The Bicycle Man pondered to himself, as a car slammed into the back of another, narrowly missing the bicycle man, "oh, look at that, a car accident, damn cars." Amused by this, the Bicycle Man simply continued to ride, unaware that he was being watched by his arch-nemesis; traffic camera. The Bicycle Man pedaled harder, knowing fully well he was late for work. He watched as more cars sped past him, the drivers leaning out their windows shouting at him, taunting at him. The bicycle man didn't need their negative waves, man, for that brought misfortune. He certainly didn't need their smog, for that was slowly killing his beloved raccoon friends. Yes, despite losing his house, he had managed to befriend a tribe of talking raccoons, despite what the psychiatrists told him. Clearly, he was perfectly sane, they were the insane ones! His mind wandered as he muttered to himself, soon, I shall release my forces upon the world, sweeping away motorized vehicles and establishing the first bicycle dictatorship the world has ever seen! Yes... Yes! YES! HAAAHAHAHA!" The Bicycle Man's mutterings became a loud ranting, finished by a sardonic laugh clearing a fifteen foot wide gap in front of him as he transitioned from the roadway to the sidewalks. "Yes, soon, soon they all shall pay," he declared to no one, however, fate would not smile upon our young hero. For as he raised his fists in triumph at his flawless plan, he was clearly disregarding proper bicycle safety. His eyes shut, his body arched to feel the glory of his future kingdom, the bicycle unrelenting in it's journey.
That's when the 4:15 bus rounded the corner, it's driver distracted and oblivious to the terror that would come. It charged down the street as if it were a giant painted insect of some sort; a beetle partaking in a great journey amongst giant, concrete blades of grass. Our young hero, the Bicycle Man, scourge of automobiles, slammed into the 4:15 Metropolitan Transit bus as it had stopped to take on passengers. While everyone on the bus survived, the man we knew as the Bicycle Man died there on that cold pavement. Physically, he merely had some major road rash, but in spirit, he died. His spirit died because, while he hated cars, he did not consider buses, and what happened on that cold afternoon was something miraculous. As he stood up, the Bicycle Man looked around. He looked down at his clothes, and he looked carefully at the fresh blood welling up in the rash where his palms should have been; that was really his blood. He picked up his bicycle, walked back to the alley and killed his raccoon friends. Why did he kill his raccoon friends, you ask? Well...
Because, children, when that bus hit him it knocked some sense into him, for the Bicycle Man... was a hippy. Upon discovering his new-found testosterone given to him by the spirit of none other than Davy Crockett himself in the form of a bus beat-down, he began making a mighty fire. He gathered as many raccoon bodies as he fancied and skinned them, tanning and curing the hides until he had an entire set of raccoon clothes. The remaining meat he punched into submission until it yielded it's jerky underside, which he ate heartily. Oh, how it felt so wonderful to have meat grace his salivating tongue once more. He had forgotten the texture, the aroma and the utter bliss that sends a man back to his primitive cave-man days. Yes, he imagined the men before him finding hot babes and producing children, all the while munching on beef jerky and punching bears. Soon, the Bicycle Man would join his ancestors in the hunt, stalking the wild plains of the city in search of furry creatures to brutally maim, skin and then eat. There was nothing in this urban jungle that could tame him now. Nothing.
Thanks, Davy Crockett. :]
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