Chapter 819: The Tragic End of Severe Speeding

It was a red Porsche Supercar. Its striking appearance and exceptional capabilities were designed specifically for the pursuit of extreme speed and optimal handling. Its ultra-light weight and high-tech construction were enough to place it among the ranks of top-tier cars. The powerful 5.7-liter, 10-cylinder, 605-horsepower engine could take it from zero to 200 kilometers per hour in under 10 seconds, with a top speed of roughly 330 kilometers per hour.

After starting the car, Vin Diesel intentionally kept his speed in check. This was a wealthy residential area, and police patrol cars came through frequently. While speeding meant nothing to him, he didn't want to invite unnecessary trouble.

The car navigated a series of curves, and the excellent handling left Vin Diesel deeply satisfied with his newly acquired sports car.

Although stunt doubles handled the high-speed driving shots during filming, ever since starring in the Fast & Furious franchise, he had become madly obsessed with the feeling of moving like lightning. He frequently took supercars out for a spin and had racked up plenty of speeding tickets.

However, like most Hollywood stars, Vin Diesel didn't care about that at all. He had plenty of money, connections at the police department, and a brilliant lawyer. Speeding meant absolutely nothing.

As the red Porsche Supercar gradually reached the edge of Beverly Hills, Vin Diesel slightly increased his speed. The roadside scenery flashed past the windows. Unconsciously, his thoughts drifted to the Fast & Furious franchise, the foundation of his career. The previous installment in the franchise had been compared by the media to a Duke Rosenberg film, and then slandered as a "sissy" movie!

He and his movie were a "sissy"?

Vin Diesel slapped the steering wheel hard. Duke Rosenberg was the real "sissy"!

A man who passed out after two drinks. A man who never broke the speed limit. If he wasn't a "sissy," then who was?

At that thought, Vin Diesel stomped on the gas pedal. As it left the affluent neighborhood, the Porsche Supercar let out a massive engine roar and surged forward like a bolt of red lightning. The speed instantly exceeded 70 miles per hour, as if the 50-mile-per-hour speed limit on this road were mere decoration.

The red supercar soon left the bounds of Beverly Hills and tore through the Hollywood District. Following the smooth, broad avenues northward, it quickly arrived in Santa Clarita, roughly thirty miles north of Hollywood.

The roads here were even flatter and wider. Vin Diesel accelerated again, and the red Porsche Supercar's speed immediately hit 90 miles per hour.

The roar of the engine echoed far into the distance.

Down on the street, Michael Turner was walking at a leisurely pace. Hearing the engine's roar, he couldn't help but glance back. At the edge of his vision, a streak of red was hurtling toward him like lightning. Even though he was on the sidewalk, he instinctively stepped further to the side.

At the same time, he muttered a low curse, "These bastards have no respect for life!"

Like Michael Turner, many bystanders were cursing. The driver committing this kind of severe speeding might feel thrilled to be moving like lightning. They might feel majestic, as if they were on top of the world, but in the eyes of everyone around them, they were absolutely an object of disgust and scorn.

The red sports car drew closer. Michael Turner simply stopped walking, turned to look in that direction, and cursed, "If you want to die, go drive off a cliff on Mulholland Drive! Don't come here and drag other people down with you!"

This wasn't some deserted highway; this was Santa Clarita, the fourth-largest city in the Los Angeles area.

While he didn't know the car's exact speed, Michael Turner knew very well that if it hit a person or anything else, it would end in a destroyed car and lost lives.

The red Porsche sports car showed zero intention of slowing down. It completely disregarded the fact that it had entered a densely populated urban area, and it was getting closer and closer to Michael Turner.

Out of deep loathing and disgust for the speeder, Michael Turner cursed again, "Still accelerating. I hope you only crash into a tree and don't take anyone else down with you."

He pulled out his Mobile Phone, ready to dial "911", but his hand froze over the keypad.

Because Michael Turner clearly saw a sudden burst of white smoke erupt from the red supercar. Although he had never driven such a high-end sports car, he knew this was absolutely abnormal.

The chassis was shuddering violently. Even after stepping on the brakes, the red Porsche Supercar showed no signs of slowing down. Sitting in the driver's seat, Vin Diesel had long since thrown the idea that not speeding equaled being a "sissy" out of his mind. His usually expressionless face was filled with panic. At such high speeds, if the car lost control, the consequences would be absolutely unimaginable.

He struggled to control the vehicle, his mind entirely consumed by regret. Why did he have to speed? Why did he drive so fast?

His large hands gripping the steering wheel trembled, both from exertion and from sheer terror. In stark contrast to the tough guy he played in the movies, Vin Diesel was now sweating bullets from fear.

Death—who wouldn't fear it?

