From New York to Tokyo, Mexico City to Juneau, Detroit to London, street racing is everywhere. Street racing can even be found in small-town America. Some people take this “sport” seriously enough to invest their life in it. They’ll risk a paycheck, lifetime saving, and in many cases, even jail time for those ten seconds of adrenaline pumping, heart-throbbing, white-knuckled, sweaty palmed, mind-blowing ecstasy. Boe Truex happens to be one of these people.

Boe was a simple minded, easy-going guy growing up in rural New York and loving everything about his less than extravagant lifestyle. In high school, when everyone one else spent their weekends getting drunk or mindlessly high, you would find Boe in one of two places; in his garage turning wrenches on one of his vehicles, or out prowling the streets for his next victim. Boe was obsessed. Anything with an engine would have his heart racing faster than any female was ever capable of doing. He never had much; he worked odd jobs here and there bringing in a couple hundred a week but he knew how to spend it. He bought his first car at the age of fifteen, a bright red nineteen eighty-nine Camaro Rally Sport. It was already nearing twenty years old when he took ownership, so it wasn’t much to look at. That is, of course, until he dug in to it. He had purchased it in the winter and considering he doesn’t work while he’s in school, it was spring-time before he had any money to begin the transformation.

He began with the heart of the beast, the drive train. He gladly yanked the old multi-port injected two-point-eight liter six-cylinder that had spent the better part of twenty years in the chest of this diamond in the rough. He had a much more visually pleasing, yet fire-breathing, and ground pounding eight-cylinder gas guzzling three-hundred and forty-nine cubic inch over-cammed LS-1 engine from General Motors Performance Parts Division as a replacement. He had been slowly building this engine as funds allowed since he was fourteen. His time was well spent. Regardless, this was a solid beginning to his build. Two to three months passed before he had financially recovered from step one of what he coined “Project Domination” or “PD” for short.

The next step taken by Boe was to locate an efficient and affordable, yet bullet-proof transmission. He could have just beefed up the old TH700R4 automatic four-speed transmission that came in the Camaro, but after doing the calculations he decided it’d be worth it to just trash the old tranny and start with a fresh new one. He searched magazine after magazine and website after website for a formidable transmission. Eventually he decided on one made by one of the biggest names in the business, Tremec. It was a cost-effective re-machined manual six-speed Tremec T-56. These transmissions were becoming ever more popular with General Motors LS-series engines as they provided a good ratio for the power-band produced. Boe garnished the LS-1 and T-56 combo with a Zoom dual-plate clutch and Royal Purple Lubricants.

Boe then proceeded to back up the killer engine/tranny combo with an all-aluminum driveshaft with reinforced u-bolts to hold up against the pavement-ripping torque that would come screaming through the tranny looking for earth to molest. Behind the aluminum driveshaft he bolted in 4:10 ratio nine-inch, twelve-bolt limited-slip rear gears that twisted hefty titanium axles. At this point, Boe was in greater debt than AIG in the 2009 recession.

Boe was becoming discouraged as he came to realize that he may be another winter without a drivable car. He is not, however, the kind of guy to sit on his ass and loaf. He always practiced the idea in his favorite quote from Rocky Balboa, “It’s not how hard you get hit , it’s how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.” So as he felt was necessary, he fought back. He got an hourly job to complement his handy-man odd jobs and was able to pull in nearly double what he previously banked. This new stimulus plan worked better than any other ever had. He still wasn’t making huge paychecks, but he was once again back to work on “Project Domination”.

Soon enough, it was time for the final touches. He bolted on a set of American Racing Torque-Thrust II’s and thirteen inch drilled and slotted rotors hugged by bright red Brembo brake calipers at all four corners of the beast. Now, it was time for paint. He opted to strip off the tarnished old fire engine red. He was weeks perfecting the body lines of this soon to be caterpillar turned butterfly, until finally it was time. He began with two-smooth coats of Dupli-Color solid flat-black primer. He then wet-sanded, filled and puttied the car once again and followed with a third coat of primer. Now it was time for the color. Boe started with a few coats of white, which he sprayed, wet-sanded and repeated thrice. After, he taped it off and mixed up a batch of Hugger-Orange as was seen on the old 1969 Camaros and sprayed, wet-sanded and repeated four times!

The finished product was a Hugger-Orange 1989 Camaro Rally Sport running an LS-1 Corvette engine, Tremec T-56 tranny, and 4:10’s with direct-port nitrous-oxide running through its veins! This once laughed-at car of yesterday had become a fire-breathing, ground-pounding beast to be had by one but envied by all. Now Boe had only one thing left to do, race.

Boe’s first few trips out were merely to get the right tuning. The car ran smoother and smoother after each tune. Soon enough, it was ready for its first bout. It was a Wednesday night and the streets were screaming with energy. It seemed as if the town had become a gathering place for gear-heads such as Boe. Boe mingled in the crowd prowling for an easy kill to start off with. He finally found one in the form of a 2005 Mustang GT. The driver, Derek, had been talking crap for nearly an hour now only antagonizing the Mustang-Camaro rivalry and enraging Boe. They lined up at the traffic light and the race was to begin when the flag girl dropped her arms. Some girl that couldn’t have been a day older than nineteen walked out between the two cars wearing only a skanky miniskirt and a t-shirt that appeared to have lost a bout with the neighbor’s Rottweiler. She waited for the “ok” of each driver, raised her slender but fake tanned cheese-doodle orange arms and 1…. Derek and Boe each put their foot on the clutch, 2…. They slide into first gear, 3….. They revved their engines to about three grand and GO! Boe and Derek simultaneously dropped the clutch and the pavement screamed in pain as the tires shredded down its back.

