc Silva, originally featured in the anthology Roar Volume 4. He also had stories featured in the Coyotl Awards Anthology and Different Worlds, Different Skins. He was the founder of the Furry Writers’ Guild and currently lives in Texas with his partner and numerous puppies while focusing on his career in the utility industry.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today’s story is the first of two parts of

“Second Chance” by Sean Duroc Silva,

originally featured in the anthology Roar Volume 4.

He also had stories featured in the Coyotl Awards Anthology

and Different Worlds, Different Skins.

He was the founder of the Furry Writers’ Guild

and currently lives in Texas with his partner

and numerous puppies

while focusing on his career in the utility industry.

“Second Chance”

by Sean Duroc Silva, Part 1 of 2 There would be a full grid tonight.

Ten metal coffins in the first heat alone, and each one of them sounded like an angry swarm of mechanical bees,

with their engines fuming and giving off the noxious scent of burnt oil and gasoline.

That pungent stench glued to the inside your nostrils for days on end, along with the dust and tiny flakes of rubber from turning lap after lap

around these filthy, dirt rings.

But the noise, it was by far the worst part.

Inside one of these things, it became down right unbearable.

The piercing growl of the engine stabbed at my ears and made them ring to the point where it was difficult to focus on the race

or even think straight.

My hearing was pretty much shot after all these years spent at the track.

You whispered to me or even talked softly and I couldn’t hear a thing.

If it hadn’t been for my keen sensitivity to sound, I’d be considered pretty much deaf.

Though I imagine the alternative my human competitors had to deal with was

much, much worse. And yet,

there was really only one way to make the pain go away.

It ended up being the same thing that soothed the aches in my joints and the constant clamor rattling inside my brain from the damaged ear drums.

I’d just strap on the helmet,

buckle myself into the seat and start

stalking my prey, like a good cheetah was supposed to do.

The car sitting on the pole kind of looked like a zebra,

with that funky black and white Championship Auto Parts paint scheme.

All the vehicle did was make it that much easier for the instincts to take control.

The hunger swept over me,

engulfing my body like a giant wave of water crashing against the shore, and the

feral animal inside of me started to come alive.

The vicious snare came out almost immediately,

like a bad habit embedded into my subconscious,

or maybe not even that.

Maybe the instincts were beginning to have a mind all their own.

Either way, I wasn’t in charge anymore as I bit the bottom lip of my muzzle,

cutting it with my teeth

just so I could feed the urge for that sharp tang of blood.

It had a way of heightening the senses.

Made the instincts

sharper, clearer… more deadly.

When I focused in on the rear panel of the number twenty-two car,

everything else seemed to disappear.

The crowd, the dirt,

the track, and all the little winged vehicles that sounded like high-pitched buzz saws; they all faded away,

and then it was just me and number twenty-two.

I didn’t even notice my hands gripping the wheel,

cranking it left than back to the right as we started the slide through turns one and two.

It was all from memory now,

much like how a predator would plant his feet

and push off while chasing something down.

I couldn’t even see where the other drivers were on the track, because only twenty

-two was locked into my field of view,

and that was dangerous—not only for me, but for everyone else on the course.

Still, the instincts were hungry.

They wanted him. So I jumped back into the throttle and easily picked up several tenths of a second coming out of turn two.

It wouldn’t take much,

another lap or two and I had him.

Then it became easy.

Clip him in the left rear,

or even better, give him a little shove.

Drive down on the throttle with my aching foot

and aim straight for the Mitchell Oil sign on the wall in turn three.

I could launch him.

Kill him easy, like taking out the feet of a wildebeest

or gouging into the flank of a panicked gazelle.

He’d crumple, and so would I, but I’d have my prey.

Probably take out a couple of fans too if I timed it right, but that was the way hunting went sometimes.

You’ve got to break a few eggs, as the humans would always say.

I could taste it now,

sharp and gritty like metal,

as a thin trail of blood trickled into my mouth.

