Dear fuckstain(s), cockhead(s), arsehole(s)
afflicted with elephantitis levels of jerkishness, average-drunk-joe(s)-looking-for-a-ride-home-on-a-bike-with-flat-tires-and-questionable-brakes,
crackhead(s) who stole my bike out of my garage the other night,
I hope you crash and seriously hurt yourself. And I don’t
mean death—I’m heartless, not soulless—or even any long lasting disability—you don’t
deserve a pension—but I want a broken coccyx bone, maybe a fractured shin. I’d
settle, perhaps, for some serious whiplash that leaves you with a deeply
embedded psychological fear of whiplash for the rest of your life.
If you don’t cause yourself physical injury, I hope you
suffer a seriously damaged ego. Because I imagine that you’re the type of
person, or persons, who would take my bike off ‘sick jumps’—if you haven’t
already sold it for drugs or a goon bag or a carton of Winnies—in front of
your slack-jawed, graffiti-stained, mulleted, shirtless, Bundy drinking mates. (I
don’t give a shit about clichés here too. I’ll work the stereotype of this bike
thief bastard into the ground. Righteous indignity gives me the right, dammit.)
And when you take it off your ‘sick jumps’ I hope you stack and look like a
dickhead … wait, more of a dickhead.
Just so you know, both the tires and the rear brake are
pretty stuffed—as in, I was intending to get them fixed at some price so I
could ride it again. So, after you had finished weaselling into my garage and
took off with my bike in your sneaky cowardly getaway, I hope the ride
home was bloody uncomfortable as you felt every cobblestone, every bump, every aberration
in the road soar up through the flat tires and right into your rear-end. I
hope, in riding on flat tires, you bent and screwed them up so much that the
bike was worth less than when you pinched it, robbing you of at least one night
on the rock. I hope you experienced a moment of utterly abject fear as you
hooned down a hill and realised that the brakes were refusing to slow the bike
down to a manageable speed. I hope you made the connection between the road you
felt at a distance through the flat tires and the fact that you may very soon
be feeling this road up close without the mediating qualities of my bike’s
frame; without even the flat tires between you and it.
Because, in the end, you trumpet-cunt, and here is the
kicker, that bike is cursed. The bugger threw me two times (once sending me to
the hospital), always threatened to slide out from under me, and has, after
these accidents, never let itself be fully repaired—no matter how much money I’ve
sunk into it. I’m sure in some primordial and ancient cultures they told
stories of my bike’s evils and autonomous intent to maim to frighten their
children into being proper and active members of society: ‘behave, or the bike
will come, and you will have to ride it …’
I hope you enjoy the bike in all its twisted glory. I hope the
curse rears its ugly head when you try to ride it and fall off, or sell it and
get little for it.
And you might ask, ‘why then Dave, considering the bike’s
obvious evil, do you care that it is gone?’ Because it’s mine and I detest thievery
of other people’s property that they have managed to acquire with their
hard-earned: it’s low and pathetic. Moreover, despite its curse, it was fun—in the
sense of wrestling with a nippy puppy that occasionally draws blood—and practical
and fast and I miss it.
The person or people who stole my bike are less than, and
certainly not equal to, the oddly sticky grease stains above my stove. Pigs.
Sincerely,
Dave
PS. Go and hurt yourself.
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