The street signs wept openly, their mournful cries audible above the din of his motor. His bike moved through the streets propelled by unseen forces, transcending space and time while furtive eyes peered out from behind hidden places. He glanced at his rearview mirror, fascinated by the multi-colored contrail streaming out behind him for many miles. He became distracted, gazing upward at the rooftop workers, broken men in yellow raincoats furiously nailing strips of bleeding flesh over well-worn rat holes, stemming the rain flow in the scorching sun. His looked back at the road ahead just in time to see a matronly lesbian crossing the street in front of him, pushing a shopping cart filled with North Korean toasters and Communist dogma, a basket of exotic fruit balanced precariously upon her head. Dave braked hard, but it was too late. He laid the shovel down. The stench of burning rubber and the cries of orphaned children filled the air that morning as his bike skidded along the pavement, sliding with great force under a parked UPS truck. His head hit something hard and unforgiving. Then, everything went black.........
Never ride under the influence.......of madness.
Ferk, Breugel meets Escher whilst On the Road, bad moon rising man . . . the stench of ill portent.
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