I closed in on number twenty

-two and made sure to pull right up next to him.

His car buzzed, hot and scared.

I saw him shift back to see where I was,

just like a panicked zebra getting ready to make a move.

He knew I was there,

closing within a few feet of his rear tire.

I could do it right now if I wanted,

but I waited. I had set him up perfectly coming out of turn two, with me directly underneath

as we tore across the backstretch.

That’s when I tried to hold my breath.

I blinked my eyes a few times and growled,

even giving my head a little shake

as I tried to force my body out of rhythm.

Anything, just as long as it shook off the instinct—but it kept hold of me.

It was fighting to stay around,

and as we came to turn three I dove

low, easing off the gas so I could get some space between us.

My car was going to push up into his lane.

I had the preferred line, so twenty-two let off the throttle

and I squeezed up in front of him

as we tore down the front stretch to the start/finish line.

That’s when the animal side finally gave me back some control.

I was gasping, hard up for breath as all my muscles began to ache.

They wanted him dead.

The instincts were hungry and they let me know it as my hands started to shake.

But this was it, one more lap and I’d take the first heat heading

into tonight’s final.

I’d be done, at least for another hour or so.

I wouldn’t need to hunt until the next race, or until I couldn’t bear to take the pain,

which wouldn’t be more than a couple of days at this rate.

It was getting worse.

Everyday, it got harder, more painful to deal with.

Heck, I didn’t even notice I had crossed the finish line and won the damn race

until after I saw the other competitors were at a stand still in pit lane.

It made me wonder how much longer I could keep this up.

This blindness, this explosive and bordering on destructive focus was starting to consume me.

The instincts were taking on a life all their own, and I was getting left behind.

It made me feel like I was fading away from this world,

one lap at a time.

But I could never let the association know about the instincts;

no way in hell. How would I explain to them that every time I turned the senses on

it made me want to kill the other drivers?

Made me want to tear into their metal cages and rip them apart,

like popping open the ribcage on a downed,

wounded animal. And what if I told them that as I got older,

it was becoming more and more difficult for me to switch it back off?

They’d never let me race again.

It was selfish and dangerous, I knew that.

But I couldn’t think about it now.

It was time to get out of the car and deal with the lights and the fans

and the annoying correspondents

who spouted mindless dribble in order to gain attention for themselves on the local news.

When all I really wanted

was to get back to the sanctity of my trailer,

away from it all,

and give my instincts time to burn off before I did something really stupid.

Guess there was only one way to do it.

I had a responsibility to talk with the media,

and get all this happy horseshit over with. >*<

I felt her getting more into it now.

Her hot breath pressed against my fur,

tickling the hair while her fingers dug into my thighs and picked up the pace.

Damn, she was good.

And it made me respond with a deep,

guttural purr as I let my head fall back against the chair.

I needed this.

More than she could possibly realize.

The instincts had a way of stressing me out to no end.

Then there was a knock at the door, and everything came to a screeching halt.

She lifted her head and glared at the entrance of the trailer before shifting her focus back to me.

Great, just what I wanted, more people asking for silly autographs. Or maybe it was one of the pit crew guys. Probably found an issue with the car.

Either way, it was bad timing, so I just ran my clawed hand through the woman’s long, blonde hair and tried to ignore it,

hoping she’d do the same.

It didn’t work. The knocking continued, so I shouted,

“Now’s really not a good time. Come back in about ten minutes.”

And as luck would have it,

it ended up being his muffled voice I heard piercing through the walls of the trailer.

“Open the door, Kasi.

We need to talk. It’s urgent.”

Of all the people in the world,

it had to be him.

Rick Walker. Damn, what in the hell did I do to deserve this?

I bet the noises coming from inside the trailer sounded interesting.

Between me stumbling around,

cursing and frustrated

as I went to put my pants on and my sweet piece of trailer trash

having a conniption fit, hollering at the top of her lungs because I told her she needed to relax

and have another cigarette.

I imagined it had to be quite the show for Rick.