'If I ever get another chance, I'll learn from Duke Rosenberg and never speed again!'

This thought couldn't help but pop into Vin Diesel's head. However, while many things in this world offered a chance to start over, life was not one of them.

The red Porsche Supercar veered off course and hurtled toward the roadside.

"What?" Michael Turner's eyes went wide. "Is it really going to crash?"

It wasn't just going to crash; the crash was already happening.

Right before his eyes, the red sports car flew off the road at lightning speed, mounted the roadside greenbelt, and slammed headfirst into a thick palm tree. A massive collision echoed out as the palm tree snapped and fell. The sports car instantly disintegrated. Red debris filled the air and scattered in all directions, pelting the surrounding buildings with sharp cracks.

Fortunately, the people nearby had consciously kept their distance from the oncoming sports car's path. Aside from the vehicle itself, no innocent bystanders were injured.

Almost subconsciously, Michael Turner dialed 911. "There's a car crash here, a terrible car crash..."

He had just finished reporting the location when he caught a glimpse of sparks out of the corner of his eye. Flames had already begun to lick up the remains of the red sports car. A few good Samaritans who wanted to go check on the wreckage hurriedly stopped in their tracks; everyone knew this situation was incredibly dangerous.

Only a few short seconds after the flames flared up, a massive explosion tore through the air.

"Boom!"

Michael Turner felt the world spin. Hundreds of feet away, the red sports car had completely blown apart. Blinding flames surged into the sky, as vibrant as fireworks on the Fourth of July.

"He's done for!"

Staring at the blazing supercar, Michael Turner couldn't help but clutch his head. "That guy is completely done for."

Although the driver's severe speeding disgusted him, Michael Turner didn't want the horrible tragedy of someone dying to actually happen.

Who was that guy? Talk about terrible luck...

Peering through the gaps in the flames, Michael Turner tried to see who was in the cockpit. Even though the fire hadn't yet engulfed the driver's seat, the distance was a bit too far. He could only vaguely make out what looked like a bald man sitting there.

This was a busy downtown area, and Michael Turner had called the police the moment the accident occurred. The wail of police sirens soon rang out, and not long after, firetrucks and ambulances arrived at the scene.

After extinguishing the flames, the firefighters pried open the car door...

Like the others who had witnessed the crash, Michael Turner didn't leave. He stood just outside the police cordon and continued to watch. He even held up his Mobile Phone, hoping to capture more footage.

But there were too many onlookers, and his angle wasn't great. Aside from the charred and disintegrated supercar, Michael Turner didn't manage to film anything else. However, upon seeing the car door pried open, he raised his Mobile Phone high, trying his best to aim the camera over there, hoping to record a shot of the ill-fated driver.

Right next to him stood two freelance journalists, though "social news paparazzi" might be a more fitting description. Just like the paparazzi in the entertainment industry, these guys didn't belong to any media outlet. They operated independently, usually by listening to police scanners to gather information, then rushing out to snag firsthand news to sell to TV stations or video websites.

When the firefighters pulled the unfortunate driver out, the two previously aloof paparazzi suddenly grew excited. One of them even took advantage of the police looking away to slip under the tape and run over to film. Unfortunately, less than half a minute later, he was chased out by an officer and received a stern warning.

However, the two guys didn't care in the slightest.

"We're rich! We hit the jackpot this time!"

After turning off his camera, one of them kept repeating in a trembling, excited voice, "This is an exclusive! This story will sell for at least a hundred thousand dollars!"

The other man was a bit more cautious. He asked seriously, "Are you sure you didn't mistake him for someone else?"

"Absolutely not!"

The first man took a deep breath. "It's definitely him! This is the exact kind of breaking news TV stations dream of!"

"Is he still alive?"

Hearing his partner's question, the man shook his head without hesitation. "His neck is completely snapped, and half his body is charred black. I recorded the paramedics' conversation. They said if it weren't for protocol, they could send a case like this straight to the morgue!"

"Perfect!"

The second man finally revealed an excited expression. "We're going to the TV station right now. This is our golden ticket..."

"Haha..."

The first man let out a hearty, gleeful laugh, seemingly lacking even an ounce of sympathy for the dead driver. "You drive. I'll use the laptop to make a few edits and adjust the footage."

"Let's go!"

The second man slung the camera over his shoulder, turning to leave. "Hurry! Vin Diesel dying in a car crash from severe speeding is massive headline news!"

Those words fell clearly on Michael Turner's ears. He first looked at the two men walking away, then glanced back at the stretcher being loaded into the ambulance. He suddenly realized he had just witnessed an incredibly monumental crash.

"The driver in that car was Vin Diesel? And he's dead?"

He opened his mouth in shock.