The story of Pipsqueak Best.

The putrid smell of defeat wafted up from his nondescript grime covered brow. Pipsqueak had no chance of returning the library books on time, anytime soon.

He was left second best, writhing around in his own sweat and filth, making every accident seem like it was a coincidence. There was no reason for him to motivate himself, and no external factors motivating him.
Pipsqueak picked up the slack and kept pulling, in vain hope he would some day be finished.

The rope slowly unraveled from its coiled mortality, and hopelessly clutching at these rapidly spiraling strands, there was no chance at structural integrity.
With a snap, the tautness was gone, and Pip was left grazed from knee to thigh against the bitumen. Asphalt ground like pepper underneath layers of shredded skin, with blood coagulating around these flecks of sand, mimicking the creation of pearls. As Pip hit the ground his chin bounced twice against the road, and on the third bounce it rose up and came to a halt alongside the curb.
This scene looked quite tragic to Salty as she watched from the window of her taxi. Never one for public transport, she preferred the body odour and misguided advances of married men over a 45 minute trip with the common people and the common cold.
“He’s at it again isn’t he, everyday, falling here, falling there eh?” muttered the taxi driver. Salty wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to himself so she just nodded meekly and kept looking out the window, glancing at the dumbfounded Pipsqueak in the taxi’s side vision mirror, adjusting her scarf. At that moment, she swore he could see through her.
The downward spiral felt too good for Pip to give up just yet. Still lying on the road, gazing at the heavens, Pip grabbed his Walkman and flipped the tape. He fast forwarded to Lefty Frizzel and just let the spools wind, while he watched the clouds from his perfect vantage point.

Salty couldn’t get Pipsqueak’s plight out of her head. He was there in the corner when she tried to chair the board. Pipsqueak was on the front cover of every competitor’s magazine. He was falling again and again, tripping over the cables for the studio lighting when she was trying to chastise the models for being late. She could taste the blood in his mouth with every bite of her spinach and fetta gozleme. Salty couldn’t understand. God must have been drunk when he made Pip. Pip was broke. Pip seemed disgusted with himself. Pip seemed sad all the time, or just incapable of being happy. Pip must have woken up everyday sick, sober and sorry. But all Salty could think was all the fun that he must have had.

The timing was all wrong, concluded Pip, he’d try it again later when there wasn’t as many prying eyes. Pip was convinced he could get it done tonight.

Finally.




No matter what camp you side with, you still gotta have love for the feel of two wheel steel.
Those handlebars are amazing though.