The language got even more colorful when I told her to stop looking like a hooker and put her damn shirt back on.

That pissed her off, so she ended up throwing my Mitchell Oil series trophy at me.

Too bad she missed, because the thing ended up knocking just about everything off the kitchen counter.

Then she pushed the door open

and stormed outside,

topless and all as she turned around just long enough to wave goodbye with one finger.

Classy as always.

I sure know how to pick ‘em.

Eventually I stumbled to the door, right about the time I finished zipping up my pants and grimacing because I snagged God knows how much fur in those unforgiving metal teeth.

Unfortunately Rick was still there,

staring at the topless blonde as she strode down the infield and struggled putting her shirt back on.

I guess there were some things more important than urgent conversation.

“Go away, Rick,” I said pointedly,

forcing the pudgy,

balding man in front of my door to finally turn

and make eye contact with me.

“Whatever you want,

the answer is no.

So get lost.” “Now hang on just a minute.

I need you to hear me out on this one. It’s important.”

“The only thing important to you is your pocket book.

And that’s why I want you to get the hell away from me and my trailer.”

“Please, Kas. Let’s just step inside and talk about this.

You owe me that much.”

“I don’t owe you nothin’.”

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be able to afford

racing in these little piss ant, nickel and dime circuits.

You just remember that before you get all high and mighty on me.”

“I said no, and I mean it.

I ain’t comin’ back,

and I don’t want anything to do with you,

or the ASCR.” “If that was the case,

then why haven’t you slammed the door already?”

Crap. The son-of-a-bitch had me there. What was I supposed to do, lie?

He could see right through it.

We both knew that,

which was why I didn’t even have to answer him.

I just ventured back to my chair and Rick followed me inside,

making sure to close the door behind him.

“You want a beer?” I asked with a growl,

not really meaning it.

When Rick passed, like I figured he would,

I reached down into the ice chest next to my chair and grabbed one for myself.

“Alright—talk. Cause whatever it is,

it’s gotta be good to bring you all the way out to my next of the woods.

And I already have a pretty good idea.”

Rick purposely waited,

taking a moment to look at the destruction little Miss topless hooker left in her wake.

As if she could make the place look any worse.

“Then I’m guessing you’ve heard about what happened to Kyle last weekend,”

Rick said when he finally returned his gaze to me.

“You need to speak up, Rick. My ears are still ringing from the race.”

“I said, I’m guessing you heard about last weekend?

What happened to Kyle?”

“Somewhat,” I replied,

popping the beer can open so I could take in that satisfying hiss.

“I do get Sports Central and all that.

Though I have to admit, it was kinda funny hearing how pretty boy Kyle broke his shoulder falling out of a golf cart.

I always thought those celebrity golf tournaments were a bad idea.”

“Things happen when you become famous, don’t you remember, King?”

I always hated that nickname.

It made me feel even more different,

and reminded me that not only was I rare in human society,

but in the animal one as well.

King cheetahs were practically extinct now, except for the fifteen or so left in captivity.

But the gene guys

thought it would be funny,

using the genetic code to create a driver with built in racing stripes.

I could see them every now and then. If I turned just right in the mirror,

I’d catch a glimpse of those three solid black lines

running down my back right alongside the dark circular spots

that dotted the rest of my fur.

In a way, I hated them.

They kept reminding me how I was good for only one thing,

driving a race car.

And that was the part of my life I couldn’t get a grip on anymore.

Like I had blown a right front tire,

and everything I’d been created for was now

heading straight into the outside wall.

“So tell me, where the hell you getting these drivers nowadays? Cheerleading school?”

I said before taking a swig of my beer.

“Whether you like his attitude or not, Kyle’s a good kid,”

Rick replied. “And he’s got more talent in his pinky finger

than most of the drivers out on the circuit right now.”

“Either way you look at it, he’s still a pansy.

And besides, he don’t have half as much talent as Israel Munoz.”

