Chapter 346: The Udderly Bare Grand Prix

The first naked cow race at my club was delayed because one contestant accused another of hiding a speed advantage in her hair.

I stood beside the marked dry-floor course with a microphone supported in a stand, wondering how several reasonable purchases had produced this exact responsibility. Old Mate watched from his private bar wearing a stolen-looking commentator’s headset.

[System: Tell the punters the steward’s checking for aerodynamic cheating, mate. Nobody wants their life savings ruined by an illegal bloody ponytail.]

We were not encouraging anybody to bet their life savings on a woman named Fast Pasture.

The name was an adult runner’s chosen stage label, not a new friend I intended to remember forever. The event desk had posted small bet limits, the runners had already received their appearance pay, and the crowd seemed perfectly willing to enjoy something ridiculous without my assistance making it worse.

Naturally, I assisted anyway.

"Welcome to The Udderly Bare Grand Prix, where the competitors chose the dress code and the commentators were apparently chosen for having no remaining shame."

The head dancer took the second microphone. "That was just you, sweetheart, because I negotiated hazard pay for standing beside the owner."

Lukas gazed at her with the tragic devotion of a man who had recently discovered payroll could be romantic. His rib examination had cleared ordinary activity, and he had arrived determined to interpret the word ordinary very generously.

The repaired mechanical cow stood beyond the race lane under a low-power setting, with fresh inspections and an operator who looked prepared to bite anyone approaching the controls.

The opening countdown began while the milk counter served its first rush. Tasmin ran the line, Vela worked the stage transition, and Cherry shouted support for the runner she had picked because her entrance music sounded aggressive.

Lyra stood beside Bridget in the spectators’ section. They had made one tiny joint bet and were arguing cheerfully over who had predicted the better start. Bridget didn’t hover at the edge of the group waiting to be invited closer; Lyra had already put an arm around her and dragged her into the cheering.

The betting clerk asked whether I intended to enter a novelty category. I told him my natural state already involved a severe clothing shortage, which seemed like an unfair advantage. The head dancer replied that I could enter once I developed the courage to lose without blaming the course. Lyra immediately offered to sponsor that experiment, and Bridget asked whether the sponsorship included a quiet ride home afterward.

The whistle sent the runners around the padded bends. I kept the commentary on the race, the awful tactics, and the fact that the early leader tried cutting a corner through a balloon arch.

She emerged wearing half the arch like an extremely disappointed parade.

[System: She’s carrying the sponsorship now, mate. That’s commitment, and I reckon the balloon company owes her a bloody commission.]

You could stop coaching the losing bets before Cherry blamed me for your existence without knowing why.

The crowd roared when the runner with the suspect hair won by half a step. Her opponents demanded a rematch, the winner demanded her prize, and the head dancer declared the entire thing a better use of everyone’s evening than listening to gangsters threaten us.

We paid the winner from the posted event pool. The house didn’t magically own every bet, and I resisted treating somebody else’s winnings as interior-decorating money.

Bridget caught me watching her celebrate with Lyra.

"Our runner won," she said. "You can look proud of me without making it sound like you trained me."

"I was mostly worried you would use the winnings to become financially independent from my terrible dinner suggestions."

Lyra kissed her cheek, then reached for my head. "We could simply choose dinner together, which would be devastating for your authority."

I had never enjoyed losing a government quite so much.

Cherry collected the tiny joint winnings for Lyra and Bridget, then bought them each a drink. Their celebration cost more than the prize, which she declared proof that we finally understood how a night out worked.

The trouble began at the VIP booth, where a group of adult matriarchs noticed Lukas admiring the cow. One asked whether the impressive spider gentleman intended to demonstrate it, and he forgot every sensible thing his medical appointment had taught him.

The operator offered the lowest ordinary ride setting. Lukas accepted, saluted the head dancer, and climbed aboard with the confidence of somebody whose next bad decision had already found an audience.

For twenty seconds, he looked magnificent. Then the cow changed direction, and his relationship with the saddle became a matter of historical interest.

He landed in the safety padding, but his head struck hard enough that the joke stopped for me immediately. The head dancer reached him first, and I called the medic while the operator shut the ride down.

Lukas asked whether the booth had seen the good part.

"They saw all of it," the dancer told him. "Now keep still before I find a less polite way to help you."

The matriarchs sent three thousand credits in tips, which belonged to Lukas. I paid five hundred for the examination and refused his request to ride again while the medic checked his concussion symptoms.

[System: Your mate’s earned three grand by disappointing a plastic cow, cunt. Tell him that’s a career peak, not a reason to request an encore.]

He could retire undefeated by the second attempt.

The milk counter reached thirty paid orders before the evening ended. With cooling working and staff paid, Old Mate credited three thousand EXP and twenty IP, bringing me to twenty-seven thousand and three hundred fifty-five.

Tasmin reported forty-eight hundred in opening sales against twenty-eight hundred in operating costs. I liked the profit, but I liked the photograph Cherry took of all three girls behind the counter more.

Then the broadcast screen refreshed with the quarry promotion.

A new line appeared beneath my race entry, offering a live bounty if the driver delivered both the leased machine and its snake passenger. The announcement included our opening-night footage, which meant whoever posted it had been watching us together.