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. Continue reading