“Israel? The guy has

maybe, what… two top tens in three

years.” “He’s on a bad team with shitty equipment.

You pick him up when his contract is over, get him in a decent ride

and he’ll get you five wins and a championship, easy.”

“That a fact?” “Have I ever been wrong?”

He didn’t respond, so I figured it was my turn to pause.

Let him soak that thought in for a while.

I loved being right, especially when it came to Rick and his thick ego.

“So let me guess… you want me to suit back up and take over for Kyle. Is that it?”

Rick nodded, though it seemed a little reluctant.

“Just until he heals up. And that shouldn’t be more than two or three races.

But the main issue here is Dainova Beach.

Not just anyone can jump in there and run 500 miles.”

“Then I suggest you grab someone from a lower series.”

“The good ones are already locked up and I need a name.

Someone the sponsors will be satisfied with.”

“I said it once

and I’ll say it again.

The answer’s no. I’m done with the ASCR.

And personally, I like what I got here, runnin’ the small time piss ant stuff, as you call it.” “Don’t

give me that line o’ bull.

You’re livin’ like a bum,

and this ain’t you.

How can you even tell yourself that you’re happy being like this?”

“That’s because you don’t know me

and you never did.

I hated runnin’ in the professional circuit.

I hated all the interviews,

all the attention, the promoting, the media sessions, everything.

But did they think about that when they created me.

No—and why? Because I was simply made to race.

To be a fuckin’ tool for Kenny and the entire Auto Stock Car Racing committee.

Just so they could get outta their little funk

and start raking in money

hand over fist, plain and simple.”

“It was more than just a funk, King.”

“Quit calling me that. I never liked it.

And don’t call me Kas, either.

It’s Kasi. The name actually has meaning in Swahili,

that is, if you ever bothered to look it up.

up.” Rick let out a loud sigh before continuing.

“As I was saying, you weren’t around for D-Day and the aftermath.

And you have no freakin’ idea how bad things really got.”

“Christ almighty. I don’t need to hear another one of those Dainova Day spiels.

The announcers do enough of that shit when they run their mouths for three plus hours before every race,

and they can’t seem to go one year without telling everyone and their grandmother about the ‘24 season.

Not to mention that it keeps reminding me

why I even exist.”

“If it wasn’t for that race you could throw all your success and fame right out the damn window.

That race made you

and your entire career.

Your whole life. You wouldn’t even be able to race here if it wasn’t for D-Day.

And when you think about it,

all your success,

every bit of it, wasn’t even meant for you.

Cause it should’ve gone to my—”

Rick couldn’t finish,

his sentence ending abruptly as he pointed a stubby,

now trembling finger in my direction.

It should’ve gone to—my boy.

Jesus. I had almost forgotten about young Bobby Walker.

I mean, it had all been before my time. Years before, but the kid got killed, right along with Orlando Chrisman and the 2-time, reigning series champion, C.J. Bowman.

Not to mention some spectators and the countless other fans who were injured when their cars broke through the catch fence and flipped into the grandstands that afternoon.

And from what I’d seen, looking back at the old videos and highlight reels,

Bobby was going to be real special.

A true talent behind the wheel,

and he got cut down before he even had a chance to clock in a full season on the professional circuit.

And Rick… well, in the end,

he was ultimately the one to blame for it.

He could’ve waited

—had Bobby spend a year or two in a lower series, getting laps under his belt.

But knowing Rick, he probably wanted to jump start the boy’s career

and pushed him into the pros too early.

Money can do that for you,

especially when your daddy owns the cars

and has all the big named sponsors lined up in his back pocket.

I bet that decision continued to eat Rick alive, even to this day.

It would me, if it had been my kid they pulled out of that smoking, mangled wreckage.

The trailer fell silent for a few minutes

as Rick collected himself and sat back down in his chair.

He had to rub his eyes and breathe deeply several times, probably to help get his blood pressure under control. Guess Rick should’ve thought to bring his heart pills with him.

“That whole incident…

It nearly destroyed the entire sport.

