I've been on this computer way too long.

My thoughts are becoming as conflated as this screen is  becoming painful to look at.

Where exactly does exploratory cathartic fiction end, and autobiographical ranting begin? Is there a coherent middle-ground? Shouldn't I just get a counsellor?! Isn't this 'interactivity' becoming a little frenetic? I could always defer to those pretentious French types on this; it is after-all just discourse...

The sound of an alarm interrupts my meta-narrative. It's my motorbike; my baby: a GSX-R 600 with Scorpion Race Pipe fitted - and I'll be damned if anyone's taking it tonight. I need that bike. God, I need that bike tonight.

Laptop cast aside - Thank Christ for an impetus to that! - I pound down the stairs as the adrenaline storms my body; awakening  neurons and muscles alike. I pull the Sidi protective gloves on as I go. 

Crashing through the door into the street outside the flats, I experience a moment's shock. My bike is exactly where I left it last night; untouched; silent. My lips start to curve into a smile as I take-in the smooth ergonomic lines of her fairing - soon to be offset by my aggressive ride position as we eat-up the road again. 

But more pressing matters are at hand. 

Peripheral vision just catching the movement to my left, I throw myself back into the doorway. My assailant is slow to retract his arm. Poor trajectory to the punch. Amateurs. Thank fu*k for that. I bob-and-roll under his arm as it comes back at me and deliver a sharp right-hook to his midsection. He grunts - starting to crumble as the reinforced goretex knuckle crunches into his short ribs. Another smile cracks my lips apart. Now here's some real catharsis... but who the fu*k sent me this glorified punch-bag anyway? 


'So many questions, Jonny-boy, so many questions.'

The End

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