King of the concrete

Smokebombs roll onto the cracked asphalt just as helmeted freaks jump from bushes. They plan to rush the gray beast; to batter it with violence and steal its speed. They scream their nonsense and stumble through the motions but skinny punks are no match for the king of the concrete river. It's quite ridiculous, really. Dozens of what can only be called skin and bone nothings try to poach the majestic creature but they all get smoked. What were they thinking? There's no stopping a Fleetwood Cadillac.