And counting.

Why does the Universe always do this to me? "Do this to me?" Do what to you? This surrealist bullshit. Why does the Universe always slap down this surrealist bullshit for me? "Surrealist bullshit." Get over yourself, it's just a bicycle race. No, it's not just a bicycle race: It's a bicycle race at midnight with a paramilitary escort. You can see the damn race snake up and over a goddamned mountain. You're exaggerating. Just because the police are wearing gasmasks and body armor and screeched into the intersection in an armored truck doesn't automatically make them a paramilitary force. Besides, there's probably a perfectly rational explanation. I ask you: what else does the SWAT team have to do on a Saturday night / Sunday Morning? Quiet, that's a good song.

...One Hundred Fifty. One Hundred Fifty-One. One Hundred Fifty-Two. One Hundred Fifty-Three. One Hundred Fifty-Four...

It's because you observe everything, you know. The Universe puts on a show for people paying attention. The hell it does. First of all, we don't believe in Karma or Fate or the Universe spelt with a capital "u" or the Great Wheel of Fortuna. I'd like to buy a vowel. Shut up. Second of all, the very fact that we're even here is mere coincidence. We could have gone straight home, but you had to swing by the taqueria and pick up your precious super nachos. What about you're lengua tortas? Those are in that bag too. That's only tangential to the argument. The point is we wouldn't be here if we'd eaten earlier today, chose to go to McDonald's instead, or any number of other infinite possibilities. But we are here. Yeah? So is the other poor bastard in the SUV across the street. You're telling me the Universe staged this because it's putting on a show for him? He's probably watching a goddamned DVD in there. If a tree falls in the woods and you're in your SUV watching Chicken Little, does it make a sound? Yes. Yes it does, and I'll tell you where you can stuff that koan bullshit. Oh, hostility. Not Zen. Damn right. We're not Zen. We're the opposite of Zen. If you follow your half-assed eastern bullshit to the logical conclusion trees only fall in the woods when someone's there to see them. Prove they don't. Riddle me this: why haven't we started eating that food.

...Four Hundred Fourteen. Four Hundred Fifteen. Four Hundred Sixteen. Four Hundred Seventeen. Four Hundred Eighteen. Four Hundred Nineteen. Four Hundred Twenty. Four Hundred Twenty-One...

Sometimes I wonder what prevents us from degenerating into downright Nihilism. Nothing. Ramming speed. Barrel headlong up the side of the mountain. Knock over the whole column of cyclists like tenpins. Fuck the girl. Slit his throat. Kick over the tombstone. Shoot the cop. Rend and rape and rock. Burn down the building. Torch the forest. Scorch the sky. Make them choke on smoke. Now. Now. Do it now! The flammables are in the trunk! The lighter is in your pocket! Actually, you left the lighter sitting on our desk at home. Happenstance has saved you once again, Society. Riight...

...Five Hundred Thirty-Eight. Five Hundred Thirty-Nine. Five Hundred Forty. Five Hundred Forty-One. Five Hundred Forty-Two...

Ya see, when the zombies come I recken we're gunna need some sort of heavy-duty revolver. I's thinking something custom bored for shotgun slugs. See, I was reckening this over and we ain't never been all that good at the whole aimen thing so we need sump'en that'll blow limbs clean off. And armor. Definitely gunna need armor. I's thinken chainmail but then I figered biggest threat probably come from other folk, see. Definitely gunna need some kevlar. While your tied up I recken you should go ask one of those police boys 'bout where they get their kevlar. No. Just no. Well, anner way, for barter goods we's gunna need salt, iodine tablets, and some of that chesapeake bay canvasback (for traden not for drinking mind ya). See I was recken this over too, and I figered stead of a hatchet an a knife an a machete we should just get a Khukuri. God almighty, just strike me down now.

...Seven Hundred Seventeen. Seven Hundred Eighteen. Seven Hundred Nineteen. Seven Hundred Twenty. Seven Hundred Twenty-One. Seven Hundred Twenty-Two. Seven Hundred Twenty-Three...

Jesus, what type of bicycle race is this? There are kids in the goddamned thing, and that's a recumbent bike. That man is carrying a lunchbox. What type of race let's any jackass enter it. What type of race ties up the entire fucking street. At midnight. On a Saturday. With no detours. The imaginary type. This isn't actually happening. You've finally gone insane. You're really counting boxcars. Santa Fe Railway. Hundreds of dingy burgundy railcars. Each tattooed with graffiti. Bullshit, this is actually happening. No it isn't. You're curled up in a tiny ball in the corner of some padded cell. You're catatonic. Schizophrenia. Like the grandmother you never met. It's the only explanation. They don't have bicycle races at midnight on Saturdays. Bicycle races aren't escorted by a SWAT team. And even if they did and they were (which, once again, they don't and they aren't) the police would never leave you sitting here for forty-five minutes counting the fucking bikes, eating greasy Mexican swill, and listening to hard rock. Nope, the only explanation is that this isn't actually happening. You never really had a chance: It's a full moon, you know. No it isn't. I see it out the window. That's at the most third quarter, leaning towards waning crescent. Fine, live mired in the delusion.

...Nine Hundred Fifty-Seven. Nine Hundred Fifty-Eight. Nine Hundred Fifty-Nine. Nine Hundred Fifty-Ten. Nine Hundred Fifty-Eleven. Nine Hundred Fifty-Twelve. Nine Hundred Fifty-Thirteen...

Hey. The SWAT guys are packing up. So? Maybe it's the end of the race, just saying. If it was the end of the race the motorcycle cops wouldn't have just pulled up. No, it is the end of the race. The cyclists are thinning out. Hell, that one isn't even riding a bike, it's some sort of Flintstone's car kitbashed out of two lesser bicycles, and that one's a bicycle built for two. Wouldn't a bicycle built for two have the advantage in a race? Quiet, the chopper cop is walking over.

"You know why I pulled you over?"

"Huh?!!"

"You have any idea how fast you were going, sir?"

"Wait... what?"

"You been drinking this evening?"

"Umm... no."

"Ha! I'm just screwing with you. Thanks for bearing with us, sir. You can go through in a moment. And sir..."

"Yeah?"

"Have a nice evening."

Oh Jesus, nobody is going to believe this. Not in a million years. Hell, I don't believe it. Just go home, crash, and sort it out in the morning.