Between all the lawsuits, the bad press, and the sponsors pulling out left and right, we could barely get people to come to the tracks,

let alone into the stands.”

“And that’s where I came in, huh?

The circuit’s favorite new toy—like some God damn sideshow attraction.”

“You have to take a moment and realize the severity of the company’s situation.

They had already tried everything else.

After scaling back the number of races to cut costs, they instituted

all types of measures which didn’t pan out.

The electronic safety systems to help avoid driver mistakes,

cars with stabilizing controls,

remotely operated vehicles…

and then came the damn robots.”

I had to chuckle at that one.

It made me laugh every time I heard it.

“I’d love to know who thought that was gonna be a good idea.”

“It was a clusterfuck.

They had no instincts. Damn things couldn’t improvise,

and they just drove in nearly perfect circles for three straight hours.

The fans hated it.

There was no pizzazz, no tension,

no driver conflict, no tradin’ paint, nothing.

You can’t program those things into a computer.

But you… you were different.

You energized the entire sport, the whole country even.

The fans and the media loved you, regardless of what you looked like.”

“Yeah… well, that was then,”

Kasi said before throwing back another cheap beer. “And I bet you good ol’ Kenny boy Francis doesn’t want to see my retired ass anywhere near his new, revamped series.

Can’t say I blame him either.”

Rick just shook his head

and leaned forward in his seat,

glaring at me like he’d never seen a cheetah that walked and talked before.

“What the hell happened to you?

You ain’t nothin’ like the guy who used to compete for championships year after year.

Heck, if it wasn’t for your looks,

I bet I’d barely even recognize you.”

“Half the time, Rick,

I don’t even recognize my own self when I look in the mirror these days.”

“Do you just not care anymore?”

“That’s part of it.

The other is breakdown.

Or… at least, that’s what the doctors are calling it.

The physical part, anyway.

All the aches and the pains.

Didn’t they tell you about all this during the initial contract negotiations?”

“No. Not that I can recall.”

“Guess you should’ve had a better lawyer then. One who

could read the fine print.”

“You think I had a choice in the matter?

You were getting into the circuit. One way or another, you were gonna be signed.

And if I didn’t do it, somebody else would’ve,

regardless of what was going to happen to you physically, mentally, whatever.”

“Why do you think I split

as soon as my contract was up?

The ASCR didn’t care that I had to be tested before and after each and every race.

Just so the director of competition could make sure

I didn’t have some sort of advantage over the rest of the field. All he

cared about was getting the media off his back,

even if that meant me being poked, prodded, jabbed, interviewed and questioned

more than any other driver.

So you tell me. Do you think the ASCR ever gave a damn about me?”

“Probably not. But at least with me,

you had the best equipment and personnel money could buy.

You may have had to go through a lot of…

unfortunate circumstances, but any one of those drivers would’ve given their right arm to have the opportunity you did.”

“Maybe so, but I’m willing to bet all that extra financial backing you got from the ASCR didn’t hurt your bottom line either, huh?”

That struck a nerve.

I could see it in Rick’s face as I watched his left cheek muscle twitch

and a blood vessel started to throb on his forehead.

“That’s what I thought.

Well, here you have it, boss,”

I said as I outstretched both arms.

“The best, washed up and genetically deteriorating race car driver science has to offer.”

I raised my beer

and finished chugging it down in several large gulps.

“Your drinking habits can’t be helping.”

“Yeah, well neither are the cheap blow jobs, but sometimes…

you do what you gotta do,”

I added while tossing an empty can aside.

I quickly reached for another and popped it open.

“Look—I’m gonna stop fiddle fartin’ around here.”

“I ain’t holdin’ a gun to your head, boss. The door’s right there,” I said,

pointing toward the entrance of the trailer.

“Like I was saying…

we can have you at the track by Tuesday for some seat time.

Get yourself acquainted with the newer style car.

That way, you’ll be ready for practice when Friday rolls around.

