I am not a violent person, but with the range of emotion that comes with learning that your stuff has been filched, it’s easy to wonder how fast you can punch someone in the Adam’s apple before he can react. If you have any plans of riding my bike within five miles of my home over the next few weeks, be sure to ride with one eyeball glancing over your shoulder, bitch. You penniless, gutless loser. You swine.
…After the knee-jerk response to being personally violated by theft resides, it becomes easier to rationalize that the thief must have needed (whatever was stolen) more than its actual owner. Except that I purchased that bike with my own money, that I earned legitimately. You didn’t. I bought it from a local shop owner who later was killed crossing the street because he had gout and couldn’t walk fast enough. One time, on a drunken ride home in the dark, I hit a curb and went head-over-handlebars with a face-plant on the sidewalk. No concussion. I envision you not being so lucky. And get a load of this: I farted on that bicycle seat more times than I can count.
Now that you know some history of my bike that you stole, how will your head feel after my rusty axle bearing fails? Will you find yourself speeding down the dip on Parker when the wheel blows because I over-inflated the tires and your fat ass caused a puncture? When you land on the street, will your head crack open like a cantaloupe? In a state of shock, will you scoop up your grey matter—which looks like fresh ground beef when it’s newly spilled—and try to put it back in?
You are an embarrassment to humanity. A waste of space, an asshole casserole with the soulless objective of stealing peoples’ shit because you couldn’t earn the scratch to buy your own shit. Thereby, I cannot let it rest: I tried, but you’re just too goddamn irredeemable.
Justice, for me, is a very complicated matter. But certain things are black and white. I would have given you $20 dollars if you’d just sold me on why you can’t afford a bus pass because you’re jobless, living off your whore of a girlfriend and hating it. But now I can only ask if you’re ready for the axe to fall, whence your hands will be cut off.