The hole shot undoubtedly went to Derek as his significantly lighter car provided for superior acceleration. Boe, however wasn’t far behind and before they knew it they were passing the eighth mark (half-way point of a ¼ mile race) and Boe’s LS-1 was screaming for more. Boe answered, he flipped the switch covers up and then put power to the nitrous solenoids. The sudden boost chirps the rear tires at an already impressive speed of about a buck-twenty. Boe and his Mustang-killing machine rip past Derek and cross the finish line nearly two car-lengths ahead.

“SHIT!” The cops had caught wind of potential street racing activity and had slyly staked out on side streets just beyond the finish line. Before Boe knew it, he was surrounded by a gang of state troopers. He knew what was in store for him. The police kindly removed him his vehicle with overbearing force and surprising efficiency and proceeded to over-tighten the handcuffs onto each hand. Boe was given a series of tickets to be disputed in court at a later date. He was ultimately sentenced to thirteen months in prison and a hefty fine. As for his Camaro, the car he had spent so much blood, sweat and tears on, it was towed and impounded.

For the entirety of the thirteen months, Boe, the average small town guy that would bend over backwards to help a stranger, never could understand why such punishment could be had for causing no harm. He wished the law enforcement would spend their resources on the bigger fish to be fried.

Ultimately, the jail-time even being as minor as it was, was enough to break up the road to Boe’s future. He found it harder to get a job, which led him into debt, he had no car to travel any reasonable distance to find a job, and people began to treat him differently. They treated him as if he had become the stereotypical scumbag that one would think of when the phrase “jail-time” arises. All of these factors began to chip away at Boe’s soul further and further until he became hardened to the daily grind he had been experiencing. At this point, Boe was feeling as if he had nothing left to lose.

This is when it all started, Boe was becoming increasingly desperate financially after his parents disowned him and he began to resort to petty criminal activity. He started with low-scale theft, stealing from Wal-Mart and other corporate businesses because he felt that they would feel the damage the least. At first, no harm was meant, but as time went on Boe had become numb to a petty criminal life and took it to a new level. Boe soon realized the potential of violence and began to use it to his advantage at a cost to those around him. Soon he was mugging unfortunate individuals that happened to walk past in the moonlight. This quickly escalated. Eventually he had found a nearly bullet-proof routine, he would stake out bars and clubs waiting to pounce on the next drunken idiot to stumble out. When he spotted one, he would wait for them to get to their car before he attacked. First Boe would throw an elbow to the victim’s temple, this was a technique that didn’t work on the first try at first but was soon mastered and performed with great precision. He then would proceed to rummage through the victim’s wallet, purse, pockets, and any other belongings in search for cash or anything else of significant value. The car was next; he would spend no longer than two minutes collecting valuables from the car. Finally, Boe would place the victim in their car and using a turkey baster he would squeeze two to three tablespoons of “Syrup of Ipecac” down their throat. This would induce uncontrollable vomiting and stage the crime scene to look like some drunk had drank his/her wallet dry and was unable to make the commute back home.

Eventually, even late-night bar stakeouts lost their adrenaline-inducing edge. Boe had been living on methamphetamines, alcohol, prostitutes and the occasional crappy fast-food restaurant burger for months and it was breaking him down. Right when Boe Truex thought he couldn’t sink any further into this pile of shit he called life, it did. It was a Sunday morning and he was sitting in the local donut shop having a cup of coffee after another routine Saturday night heist when he glanced at the television to discover a picture of a man only a few years to his minor. The news reporter was saying that he had suffered from a severe blow to the temple that had caused inflammation of the brain. The victim had been declared brain-dead and his parents were forced to “pull the plug” early that morning. A picture of the victim’s parents that had been posted on the television screen caught Boe’s eye. They were his parents; the victim… was his younger brother. Boe had brutally murdered his only brother for a mere twenty three dollars cash and a fifty-dollar watch.

At this point, Boe felt he had no reason to remain here on earth. He couldn’t even bring himself to attend his brother’s memorial services. What had he become? He struggled to find the cause of all that has happened to him. Boe was so drugged up and clinically insane that he couldn’t even entertain any form of deep thought.

Ultimately, Boe’s depression led him to thinking of ways to punish himself for all that he had done. So Boe decided to go back to the bar at which he had murdered his kin and instigate a fight with the biggest, meanest, most gruesome group of men he could find. Everything went as planned. These men beat Boe’s face in until he was unrecognizable. Boe then proceeded to the tree out behind the bar. The tree had a choker-chain often used for uncontrollable dogs hanging from one limb. Boe stumbled up on top of a small bucket and slipped the chain around his neck. He then used a dull, rusty pocketknife to cut open his chest. He wanted to suffer as his brother and so many others had and he figured that if he passed out before he got to his heart, the chain would finish the job. Boe was found at 5:25am when the bartender was taking out the trash after locking up. His chest appeared to be torn open due to the dullness of the pocketknife and the knife was buried deep into his heart. The emergency personnel wondered how he had made it so far without passing out and after a series of tests they found that he was high as the sky on heroine and had a blood-alcohol content as high as any they had ever seen. They say he probably never felt a bit of pain. Now his parents have no children and attend counseling after their own failed attempts at suicide. All of this because a harmless street race by a first time offender is worth over a year in prison.