Bikesport

Fiction: A highly surreal competition in the woods.

This story is one of two runners up of the Dispatches competition. It is very strange, and all three judges enjoyed it very much.

---

Declaration of Tournament

by Alton Abernathy

After weeks of hiding in the thicket of these northernmost Appalachians I began to doubt the veracity of the tip that had sent me here. Maybe I was too excited, even gullible, when a toothless elder told me a tale about the strange men who host strange sporting events, attracting strange competitors. How they came from the darkest woods.

But then they appeared. From the flowing green depths of the muted nubs comprising the Long Range Mountains emerged three men in blue suits like fleas from a shag rug, and they entered into the town of Bikeminster. They found a telephone pole and upon that pole they posted a poster, and the poster read, “Bike Stunt Trick Tournament: winner gets free medical experiments: inquire within.” Thereupon they constructed a geodesic dome, and entered into it, and waited for applicants.

Most of the locals were tight-lipped about who might compete. I needed to get to know the athletes, like I needed to document the crooked spirit of their culture. Ostensible Christians marinating for centuries in these undeniably pagan environs. But I found a few who told me the names of the Home Team, where they might be found, how they would surely travel. I found an elevation where a satellite signal made itself intermittently available, and I handed the information off to my colleagues.

Mister Mattias

by Vera Nottingham

At first I was skeptical about this assignment. The only thing worse than sports writing is travelogues. Especially travel in such a backwater province of this backwater nation. But beggars and journalists can't be choosy, and I'm nothing if not a team player, so I got my gear and hit the road.

My mood changed when I met the charismatic Mister Mattias, and the effect was only enhanced as we drove down the highway on his dirtbike. The bike growled and purred like a horny tiger and his mohawk was stiff and tugging at his scalp in the wind. Our leather jackets kept us warm on the cloudy day. The evergreens were fragrant and tangled. I spied jealous Paparazzi hidden in the thicket with their leering eyes snapping photos. This landscape grew on me. It seeped into my soul.

A siren turned the world psychedelic evil and Mattias deferred, pulled over onto the gravel which crunched in grumbling solidarity. A police officer motorcycle approached and its headlight eyes glared at us. The officer dismounted, and when he pulled off his helmet his eyes were pure static. He said, “Yiss b'y tell us how much of a bike belongs on a highway if it’s dirt-style.”

“Tis so,” said Mattias. “I’m headin’ out to meet me crew of five for a dirtbike championship in Bikeminster and I can’t very well arrive if it ain’t through the highway now is it?”

“I don’t doubt it,” the officer agreed sombrely. But then he tilted his head and the clouds parted slightly. He said, “Ain’t you Mister Mattias, the gay dirtbike champion o’ the world?”

Mattias coughed mightily, and confirmed that he was indeed.

“Well Mister Mattias I am certainly red in the face to hold up yer progress towards yet another conquest. But I am an officer o' the law, a mere mortal in service o' something I cannot comprehend. And this here dirtbike ain’t highway material. I’m obliged to offer you a ticket, loathe as I am to do so. Tell me, does your beautiful bike got a name?”

Mattias answered, “I named him Horse.”

The officer shook his head and scribbled a ticket. “Now listen. I’m gonna let you two off the hook for ridin’ that dirtbike on the highway, call it a warning. But we all know this bike ain’t no horse. It’s a donkey. And from this day forth you will call him Donkey. And I’m writin’ you a ticket for such a nomenclature infracture. And you must immediately remove Donkey from the highway and either walk him along the side o’ the road or else ride him thru the impenetrable jungle of evergreen thistle and leering Paparazzi. I hope you don’t get lost or swallowed, but she’s outta me hands.”

The officer winked at me without good cheer.

Into the gnarls and the thorns we rode upon Donkey the mighty dirtbike who took the indignation with dignity and fortitude. But it weren’t the scratches what slowed us down, no sir, it was the blinding flashing bulbs of the Paparazzi creatures always in the shadows hiding behind the scratches, making molds of Mattias’ face, mimicking his utterances like evil prayers. It stayed our progress, lo, unto less than a crawl, a halflife of movement ever diminishing yet never quite reaching zero, merely generating a uselessly decreasing infinity betwixt ourself and the ETA.

I suggested we make a deal with the Paparazzi. Mattias nodded and called out, “One interview I bequeath unto thee, thou heathen hordes.”

