And may your roads be rashed (Two).

Writer's note: Continuity still rules.
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I never fully understand the premises behind most video games in the 90's. One title has a blue hedgehog frantically running for his life, escaping the grasps of an obese, over-mustachioed man. Another features a three-legged, red gremlin-like critter who we're led to believe is Flava Flav. Oh, did I mention he funkily wanders about the planet Funkotron with his whale's vagina-looking friend? Well, yeah, he wanders about the planet Funkotron with his whale's vagina-looking friend, and it is both absolutely awesome and ridiculous at the same time. Dig it.

One premise that makes perfect sense to me, and always has, however, is that of the Road Rash series. Simply put, 15 racers are pitted in competition against one another in some sort of cross-country/world race to the finish line (and the death). The winner of each course receives a generously whopping sum of $1,000 to spend on bike upgrades, a new bike, cheap overseas beer, dime-a-dozen Euro-hookers, and what-have-you. A cool grand is perfect compensation for taking a chain to the face or sliding off your motorcycle because an errant cow fell asleep on the asphalt.

HEEEEYWHOOOOAA HOLY SHIIIT!!!!!!

One of the most rewarding aspects to these games are your rivals, all of whom pulled their names from one of those online "Prison Name Generator" deals. Kakana is one of the more decorated riders in the league, and what he lacks in the English department, he easily makes up for with third and fourth-place finishes. Lucky Luc, as it turns out, may in fact be director Luc Besson in leather. Grimacing like a teenager bustling full of free beer and one too many burritos, Luc offers such Pulitzer-worthy advice as, "Speed and guts are what it takes, but you don't qualify. Watch me for pointers." For the guy who brought us masterpieces like – okay, nothing but a bunch of French shit, really – he talks some tall game.

Hey tough shit, purple is so your color.

P.E. Number 1, Belladonna, and Viper usually head up the pack, as does a jive brother known by Lawson. Clearly banking on the popularities of the Fresh Prince and the House Party series, Road Rash brings us our very own hugable-yet-street-tough black man. I like to think to myself that he is actually MC Hammer in full-on biker gear, trying to win back his earnings down to the penny by competing in someone's sinister idea of a street race. I like to think a lot of things.

Over the course of the second and third installments of the franchise (if you can call it that), your character will travel the world over. The United Kingdom, Kenya, Germany, Alaska, the Arizona desert, and Vermont are all ready to be shredded. Wait, Vermont? Who the fuck drag races in Mount Pilier? That shit just makes no sense to me. Then again, Germany is completely snowbound in this game and yet Alaska is experiencing record temperatures, save for the lone snowman off the side of the road.

Yeah, that's pretty much how I envisioned Alaska, too.

Another thing I don't really "get" is why these races are taking place and who is enforcing them. Whose bankroll are these things being funded out of? Who selects the roads they race on? The answer to these questions and more is quite clear: The giant Indian man. Reportedly, he runs an Indian casino on the side and regulates the small series of motorcycle events for fun, funding it all from the depths of his very own pockets. He is at the start of the race waving the green flag and at the track's end with the checkered. He rolls his own cigars, pitches his own teepees, and practices scalping and self-removing. Granted, none of this may be true. Curiously enough, he lacks a shirt.

Hey, ain't that the Indian I saw at the front of the cigar store not too long ago? Instead of "how?" I'm left asking "why?"

These races are apparently popular enough to garner some little-needed attention amongst the townsfolk. Because, hey guys, if I am going to zip down a public street at plus-100 speeds and smack that asshole Jorg in the mouth with a Billie club, I sure as hell would like a witness or two. Hell, in one of these shots, a mother brought her little boy to the race. I can only imagine the conversation going something like this:

O hi guys didn't see ya thar lol

"Come, boy, the race is just about to start!"

"Oh boy! How thoughtful of you, mother. You know there is nothing I value more in this world than watching grown men launch their crotch rockets down these otherwise safe city streets, endangering the wellbeing of families nationwide."

"I knew you'd appreciate it."

"Why sure, mother! Is there anything in this world more enthralling than a female going by the alias "Roz" slapping face-first into the hot desert pavement, tearing flesh from bone, chipping teeth, and failing to answer the paramedic's call of a flashlight sparkling through her blackened eyes? Not that I can think of. Only in the world of Road Rash are teeth trophies, scars stylized cool, and a blood-soaked blacktop a thing to behold. Thanks again, mother, what a terrific inspiration you truly are."

Dropping a collective deuce on the competition via oil can. Ah, what a deliberate pastime.

I'm no complainer, but the road is no place for civilians. Nor is it a place for random construction or destitute livestock. Seriously, if I fly off my bike one more time because a fucking rhinoceros took up the streets, I am going to autocide. A motherfucking rhino, splayed out in the middle of the street like nobody's business. Gee, what better place to cool off than the hottest God damn surface in the country. Why Biff or Slater never pulled for a bite to eat has always puzzled me. I mean, hey, when in Rome – err, Kenya, you might as well fry an egg on the tar just cause.

When all is spoken for, the Road Rash titles are prime real estate on the Genesis front. The plot doesn't necessarily make the most sense, nor does it truly have to. In an age of games completely devoted to delivering newspapers and solving puzzles on a hackneyed version of Wheel of Fortune, I guess colecocking a police officer with a lead pipe is a little bit more satisfying than the norm.