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I Hope My Bike Takes You Straight to Hell

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So there's this bike I've been walking past, every day for the past week or whatever. Thing's just sitting out on someone's lawn, just waiting for something to happen to it. The bike's pretty sweet, in this douchey hipster sorta way. All it needs is a basket on the handlebars or something. Probably with some stupid kitten drawn on it. I bet the dude who owns the bike is one of those douchey hipsters, with his fucking skinny jeans and flannel shirt and goddamn cheap PBR. Probably keeps the PBR in the kitten basket, carries it around with him while he goes to meet his equally douchey hipster girlfriend or some shit.

Well, fuck that shit. I want that bike.

So I've been stalking the shit out of this thing, waiting for the right time to take it. Because that bike's going to be mine.

Eventually, the perfect time comes. It's night, and no one's around, no one except for me and the douchey hipster bike.

So I just take it.

Fucking idiot who owns the bike didn't even lock the thing up. Like I said, douchey hipster. Thinks the whole world is all fucking peace and lollipops on cheap-ass bicycle handlebar baskets. No one would ever steal the bike because we're all fucking good people or whatever. Viva Socialism or whatever, you know? Power to the people?

Whatever, the point is, in the middle of the night, I walk up to this fucking bike and ride off with it. Simple as that.

So I've been enjoying this bike ever since. Ditched the lame-ass skull flag (what, douchey hipster, you think you're some sort of hardcore rebel or something) and covered over the lightning bolt with a Metallica sticker, fuck yeah. Was gonna put an American flag over it, but decided not to. Bike's made in China or India or whatever, figured that'd be just wrong. And I'm not even wearing a helmet. I'm not some pansy motherfucker who needs a helmet. That's bullshit.

You know what? This is a pretty kick-ass bike. I'm glad I swiped it. Thing deserve a real home, you know?

I'm even enjoying riding it past the douchey hipster's house. Dude hasn't even recognized the bike. Just spends his time looking sad and douchey and putting up those stupid sarcastic missing posters. Yeah, douchey hipster, I'm glad that you hate me. You would've hated me even if I hadn't freed your bike from its sad existence in your yard. So this doesn't change anything.

A monster truck? You want me to get run over by a monster truck?

Yeah, right. Like there's even going to be monster trucks in this bullshit town.

Hey, wait, what's that?

I'm just riding down the street and there's all this noise up ahead. Someone needs a new muffler or something, it's hella loud. I lean into the turn so I can head up my street to go home (I don't even signal when I turn; I'm a real fucking badass like that) and the last thing I see before everything goes black is this gigantic fucking truck with flames on it bearing down on me.

Next thing I remember, I'm waking up somewhere unfamiliar. It's hot and I hurt in weird places and I don't know where I am. I do know that my kick-ass stolen douchey hipster bike isn't with me, though.

I hear a deep voice call out my name and I look up. “Come this way,” says this angry looking motherfucker in a dark suit. Could swear he had wings or some shit, but I've also got a killer headache, so I dunno. Maybe I'm hallucinating.

Where's my bike?” I ask Mr. Suit, but he doesn't answer, just leads me into an office even hotter than the room I was just in.

Mr. Suit ignores me, just goes and sits behind a desk. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but he looks at me and looks at this chair so I sit down in it. Don't know what else I'm supposed to do. Chair's the most uncomfortable thing ever, but I've got the feeling I'm not supposed to complain.

The dude flips open this gigantic book, looking for something, then suddenly stops, holding his finger over one line. “Cause of death,” he says, sounding all bored and shit, “crushed by monster truck.”

Wait, what?” I ask the dude, leaning forward to try to get a look at this badass book he's reading from.

Shh,” he says, glaring at me. “Transgressions: numerous.”

Dude, no, what the fuck?”

Shh.” Mr. Suit looks pretty pissed. I think the temperature in the room just rose or something, 'cause it's even hotter than before. “Transgressions: numerous,” he repeats. “Most recently, bike thievery.” Dude looks up at me and I swear to fucking god he's smirking. “Really? A bicycle? You couldn't even go for a motorcycle? Went for some pansy-ass douchey hipster bicycle?” Mr. Suit sneers at me. I think he's making fun of me.

What the fuck is going on?” I lean more out of the chair, trying to read the book again, but he slams it shut, almost on my fingers. Motherfucker.

Sentence: eternity in hell,” he says, and his voice got all deep and echo-y and boom-y and shit. Pretty badass special effects. Mr. Suit snaps his fingers and two more dudes in suits enter the room. “Take him to his new home,” Mr. Suit says.

The new dudes in suits grab me from the chair and are pulling me out of the room. I'm yelling and kicking and trying to get out, because seriously, what the fuck is this shit?

Your precious bicycle will be waiting for you, sir,” Mr. Suit says as the dudes drag me from the room. The last thing I hear before the office door slams in front of me is Mr. Suit cackling like some kind of evil maniac.

Fucking sweet.