A pretty girl appeared in a sudden clearing, and I was jealous of sharing my scoop. She, starry eyed and stern of lip, spake, “Mister Mattias, tell us, why are you competing in the Bikeminster Bike Stunt Trick Tournament?”

Mattias answered, “Me mudder is badly in need o’ medical experiments.”

She wrote something down in her fuckin’ little notebook. Then she said, “When did you first realize you were a gay dirtbike champion?”

“I suppose when I won me first dirtbike championship.”

“So you already knew you were a homosexual?”

“On the day I was born I swore never to return to the womb.”

She thanked him and the forest parted, offering us a path. Mister Mattias hawked up a wretched glob of blood-riddled phlem, and he coughed and coughed and spat it out. Then he revved his engine and we rode Donkey the dirtbike through the arboreal jungle, toward a rendezvous with his five-person crew.

Gloria McStepanovich

by Michael Tuck

Gloria McStepanovich agreed to let me tag along on her journey. She arrived at the truck stop sporting a multi-colored explosion of twisted bantu knots. Her leather jacket was pink with black trim. I climbed on the back of her dirtbike which proceeded to gurgle down the highway at a meandering pace.

I asked why she was driving so slow. She said, “I'm looking for a particular bug. I can't win the Bike Stunt Trick Tournament unless I find this bug.”

She told me the story of the bug:

Many years ago she had stood in the doorway of a darkened room, with the light behind her, casting her shadow on the wall inside the room. She knew the shadow was more than her doppelgänger. She approached it, wondering what the shadow had to say, maybe something to ask of her, maybe something to offer. When she was close, Gloria saw that there was a bug on the wall, on the shadow’s heart, or maybe its brain, she couldn’t remember which. But she knew that she had to eat the bug.

She knew that she must eat that bug.

But she did not eat the bug. Because eating bugs is gross. Possibly unsanitary. And maybe even cruel. One shouldn’t assume that another would prefer to be devoured.

The bug remained on the wall for three days. On the fourth day it was gone, and she despaired that she would ever become her ultimate self.

Now her crew of five dirtbike stunt trick athletes was gathering for the Bike Stunt Trick Tournament, and she had to find that bug before she arrived. Find it and eat it. Maybe it was too late. She watched the roadside gravel for any little crawling thing, and studied the branches of the trees. She saw many bugs, but they were the wrong bugs.

Suddenly she screeched to a halt, her tires leaving a pink streak across the pavement. She pointed at a crack in the pavement and said, “It's bad luck to cross a crack in the road.”

I suggested we pass around the crack, on the roadside gravel. But she answered, “What is gravel but one extremely crack-riddled rock?”

She knelt to pray. It was a long prayer but she recited it by heart, pleading for mercy in a world full of cracks, down to its molten core.

Then I saw it too. Just how many cracks there were, everywhere. The road was all cracked up for about twelve meters, resulting in many little islands, like tiles on a game board. Serenaded by her prayers, I saw so much that had been hidden to me before. These islands between the cracks, they could be represented as a collection of tiles, each tile with a numerical index. And Gloria's prayer promised to use only prime numbers. But if we stepped on a five, and then a seven, these two numbers added up to twelve, which was not a prime number (though twelve is represented with a one and a two, which add up to three, which is a prime number, so that’s a mitigating factor). We would have to take many steps to reach the other side, and we needed to be sure that however we added the indices of our chosen tiles it would always add up to prime numbers whose digits also added up to prime numbers (it was okay for a prime number’s digits to add up to a non-prime number whose digits added up to a prime number, like fifty-nine, where five plus nine is fourteen, which is not a prime number, but its digits (one and four) add up to five, which is prime, and therefore wholesome and righteous). If we failed in this, Gloria's crew would lose the Bike Stunt Trick Tournament.

Using a pen and paper (for calculators were forbidden) she tried to find a numerically safe path through these tiles. But the effort caused her eyes to bleed and brought Gloria to her knees, clutching her skull. She said, “It's like being stabbed in the brain by the sun.”

Then Gloria McStepanovich saw the bug in the very middle of the labyrinth of cracks. It was a long bug with many legs, and it was so long that it wrapped around itself, and in fact was more like a tangled knot which writhed. It untangled and retangled itself in perpetuity. Her bleeding eyes lit up and she said, “I see the path, for the the tiles light up like unto a video game, showing me which are numerologically safe,” and she stepped upon them like an angel, carrying her dirtbike over one shoulder (with me on top), until she reached the bug.

