“What do you want me to do with that?” Crimson and bulbous he bellows, little pink hands wrenching at the rusted handlebars of his Grifter, the front wheel humping up and down, spittle forming in neat balls at the corners of his mail-sack mouth, sliding down his lips and flying free every time his jowls flap.
His head’s too big for his fucking body.
“I’ll tell you what you can do with it- ”, I say, teeth gritted, jaw tightening. But what’s the use? What possible good could come from mauling Harry The Bump? Splitting his cherry red face, puncture wounds seeping clear fluid and blood, face like a parboiled ham, bristles like a pig anyway, fat bastard, fat cunt.
And I walk away.
When there’s a few houses between us he starts shouting.
“Wanker!” He shouts, tentatively at first, then louder when he sees I’m not going to turn round. “You Wanker!”
At the corner I look back, he’s pedalling away from me, his fat arse swallowing the seat of that stupid fucking kid’s bike, wheels squeaking, little knees straining to get over a speed bump. I shake my head and walk on, I’m getting too old for this shit.