This article is from the Misc Bicycles FAQs, by various authors.
[Bob Fishell writing:]
With all the acrimony that's been passed around about bikes vs. cars,
I thought it would be a good time to talk about a really interesting
It was a Friday. Fridays are usually good days because you have a lot
of teenagers drinking and driving, plus a lot of people who are in a bad
mood and in a hurry to get home from work. The factories usually pay on
Friday, so you get a fair number of beer-commercial types cruising
around in their 4X4s looking for some butt to kick while they're knocking
back a few brews. A cyclist's paradise.
I stuck a full mag in my MAC-10 and put another one under the
saddle. The gun fits into the water bottle cage pretty
well, and it's fairy light. I stuffed a couple of grenades
in my jersey pockets and slipped my Rambo-knife into its
sheath on the front fork. Just for good measure, I grabbed
a thermite grenade and dropped it into the remaining jersey
pocket. This is a little more weight than I usually carry,
but it was Friday night after all.
I caught the first one just a mile from home. It was a type-A,
businessman-yuppie-semipsychotic in a BMW, who didn't like the fact
that I was occupying two feet of the lane in front of him. He let me
know with his horn and his middle finger. It's pretty hard to hit a
moving car from a moving bike, even with a machine gun. I must have
fired four bursts before I put one in the gas tank and the "Bimmer"
erupted into flame. Fortunately, this bozo managed to get the car off
on the shoulder before it blew up, so I didn't have to find a detour
around the fire.
The next one didn't come along for another five or six miles. This was
a couple of punks in an old Camaro. They pulled alongside me and the
passenger barked out of the window like a dog. Then the driver
floored it and screeched off in a cloud of burnt-oil smoke. I got
lucky for once. The punks got caught at a stoplight, so I didn't need
the gun. I pulled into the center of the road so I would pass the
driver. As I rolled past, he started talking some punk talk. I don't
know what he said, because he stopped in mid-sentence when he saw the
grenade go through his open window into the back seat. I caught a
glimpse of both of them frantically scrambling after it just as it
went off. It looked like some of the glass and shrapnel did some
damage to the car ahead of them, but it couldn't be helped. Every war
claims some innocent victims.
I'd had enough of the city traffic, so I headed out into farm country.
As I went past a barnyard, two enormous dobermans took off on an
intercept course. I dropped them both with one burst, and put a couple
of rounds through the farmhouse windows to remind the farmer about the
leash laws in effect everywhere in the county.
A short time later, I heard the roar of knobby tires behind me. I
looked back to see a huge Ford pickup truck, one of those jacked-up
monstrosities with the undercarriage about three feet off the road. As
it pulled closer, I heard loud country music blaring over the din of the
tires. There were two men in the cab. They both wore Stetsons, and
they were both drinking beer from cans. An archetypical redneckmobile.
I felt like just blasting them right then and there, but I waited to
see what they had planned. Sometimes these guys just pass you without
giving you a hard time. Not this pair, though. The guy in the
passenger seat had a styrofoam cooler full of icy water, which he was
preparing to dump out the window on yours truly. That was all I
needed. As soon as the truck pulled even with me and the guy started
to toss the water, I put a burst through the window. This brought
trouble, though, because the cab was so high that I didn't get the
driver. The truck continued down the road, and I tried to finish them
off through the blood-spattered back window, but wouldn't you know it,
the mag was empty.
I couldn't reload while I was rolling, and the driver of the pickup
had by now stopped the truck and was turning around to come after me.
I had, maybe, two seconds to make up my mind what to do. I reached
into a jersey pocket and pulled out the other grenade. Then I did a
time-trial turn, pulled the pin, and looked over my shoulder at the
truck which was now speeding towards me. This would have to be timed
just right. I let go of the handle and dropped the grenade, then
sprinted for everything I was worth. I heard the blast and felt
something graze my right arm. Turning around, I saw the truck in
flames and out of control. It did a spectacular flip as it went into
the ditch, then overturned. There was a second explosion as the gas
tank went up.
I decided to cut my ride short, since my arm was bleeding. The wound
was superficial, but it was nasty enough to cause a lot of discomfort. I
thought back to the ammo I'd wasted on that turkey in the BMW, and
regretted it. One of these days, I'd have to get some tracer bullets
for the MAC to help me aim. Oh, well. I reloaded the gun since I was
bound to come accross a few drunks & punks on the way home.
A few miles passed and I heard a siren behind me. I decided to play it
cool, hoping they weren't after me. I was disappointed. The sheriff's
car slowed behind me and I heard an amplified voice telling me to get
off the bike and lie face down on the ground. Damn. I hated the thought
of wasting a cop, but if they'd go out and do their jobs, I wouldn't
have to ride around doing my part to rid the area of its rat population.
But I had an idea. I still had a thermite grenade. I yanked it out of
my pocket and tossed it on the hood of the patrol car. I'd hoped for
the element of surprise and got it; the two deputies inside the car were
too startled to shoot at me. The grenade went off and started burning
its way through the engine compartment. The deputies managed to stop
the car, and by the time they got out, I was a good quarter mile down
the road. I heard shots behind me, but they'd never hit me at this
range with .38 Smith & Wessons.
My escape was short-lived, though. I saw two more sheriff's cars up ahead
with riflemen crouched behind them. I heard more sirens from behind.
This was it. I pulled out the MAC and fired wildly at the roadblock,
crouching to make a smaller target. If I had to go, I was going to take
some of them with me. It had been a good life. I'd had some good
times. I just regretted that they were getting the wrong guy. I felt
something hot tug at my shoulder. I reached up, expecting to pull my
hand away bloody, and found my office-mate's hand instead. "Bob..Bob!..
Wake up! You fell asleep at your desk! C'mon, it's Friday afternoon.
Time to go home!"
I went home, firmly resolved never to eat that cafeteria chili again.