She extended her free hand to the bug and it crawled onto her palm, and it seemed happy to finally be there. “It tickles my skin with its joyful wriggling.” She did not put it into her mouth but instead put it next to her mouth and let it crawl inside. Then it crawled down her throat and she helped it with a swallow, and it became part of her. “I needed to wait for the bug to offer itself to me, which it had not done before. It had needed time to observe me and judge my worthiness.”

Her eyes stopped bleeding and the highway became whole. We continued down the road with the fresh blessing in Gloria's belly.

Sammy McToby

by Abby Stanley

I'm an amateur dirtbike rider myself, and that's how I caught up to Sammy McToby on the highway. I asked if I could join him as a fly-on-the-wall reporter, but he shook his blond head in the wind and sped away. I followed him anyway. He pulled over at a gas station in a gravel clearing that had been hacked into the unforgiving thicket. He entered the convenience store with a jingle and said to the cashier, “Got any work?”

“N’ery a plum to pick me love,” lamented the permed lady who sat behind the cash desk, wearing an apron, rocking on a wooden rocking chair, knitting a long red scarf.

Sammy said, “I’m not picky 'bout plums. I can clean tielets an’ ‘aul 'azardous waste. I got a university degree. Maybe yer boss got somethin’ he needs done. May be legal, may be not. I got no limits. A man’s gotta eat before a big dirtbike tournament.”

“I don’t work directly for the gas station,” the lady told him. “I’m a contract worker. Now the man what owns the contracting comp'ny he’s the same man what owns the gas station and he rents me out to hisself, takin’ a small cut for the overhead. He’s upstairs now.”

The stairwell was pitch black and each step was a different depth, height, and angle. Sammy stumbled all the way up like a drunken madman and finally tumbled into the office where a bearded sailor sat behind a splintered desk wearing a yellow slicker and tuque of lapis lazuli, stamping a stamp onto stacks of paperwork.

“Got any work?” Sammy inquired.

“Argh ye bucky bastard place yer hand upon this desklike crucible and accept yer judgement.”

Sammy placed his hand on the desk and the sailor stamped it hard, and the stamp was smoking hot and it burned a letter M onto the skin. “Now yer hired, me b'y.”

“Okay, what feats shall I perform?”

“I got no feats needs performin’ just yet, ye bucky little buckster. But I do got some featsters lookin’ for feats to perform, and if they can find em then I gets a cut. Five dollars plus a percentage. So I wants you to head on down the road seekin’ work for me contractors, eh me blubby?”

“So me job is to... go seek work?”

“And if ya finds it then I gets a cut.”

Sammy fell down the stairs and got on his dirtbike and continued on down the road until he came to the next gas station, which was identical to the one we’d just departed. Inside he found the same lady who directed him up another darkened set of stairs. The depths and widths and angles of these steps was all different, so what he’d learned last time didn’t help him from stumbling like an idiot up and into an identical office to the last, with an identical sailor stamping and stomping his stamps onto paperwork.

“Got any work?” Sammy asked, as if trapped in a dream.

“No me b'y, I’ve no such thing. And yet I suspect I can find ye something. Just place yer hand upon this desklike crucible and I’ll gather ye into me service and set ye on the path to prosperity.”

Sammy placed his other hand on the desk and the sailor burnt a W upon it and said, “Now head on down the road and solicit some work fer me b'ys. And I gets a cut. Five dollars plus a percentage.”

Sammy got on his bike and kept riding until he found a time machine broken down on the side of the road. A man and a woman of numinous age tinkered with its innards. Sammy pulled over and said, “Got any work?”

The man said, “You arrived just in time. My name is Garth and this is my daughter Cecilia, who is also my wife and my mother. We have to repair our time machine and prevent this time-looped cycle of incest, though it means neither of us will ever be born (I’m also my own father).”

“Let’s discuss terms,” Sammy said.

“Our time machine has made us very rich via time-looped compound interest,” Garth explained. “So I will pay you one billion dollars once we get this time machine up and running. Just hold this antenna like so.”

Sammy held the antenna and the time machine disappeared, and so did Garth and his wife and daughter and mother and father. All that was left was the empty road, and the trees so green hiding such darkness that crept into our hearts.

Unpaid he continued along this road at a forlorn pace until he came upon an identical gas station. I heard his engine putter as he ran out of gas and had to pull in. Up the stairs he went once more and asked the sailor, “I needs to borrow gas in advance outta me wages.”

