Greetings, you Grieving Bus Conductors.
I’ve got a class blog for you today.
I want to talk about the death of a legend this week, so before I get going, there is one thing I need to mention really quickly.
This will be particularly relevant to my South African readers.
I’m heavily addicted to nicotine and I know what it is like to not have any smokes. However, I have been vaping, but it seems that my filament is fucked. The fluid is all bubbly, and it feels like I’m sucking on the lips of a dead rat. The fluid pops into my mouth like Pop Rocks. It is deeply unpleasant.
But I digress.
I am extremely sympathetic to your struggles and I may get chastised or crucified for saying this, but it needs to be said.
If you are buying tobacco or tobacco products on the black market, then you are no different to any other drug user who buy illegal drugs from drug dealers. This is a fact.
Cigarettes are Illegal, and you are acquiring them by illegal means.
I know the law is ridiculous, and smoking has fuck all to do with Covid-19, but the law is the law.
If I was still living in South Africa, I would be buying illegal smokes too. I also know the feeling of buying illegal substances, and I urge you not to judge those who do.
Addiction is a disease, not a choice.
Was that a rant? I don’t know, but let me get the financial obligations out of the way.
I’m obligated to tell you that I get paid a small fee if anyone purchases these trinkets below via my Hoplink.
https://21d450r7gf0ft20gp6u5xyal71.hop.clickbank.net/
https://e83e2xqydey9ncyhqa0yocjrav.hop.clickbank.net/
I will urge you to support my Patreon if you enjoy the content, this is now my sole source of income.
For the price of a cup of coffee per month, you could help me do something I love.
https://www.patreon.com/Blacksheepwriting?fan_landing=true
Professional Boy…
Oh yes, one more thing. I have many requests to do a Podcast. I’m thinking of doing one, particularly for my short stories. I might have to add it to my Patreon though, I don’t think I can do it on this platform. I’ll get some cheap recording shit over the next few weeks.
Death of a Legend
So I finally got to go riding with some of my mates last week.
She was a fast one.
I don’t want to incriminate myself, but I tell you what, if I was caught doing those speeds, they’d probably ban my kids and unborn grandkids from obtaining a motorcycle license.
I’ve been riding bikes for a long time, about 25 years now, and for the first time, I think I’m witnessing the death of a motorcycle brand.
Harley Davidson Motorcycles have always been prevalent on my rides. These big powerful machines often dominate the Highways and food stops along our route. Every single time you go riding, or even stopping you are expected to genuflect before these manly men on these manly machines.
Things have changed.
Harley sales are monumentally down, and the company has been getting loads of news around their share buybacks and manufacturing locations.
For those who don’t know, share buybacks are financed by debt. These buybacks are usually reserved for recessions like in 2008. Many motorcycle companies including Harley Davidon did this during the recession, but Harley has had 8 buybacks since then. So essentially they were not covered for another recession, or even worse, a pandemic.
Although Harley doesn’t publish these figures anymore, the average age of a HOG riders in 2000 was 43, in 2004 it was 46, and in 2008 it was 48.
By that trend the average rider in 2020 will be pushing 60. Not many 60 year olds buy motorcycles, and even less dead people buy them also.
There is a reason for their demise, I’ll fastrack it.
The icon released its first bike in 1903.
They sent 62,000 bikes to fight the Nazis, and many of these machines were made available for purchase by the veterans who rode them. This made them highly customisable, and from this, the chopper was born.
From the Chopper, the Outlaw was born. A legitimate counter culture to the Hippie Flower Power cunts of the 60’s.
In stepped Honda with their slogan “You meet the nicest people on a Honda”.
Honda became the fastest selling brand of motorcycles in America. While Harley was selling bikes to bikers who fart and punch each other, Honda were creating bikers, and selling them to regular people. Thus building a loyal following.
Step in the brilliant actor and dumb cunt Ronny Reagan two decades later.
He decides to put a 49% tariff on all motorcycles over 750cc imported to the US as told by lobbyists of the Harley Corp. That is how the 750cc (or 749cc) was born.
Harley sales peaked and uncontested in the market, they hit record profits for the next 30 years, making some serious enemies along the way.
But with the technological advances of Japanese made bikes, the 600cc displacement bikes took off massively in the late 90s and early 2000s. Small displacement bikes that spanked the pants off the tractors that Harley were manufacturing. So in 2008, Harley decided to launch the XR1200.
A bike deliberately targeted at Millennials.
It falls flat on its face. The Outlaw biker trend was dead in the water, and the XR seemed like a watered down version of the bigger machines of the past. Even though it is a brilliant bike. It is very similar to a Ducati Scrambler, but the Ducati, although more expensive outsold it like a motherfucker. Even though it was twice the price.
