80 Grave damage

There wasn’t much blood on the floor, but Bicycle Boy #15, age thirty-five, at something of a last chance stage to grab on and be a player, noticed how lifeless all the Bicycle Boys and Girls were. If he were to make his statement – the statement of bicycle riders over age eleven everywhere – the time was ripe. Rife? Right? He wasn’t sure. When he’d picked up a ten speed, he dispensed with books.
But not words, for bicyclists were a jabbery bunch. Nothing ever actually was said beyond habitual gushing and emoting, but words themselves were words, and it was the moment to expound the Bicyclist’s Credo. He quivered with skin-deep emotion. Lance WOULD love him. Bicycle Boy hearkened to a favorite song. “‘And sometimes when we touch, the honesty is too much . . .'” It embraced and escorted his longing to step up and be counted.
“We . . .” he began a veritable Letter to the Editor, panting to persuade and stir, with heartwarming sentiments about the environment, sage proposals about safe and sane road-sharing; moreover, with the clarion call of inalienable rights . . .
“‘G’gg’,” baby Drew interrupted before another word slipped beyond the plural pronoun like too much avocado on mayo, the sandwich de jour on fifty mile memorial rides.
Bicycle Boy #15 buckled.
Flyswatter.
Dead.

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