“Wages?” the sailor laughed. “Ye owes us infinite dollars already, me b'y. Me and meself, we rented ye out to each other in infinite regress, five dollars plus a percentage per iteration. Don’t worry though. We ain’t psychopaths. Simply work for us both forever without pay and we’ll call it even. Ye’ll find yer gas tank ne’er empty, and yer tummy always full, but all yer time belongs to us.”

Sammy groaned and the Sailor said, “Is ya okay b'y?”

“Well me colon sure hurts,” Sammy answered. “But neveryoumind that. What d’ya need me to do?”

“Me contracting company needs new recruits. Take this here stamp, set forth and recruit, folding friend and foe into the cycle of prosperity, yea, unto the end of time.”

Bobby Bardo

by Alice Appleton

I took the sneaky approach to bearing witness of Bobby Bardo's trek. I hid in the bushes and watched him pump his gas. Then I followed on my own dirtbike, a dirtbike built for ladies, and I watched him, and I felt like I could see inside his soul.

In the darkest hour of night we rode. His head jerked about and he looked here and there, like a hunted dog expecting a beating. The stars glistened like the eyes of cosmic spies. He was fidgety like a squirrel. I drove so close that I heard him whisper beneath the growl of our engines, “Those men could be anywhere with their truck. They could be hiding in the trees, or up around the next bend, or just over the horizon. If those men catch me and put me in their truck then I'll never meet my five person crew for the tournament. I can't let them down.”

A delightful twinkling noise emanated from the forest. And then a lower resonant tone. It was a piano, a beautiful piano, and Bobby Bardo seemed helpless to resist. He stopped his bike on the side of the road and moved his thick, beautiful hair away from his ear to better hear the piano sounds.

“Bhrams,” he whispered. “Intermezzo in E minor, opus one one nine, number two. And it's being played by a woman.”

Mesmerized by this siren song he walked down the embankment and into the thickness of the forest. He penetrated the impenetrable branches and pushed his way toward the source of the sound until he emerged into a clearing and saw a woman sitting at a grand piano. She had fair skin and black hair, a red dress covering a lean figure and she played with such passion that he fell to his knees. The moon shone above, smiling coldly. Bobby crawled to her and she turned her head without breaking sonic stride and said, “Stand, my love. I have brought you here.”

He stood and approached the pianist. Placed his hands on her shoulders, and the straps of her dress became butterflies that flew away, and her dress melted away, and she was naked. He cupped one small breast in his hand and felt its weight, then put his lips in the soft valley of her neck, kissing her, and her beautiful notes sparkled like the stars.

She lay down on the bench, but her hands became detached and continued to play. She lay down and looked at him with smiling alien eyes, and he beheld her body and he kissed her from head to toe and back again. He made love to her handless body, and she wrapped her handless arms around him until he had spent himself gloriously within her.

Then he stood back and looked at her naked body. They floated atop the piano as her disembodied hands tickled the ivory. Her body writhed with joy, and she glistened with sweat and seed, and she said, “I am thirsty, my love. Fetch me a drink.”

“I can smell the creek,” he said. He followed the wholesome scent, and I followed him through the darkness of the forest, where we could not see the stars, and he knelt over the stream that burbled forth from the earth, and caught the water in his hands. He stood and turned to bring the water back to his lover, when headlights unconcealed themselves harshly within the forest. Men in ski masks grabbed him, but he couldn’t defend himself without spilling the water. They shoved him in the back of the truck, and the truck drove away.

I followed the truck until it stopped and the men pulled Bobby out and they tied him to a stake that plunged into the ground, surrounded by firewood. He still held the water in his hands. The men still wore ski masks, and they were red ski masks, and their eyes were pure static. They must be off-duty cops.

“You've finally captured me,” Bobby said. “Please tell me who sent ya.”

“Who hasn’t sent us?” asked the men. The four kidnappers paced around the pile of wood striking matches and tossing them in. Each match burnt out but I knew that eventually one would catch, and the water in Bobby's hands would boil away, his lover would remain thirsty, his bike crew would lose the tournament. His hands trembled and he said, “The prospect of letting down my team or my lady is what trembles my hands, not fear of burning, not even my aching spleen.” But despite the trembling he never spilled a drop.