Then came the Mayonnaise filled orange condom we call DT. The Donald.
He decides to put a massive tariff on all steel and aluminium imported to the US. This put the HD company into some deep shit as every bike they built now had an extra cost of over $2000 because of the new tariffs.
A complete clusterfuck, and Harley decides to move its production to India and China. This backfired terribly, with the “Made in America” slogan now out of the window, they lost even more support. Trump even blasted them about this.
Lately they have tried getting into the electric bike stuff, but their attempts have been laughable. I took a Livewire for a spin at the Moto show last year, I was laughing all the way because of how ridiculous it felt.
I don’t want Harley to die. In fact I don’t want any motorcycle company to die. I love my Jappas, but I know that some riders love their brands as much as I love mine. Unfortunately Wild Ones have turned into Wild Hogs, a total parody of its former self. Even I can’t help but snigger when I see these geriatric twats acting all hard, but riding all soft.
Tupac said it best.
I still want to see my enemies eat, but just not at my table.
Good luck you greasy shit machines.
I have written a nice short story for you to read this week.
No content warning this time. I’m trying a bit of horror, Stephen King style. I thought I’d give that a go as I’ve not done horror before.
Enjoy this very scary story.
Made To Order
Our story starts and ends in the student town of Otago.
It was April, and the pleasant evening seemed to have borrowed some of the tepid temperatures that are usually reserved for the few days towards the end of summer. Cold but bearable, cold that only touches the surface of the skin. Not the ones that hit the bones.
“It’s a fucking Chinese hoax bruv.”
“We don’t have 5G here yet, it comes from 5G.”
“This Coronavirus is cured by this Corona.”
Nathan sat precariously on the edge of the balcony facing the cacophony of voices in deep discussion about Covid-19. He is holding a Pall Mall between his fingers that are loosely holding onto the curbed off edge of the apartment side of the ledge.
“What say ye’ professor?” a question got directed his way.
“Fucked if I know, I just wanna get some beers in me before the cops turn up. We are in lockdown you know,” he replied as he took a puff from the smoke.
Nathan doesn’t really smoke, in fact he absolutely hates it.
He just keeps a half pack of smokes with him so he can hide his ventilator in there. He uses a Ventolin, the light blue one. He doesn’t even inhale the smoke, he just lets it linger in the back of his mouth and cheeks for the set amount of seconds that makes it look legit. Three point two seconds is the standard time.
Sometimes girls will bum a smoke off him too. An extra bonus.
“Who cares about the cops bro, I’ll glass em,” Scott holds up his empty bottle of Corona to Nathan’s neck pretending that it’s broken.
Nathan flinched and held on a little tighter to the front of the ledge, snapping his smoke in two.
“Don’t be a dick Scott,” Sophie said and walked over to Nathan and nestled herself between his legs.
She leaned in and stuck her tongue in his mouth while trying to take the pack of smokes from his pocket.
Nathan put his hand over hers to stop her.
“Did you just do that for the smoke?” Nathan asked.
“Don’t feel special Nate, you’re not the first boy I made jizz in his pants tonight,” she laughed as she took the smoke that Nathan offered her with his hand.
“What are you hiding?” she asked.
“Would you like to know slut,” he replied, carefully putting the box back in his pocket.
She lit her smoke with a smouldering butt she found on the top of a beer can and stumbled back to the mess of bodies on the other side of the balcony, stumbling and double stepping on her almost too skinny high heels.
Nathan’s phone dings, it’s Wattsapp.
Mom – Where are you?
Nate – I’m home studying.
Mom – Good boy, we had 89 cases yesterday
Nate – Ikr so scary
Mom – You shud cm home
Nate – I cnt travel
Mom – I no Im worried. Your high risk.
Nate – I’m looking after myself.
Mom – Ok love you.
Nate – OK.
The messages from his Mum and the incident with Scott and Sophie was a bit of a damper. He decided to kick rocks and saunter off to his flat on the other side of the University.
Halfway down the road that took him out of the view of the party, he saw a figure of a man coming towards him. The man is hunched over and seemed to be wearing some sort of shawl, the ones that beggars in Spartacus might wear. The background folk.
“Good evening young man” a cold chilly voice said to him.
“How are ya,” Nathan replied as he shuffled off to the left to let the old man through.
He had a dog with him. An alsation.
“Do you have a smoke I could borrow?” the man asked.
Nathan dug into his pocket to retrieve his munted pack which has now taken the shape of the ventilator.
“Ay,” he said, and handed the man the smoke.
The dog was obediently at his feet, and looked like he smoked a pack of twenty a day too.
“I have something for you too,” the old coot said, as he extends his hand, holding a pamphlet between his long goblin like fingers.