And I need to know your answer right away, cause if not,

I gotta find me somebody who will.”

“The answer’s still no.”

“For the love of Christ, Kasi. Do you realize how many retired drivers would be trippin’ over themselves for the chance to start the 500 one

last time? Let alone if they were offered one of my cars,

and ain’t none of ‘em got the skills you have.”

“I’m betting a lot of them would.

But even the old timers ain’t fallin’ apart like I am.

And whether you believe it or not,

I don’t belong out on the big stage anymore.”

“And if not this, then what? Are you gonna just sit in this trailer and rot when I’m giving you a second chance?

The opportunity to go out and run

in the biggest, most competitive racing series there is?

I mean, what the hell are you so afraid of?”

“That I’ll end up getting a lot of people killed!

Don’t you see that?

When I get out there…”

I had to stop. To pause just long enough

so I didn’t set the instincts off by accident.

I hunched over in the seat

and clutched my beer with two shaky paws,

exhaling long and deep

as I thought about those carnal feelings boiling up inside.

Rick knew about the instincts.

He knew about them long ago, including what they were doing to me,

and what they were probably going to do to me eventually.

“I’m having trouble, Rick… keeping them under control.

The breakdown, it’s… it’s making things difficult.

When I turn—it on, and let

the instincts take over…

it’s getting harder and harder to turn them off.”

“It’s that bad already?”

I nodded. “How much longer do you think you got?”

“I don’t know. It’s getting worse each time, so… a

few more races, maybe not even that much.

There’s a possibility I could pull a full season if I don’t turn it on every race,

but… there’s no way to tell.”

Rick laughed at that, but it was more out of disgust than sympathy or anything else.

Good to see the boss still had a heart.

“Too bad they didn’t make you into a zebra or a gazelle or something, huh?

Maybe you wouldn’t be having all these problems.”

“An herbivore never would’ve worked.

They have a wide field of view, sure, but with their lack of depth perception…”

I shook my head. “And they couldn’t focus on just the cars. They’re

too skittish. Heck, from what I understand, it was either this form, or a lizard.”

“Lizard?” I nodded, but kept staring down at my beer.

“Apparently they thought a reptile would be better suited to handle the heat inside the car.

But in the end, they figured it was more important to address the issue of dealing with the high speeds, so…”

“You still think you can handle it?”

I paused, taking a few seconds before moving my eyes up

to met Rick’s. “Even after what I told you about the breakdown, you still want me out there?”

“Money talks. And the sponsors want a big name to fill in for Kyle.

The kid is like a rock star to them

and he rakes in millions upon millions a’ dollars.

So they want an equivalent

—regardless of who

or what it is.” “I already told you, I ain’t a damn tool for you or anyone else.”

“We’re all tools, Kasi.

In one way or another.”

“Are you done? Cause I gotta get ready for the final heat in less than an hour.

I need time to think, and you already screwed that up.”

“Fine,” Rick said as he got up and started heading for the door. “I’ll have

McElroy give you a call in the morning.

Make arrangements for you to fly out to the shop if you’re still onboard.”

“I already told you,

I’m not—” Before I could finish, the door to my trailer slammed shut

and I heard the metal step creak against Rick’s weight.

“…interested.” But that wasn’t the case, and Rick knew

it. He knew how bored I was getting,

running circles around these amateurs

and how the slow speeds made me yearn for something more.

A challenge, with more danger

and stiffer competition I could really sink my teeth into.

I needed something that would make the instincts burn,

and there was only one place I could do that.

It wasn’t here. It was back in the ASCR,

in one of Rick’s rides.

And it would all happen

at Dainova Beach.

This was the first of two parts of

“Second Chance” by Sean Duroc Silva,

read for you by Khaki,

your faithful fireside companion.

Tune in next time to find out if Kasi can control his instincts long enough to make it through the

biggest comeback of his life,

on the biggest stage

racing has to offer.

As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog, or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

Thank you for listening to The Voice of Dog.