The kidnappers continued, “All the pianists who you made pregnant, they formed a union to extract your unpaid child support payments. They hired us to retrieve that payment.”

“I got no money to pay em,” he protested. “When the fisheries shut down I had n’erry a choice but to turn to dirtbike stunt trick tournaments, like thousands of other hard workin’ Newfoundlanders. But it’s a hard truck I tell ya.”

The kidnapper-cops said, “You seduced them ladies and got em preggo, now you gotta pay up.”

“But they seduced me,” he protested. “And then they abandoned me. They used me for me seed then left me in a lurch. How d’ya figure to get child support payments from burnin’ me alive, eh?”

“There’s one kinda payment and then there’s another,” said the men. Then one of the matches caught a stray leaf, and a fire began.

At that very moment there was a great pianal upheaval. It was from Wagner’s Fantasia in F-sharp minor and it came from everywhere. It came from the trees and the stars and the earth, even from the growing fire. The song lifted the static-eyed kidnappers up into the air where they kicked in confusion, and it brought them together, and it smushed them together into a bloody screaming mess, crushing their bones and spilling their guts to douse the flames, and a great glitchy static exploded from their ruined bodies and escaped into the wondrous night.

Then Bobby's piano playing lover flew in from the forest, still naked and glistening handlessly. She kissed him and she drank the water in his hands. She untied his bindings with her toes. He wept as they flew together over the horrifying darkness of the tangled conifer madness. The piano flew alongside them, played by her disembodied hands.

Something happened and now he was on his dirtbike, with her seated behind him wearing the red dress again, and her hands were attached to her wrists like a normal lady, and they were driving to meet his crew, and I was riding behind them on my ladybike, spying on their love.

Mike McFist

by James Lukeman

I was assigned to write this article about Mike McFist, the fifth member of the Home Team. But I refused to submit the article because I learned that Mike has a fetish for fascists, and he always carries a few around with him. He’s also a sexual pervert (not that I would judge a man’s predilections if they don’t impose on another’s, which his do). Suffice it to say that he encountered some protesters during his trek and he had an adventure but he didn’t learn anything and I don’t want to talk about it. Also he has a funny mole on his bald scalp.

Pre-Game Meet-Down

by Alton Abernathy

My fellow journalists joined me in Bikeminster on the day of the Bike Stunt Trick Tournament, though all had been changed by their journeys. The Home Team sat at a picnic table outside a coffee store, chewing coffee beans.

A wild doctor appeared with neat hair and a stethoscope. He looked at the Home Team (and Bobby's piano hottie) and said, “I have bad news. I just did a pre-game checkup on your enemy team, and they all got AIDS.”

Mattias said, “All of em?”

“They’re a polycule,” the doctor explained. “Where one goes they all go. Even to AIDS.”

Mike McFist looked up from his fascist pinup calendar and said, “This will be like stealing candy from a leper.”

The doctor said, “Now it’s time for your pre-game checkup.” He put his stethoscope against Mister Mattias’ mohawk and listened closely, and wrote something down on his fuckin’ little notepad. He pressed a finger against Gloria McStepanovich’s left eyeball and counted a few seconds on his watch, then scribbled more notes. He told Sammy McToby to stick out his tongue and then clunked the extended tongue with a little rubber hammer and inscribed another note. He grabbed Bobby Bardo’s junk and listened to him yelp then wrote thoughtfully. Finally he gazed deep into Mike McFist’s eyes and studied his soul, and ruefully wrote the longest note of all.

“I have bad news” the doctor said. “Mister Mattias, yer violent cough is a symptom o’ Gloria’s colon cancer. Gloria, yer headaches prove that Sammy’s got esophageal cancer. Sammy, that pain in yer colon is from Bobby's ocular cancer. Bobby, yer achin’ spleen is the final stages of Mike’s brain cancer. And Mike, that mole on yer head is from Mister Mattias’ leukemia.”

“The circle is complete,” the five bikesters said in unison.

“The only ting that could possibly save ya is medical experiments,” the doctor told em.

Bike Stunt Trick Tournament

by Alton Abernathy

The town of Bikeminster was built around a meteor impact crater. When the meteor had hit, according to local geologists, it liquified the ground and caused molten ripples which quickly froze because it was such a cold day. Now the crater was a smooth bowl surrounded by ripples spreading outwards in rising concentric circles.

