I’m sorry I called the cops.
Actually I’m not sorry, you fucking jerkoff. I hope they kick your fucking teeth in while your fat cactus eating mother watches and cries. You thieving sack of shit. But I’m saying I’m sorry. Because I don’t want you and your vatos to find me and beat my ass with the wrench you adjusted my seat with. My handlebars. You made it more “low rider.” Your taste is appalling.
But look: I’d filed a police report that it was stolen. So if I found it I could scare you, or whoever you sold it to. Make you give it back. Turned out that wasn’t necessary. Just the serial number on an envelope was enough. The shop you sold it to is the one closest to my house. I pass it several times a week. The front tire tube was bought there. Since it’s a nice bike, they displayed it on the sidewalk. With their best merchandise. I passed by. Could that be it? Nahh…. but, I’m obsessive compulsive. Had to make sure. Dumb fuckin luck.
I’d been chasing down craigslist leads for two weeks. Driving all over town. Finding excuses to flip the thing over and look at the serial number. Got shaky every time. Figured I’d run into you. Confront you. You’d have a bunch of vatos beat my ass with wrenches. My good looks would die along with my chickenshit Charles Bronson fantasy. Now I’m afraid you’ll find out I ratted. I didn’t, really. I just called to say I recovered it. So I wouldn’t run into some hassle if I ever sold it. But I had to tell them how. That I got it from that shop. Speedworkz on Sunset, you’ll recall. The owner gave it back without a hassle. Said he was gonna check his files and find out who sold it. Not buy from you anymore. Fine, whatever. I don’t give a shit.
I could hear the cop’s hard on through the phone. Bike theft is growing. The problem gets publicity. Now maybe they found a shop that fences a ton of them. And now he had what cops need to solve crimes: someone else doing the job. Searching, canvassing, gathering evidence. It sucks that Adam Carolla beat me to this joke, because I’ve thought it many times: a real cop show would be a bunch of guys waiting around a phone. The episode ends when someone calls and tells them who did it. This time it was me.
The LAPD is gonna go there and run every serial number. You might get fucked on this. If you sold him just the one and were stupid enough to give your real information. If you sell there regularly and he’s stupid enough to keep track. I don’t know. You two should have figured it out.
Not gonna lie though. I feel like a fucking shifty eyed rat. I should have just eaten it. Taken the good luck and been happy. I was never going to catch any shit for having my own once-stolen bike. I out and out told the guy at the shop I didn’t want cops involved. I know he sells stolen bikes. How? Because he owns a used bike shop. They all sell stolen shit, look at them for Christ’s sake. Either they do it deliberately or turn a blind eye. You want to fix bike theft? Just seize the inventory of every used bike shop in town. Lock up the owners.
You’re probably fucking fifteen. You’re not living high off the hog selling jacked beach cruisers, 20 cents on the dollar. Enough for a night out once in a while. Buy a girl a soda pop. Take her to the sock hop and then a spin to Makeout Point in the Packard– what the fuck am I saying. You’re a dirty little fuckin punk. You fucked me out of something I need to get to work. Something I couldn’t afford to replace. Because I’m broke just like you. You probably huff paint and beat up gays and have five kids. Listen: it sucks having your bike stolen. How many people did you fuck who didn’t get theirs back?
And how many more will get fucked if you don’t get popped? Well, it’s a wash. Someone else will take your place. Your block is an ecosystem of scumbags and some other jackal will come grab the wounded… whateverthefuck jackals eat. Wildebeests. Your getting arrested does nothing. Helps no one. You will not clean up your life. You can’t. Bikes won’t stop getting stolen and sold. The world’s going to shit. All that changes here is a few more people get fucked. A few more dollars go in the city’s pocket. Whatever though. Let it burn. I’ll be gliding by on my sweet ass bicycle, smiling my ass off like the fuckin dork I am.