“I’m alright bruv,” Nathan said.
“It’s an offer you do not want to refuse, and only chosen one’s receive such a good deal,” he tried again.
Nathan knew that this geratric twat was not going to let off, so he took the pamphlet and stuck it into the ass pocket of his waxed jeans.
The two men passed each other with a nod.
“Thank you for the smoke, and see you soon,” the old man said with his dog in tow.
“Cheers,” he replied while smiling at the absurdity of the old man’s comment.
But his interest is piqued as he took a puff of his ventilator. No spacer, just pure ventilator nub into the back of his throat. The burn he receives from this is almost addictive.
He checked the pamphlet.
It said ‘Rorie’s Custom Coffins’ and it had a slogan beneath it ‘Come in for a custom fit’.
The address was, 66 Alfred Lane.
Taken aback he turned to check on the old man to confront him about that.
But nobody there, just the April cold and the sound of the people at the party in the distance.
There were no alleys or intersections, the old man vanished like a fart in a tempest.
This bothered Nathan all of the week, and with no classes he spent a lot of time laying in his bed and looking at the pamphlet. He was hoping that it never happened, but it did happen. How else would he have had the pamphlet.
Lockdown does a strange thing to time. The days feel shorter and they seem to bash into each other. You would think that you have more time on your hands, when in fact it feels like you have less. Like time is not linear at all, it’s more the passing of moments, and having less moments means having less time.
And just like that, it was Saturday again.
Mom – How was your week?
Nate – Was alrite
Mom – Are you keeping warm?
Nate – I’m not 12 Ma
In fact, Nathan was not keeping warm at all.
He had just been out to get some smokes for the weekend’s activities.
His phone bleeps again.
Scott – No party tonight gay boy, cops are watching us
Nathan put the phone back into his pocket and continued to listen to the radio through his headphones. Someone was talking about Coronavirus again, this time about the symptoms.
Dry sore throat, High fever, lucid dreams, cold sweats.
He then stopped to put on some Linkin Park on Spotify.
From the very corner of his 20/20 he sees a street sign ‘Alfred Lane’.
He remembered number 66. He walked down the street checking the numbers.
He found 66.
It had long black curtains and dusty windows. The other stores were all dolled up and boutique, but they were all closed. Number 66 was open. It had a plain black sign above the entrance written in Gothic Sans ‘Rorie’s Custom Coffins’.
Nathan removed his earbuds and entered the store.
It was almost bare, with only a few wooden slats and a long counter that lead to a door out the back.
“Hello!” he echoed.
The back door creaked and a tall skinny man entered through it.
“Ah, how can I help you?” he asked, extending his long fingers as he glided effortlessly towards Nathan.
“It is you,” said Nathan “I find your marketing technique very scary and offensive.”
“What do you mean sir?” he asked.
“You can’t scare people into buying, it’s not good practice,” Nathan replied.
“But I told you. Only chosen ones get invited,” he said as he got really up close to Nathan. This alarmed him.
“But, but,” Nathan failed to find words.
He walked backwards towards the exit and kept looking at the face of the salesman.
The man’s face was turning dark, like when you hold a flashlight under your chin, and his eyes were turning a hue of red and steam was pouring from his ears.
Nathan turned to run and bumps into another man who seemed to have been measuring him. This man was big and bulky, but Nathan only got a glimpse of his face as he ran out into the empty street.
The man measuring him, had the head of an alsation.
Nathan legged it back to the main street where he bought the smokes and held onto the light pole for a few seconds. Huffing his Ventolin and looking down Alfred Lane.
He opened up his smokes and lit one up. Inhaling this time.
Walking home, his phone dinged again.
Mum – I just got off the phone with Dr Brenner, he said you are very high risk.
Nate ignored the message as he struck up another, still thinking if what he saw was real.
Back at the hostel, it was pretty much the same story. He was on the bed, looking at the pamphlet and eventually burning it in the pot plant that his Mum gave him. He used the flame to light yet another smoke. Nobody would believe him anyway, and also he needed to try to forget.
Evening came and he climbed into bed. He usually watched Youtube, mostly tech videos, but this time was different. He decided to watch Coronavirus updates and the severity of the disease finally struck him.
His throat was sore from the smoking, but he was too cold to get out of bed to get a drink, so he lovingly drifted off to sleep to a montage video of Trump saying “China”.
His phone went again and he woke up from a dream where he was having sex with a whale, but the whale was his Mum. He shook his thoughts by literally shaking his head.
The phone slipped from his wet clammy fingers and smashed onto the floor next to his bed.
He was burning up with fever and the bed was soaked.
The message was from Scott.
Scott – Mate, we need to talk. I think we’re fucked.