The very inner ripples were the perfect size for doing dirbike stunt tricks, and the outer circles served nicely as uncomfortaable seats for spectators. Dozens of Bikeminsterians gathered for today’s Bike Stunt Trick Tournament. Our five heroes stood to one side, revvin’ their bikes, and the enemy team stood across from them revvin’ their own.

“They all looks the same,” Sammy McToby said. Indeed, the enemy team all wore blue helmets and were indistinguishable. “They must be mainlanders.”

“They’s from Trana,” Bobby Bardo said. “Lookit. Wherever they go there’s the See Yen Tower.”

Our five heroes beheld the cardboard cutout of the See Yen Tower which floated and wobbled just beyond the treeline, the guardian angel of all Trannoians.

The announcer was strapped to a quad copter and he flew around with his megaphone and said, “Blue team goes first!”

One of the Trannoians cranked his torque and blasted down into the crater, then up the other side, then flew up into the air and did the most spectacular and complex arrangements of twists and spins that anyone had ever seen. But halfway into his jump we saw him die of AIDS and he fell dead on the ground between two concentric ripples.

“Disqualified!” yelled the announcer. “Home team up next!”

Mike McFist tore down the dip and shot up the rim, somehow doing an even more complex and heartbreakingly beautiful series of spins, twists, and contortions. But halfway through his trick we watched in horror as he died of Sammy’s colon cancer and fell dead like his enemy. His bike exploded and speckled the Trannoians’ blue jackets with burning bits of metal in random patterns, and now the Trannoians were no longer identical. They were different from each other, marked by their unique burns.

“Disqualified!” yelled the announcer once more. “Funeral break!”

We were solemn for the double funeral. A shadow haunted us because we knew that we each have only so many tricks left before our own time comes.

Then the remaining bikesters mounted their machines and prepared for the next round. The announcer said, “The old order was bad luck,” so he reversed the order, letting our heroic Home Team go first.

Mister Mattias did a layback spin and triple axel combo, landing gracefully with a bow. Everybody clapped because it was truly impressive, and because he didn’t die.

The Trannoians sent their next combatant, and halfway through his jump he removed his helmet, displaying his strong manly face, and he grew a soul because of the pain he’d suffered at losing his friend and the scars he’d accumulated from Mike’s exploded bike.

The announcer said, “Point to the Trannoians for growin’ a soul!”

The crowd clapped tepidly because they were biased toward the Home Team, but still pleased that the man had grown a soul.

Sammy McToby went next, and he did a half-grab quadruple backflip and landed it like a pro to great applause.

The Trannoians sent their next contender, who gave birth to a baby girl mid-jump, and landed the bike while nursing. The crowd cheered, and the Trannoians got another point.

Bobby Bardo said, “It ain’t lookin’ good, b'ys. We’s down by two, and got to tie it up, then win in overtime.”

So on his turn Bobby did a jump right over the Trannoians and grabbed one of em by the collar and put him in a camel clutch, broke his back, and then fucked his ass to make him humble, old country style. The man was subsequently too humble and his back too broken to do a good trick, so the point for this round went to the Home Team.

Finally it was Gloria McStepanovich’s turn. She did her jump but I saw her take out a notepad midair to calculate how many flips to do. She scratched out seventeen, a nice prime number, but scribbled that its digits were one and seven, which makes eight, which ain’t prime. Michael Tuck (her biographer) told me how Gloria never trusted the number eight. It’s just four twos in a trench coat, or maybe two fours in a rain slicker. She found an evil aspect to every number she considered. So she just stayed in the air spinning until the announcer disqualified her for staying in the air too long. He’d stopped her at flip number eighty-three. Tuck said, “At least it's prime, but the presence of that eight will haunt her.”

The Trannoians had won. The two teams lined up for the handshake. As Sammy McToby shook each Trannoian hand he stamped them with the stamp from his recursive sailor boss. Then the announcer led the victors into the forest for their medical experiments.

The audience departed. The Home Team grew tired from their various cancers and gathered in the middle of the impact crater. It was nearly time to die. Bobby Bardo’s piano hottie played a sad tune on her piano. She detached her hands and lay down and let Bobby make love to her one last time. The others watched, and it wasn’t perverted, it was beautiful because they knew she was preggo now.

It wasn’t so bad to lose, but it was always sad to die. But then they died, and the pianist shed a tear and closed their eyes with her toes. And she sat at her piano and flew into the forest, and the dirtbikes followed with her, doing tricks and stunts.