In England we have a cycling and auto parts store called Halfords. It's kind of like a downsized Walmart meets a downsized Home Depot and combines their most useful products, but only gets the latter's customers. There are no Mexicans or blacks in Halfords, so it's an ideal place to drink your coffee if you're a racist.
About a year ago they were running a 50% off discount, and seeing as I'd bought a bike worth 120 pounds that lasted me 5-7 years, my logic was that a brand new one valued at 200 pounds purchased at half that was a bargain. Sadly, Halfords doesn't tell you that their bicycles have AIDS, and it broke down within three months of purchase.
Here are some of the bullshit excuses they gave me:
- Riding it for more than six hours a week is too much.
- You can buy a different bike for the same value and it will be a better bike that you can ride for more than six hours a week.
- But only if it's a Halfords bike.
- You're an idiot, aren't you?
So I used up my annual "free service" in less than three months since buying the "Slant," a name inspired by the crookedness of this bag-of-dicks corporation. Little could they comprehend the threat of fucking around with a writer of Napoleon complex who gets upwards of five readers a month per article.
Because I can, Halfords.
Needless to say, the bike deteriorated soon after I got it back (delivered to me with a puncture, I might add—the same thing I'm going to service into Halfords' chafing asshole with my glorious prose), and then it was a case of trying to lose it by leaving it unchained in places, displaying it provocatively like it was a Jane Doe in need of a place to sleep just for the night, no questions asked.
Day 1 – The Day That Time Forgot
The front brake is busted, staring up at me like a prolapsed rectum; the back brake ain't much better. The chains are rusted, resembling something you might find in a Guantanamo Bay interrogation cell or a BDSM clinic for Holocaust re-enactments.
The bell has fallen off—if people don't see us coming, they get mowed down, that's the law…the law of death.
I am smiling at my bike at the thought of finally being rid of it, luck on my side.
Unbeknownst to me, my bike is smiling right back at me as if to say I want you inside of me.
Its winks at me are the sound of a hornet's nest agitated by sticks and distance.
Day 2 – The Day I Make a Mistake
It is night-time, the foxes are mating in the streets again, making loud, ferocious, pained noises, spraying sex onto everything with a pulse. The men are riding the bitches, the bitches are riding the men, urine is flying everywhere. You can smell it in the air despite being situated by the sea.
I nervously pull the curtain aside to witness my bike ravaged by the feral vermin. It is smiling right up at me, to my window as the vile events unfold before my very eyes, almost as if to say I wish you were here, bud.
The smell is unbearable. I shut all the windows, draw the curtains, lock the door, and hide under my duvet. The only thing keeping me warm is the constant shivering.
Day 3 – The Day I Try to Make Nice
I am cycling, my bike is talking to me like an excited puppy in the back of a car, knowing it is going to the beach but asking nonetheless, "Where we goin' today, Jamie?" I am beginning to sweat on this thing because of the fear.
It is as if the orgy of last night never happened.
Day 4 – The Day That Whites Stay Indoors
I have walked down to meet my bike, only to see that it is masturbating furiously. It is filthy, lubricating like mad as it spins the seat in and out of itself, its gears and works squealing under the strain.
It is speaking to itself. I am fairly certain I can hear the words "sucker-punch," "bite down on it" and "make sure to double the knot."
Suddenly it stops, turns ever so slowly to look at me, watch me, po-faced.
"Are we ready yet?" it says, a dead-smile painted across its features, its eyebrows hanging lazy, impatient.
I run back upstairs without a moment's hesitation while my bicycle resumes its activities.
"I said plus to minus and minus to plus! IDIOT! Now hook that sucka up to my nips."
Day 5 – The Day the Marines are Deployed
My bike has been taken, finally. I can breathe again. I walk to work with a spring in my step. The sun is out, beautiful. I flinch at the sound of rubber on asphalt, but otherwise I am tranquil. I think I will buy myself an ice cream.
Day 7 – The Day We All Learn to Love
My bike is returned.
It has limbs in its machinery. Human and animal limbs.
It is panting heavily, its prolapsed rectum hanging out of itself ever more lethally. It does not look well.
"Don't you EVER let that happen again!" it splutters, cross-eyed, foaming at the mouth.
I dare not upset it anymore. I ride it solemnly back into work even though the seat has been stolen. I believe it finds the routes with the most sleeping policemen intentionally.
Day 8 – The Day It All Turns Black
The wheels are bent all out of shape, the front one almost at a 45 degree angle. I cannot comprehend how we still have propulsion.
My anus is torn-sore to tatters, but I don't dare stand up lest I anger it. I tried to eat a ham sandwich out of my knapsack but it bitch-slapped it the fuck away from my mouth.
It is laughing manically now. I believe it is trying to estimate a direct trajectory to the sun, but I can't know for certain; dehydration has clouded my thoughts.
My final prayer before this wretched beast of engineering takes my soul will be that I am so sorry, that I never knew.
"Where the nightmares end and thine twisted, obsidian frame begins."