Rusty Steed was my friend. I'd had to trade off Truckovna Trucksky when I went blind a few years ago. Then I fell back full time to Rusty Steed, a 1970s vintage Nishiki Olympian frame, a decent Nip transmission, white Brooks saddle and a back rack. Looked like shit. Rode hard, put up wet. The tape on the drop bars was held in place with yellow electrician's tape. Looked like shit, rode like a dream.
Then, this evening, some pusswad stoole it.
That was my ride, dude. My everyday and unavoidable ride. I don't drive, Rusty was not a hobby, Rusty was my way to work, Rusty was my grocery-getter.
Fuck you, dude. And whole I'm at it, fuck your parents for raising a child who conflates "unattended" with "mine".
I was about to start another job as messenger downtown. You just stole my means of work.
Not so very fucking long ago we hanged horse thieves. Same goddam reason. Steal a man's ride, you've stolen a man's livleyihood.
1 comment:
:( sorry to hear about the theft ...
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