Zach Hates You

:(

Dear last week, I hope you die in a fire.

Let us begin with the crash of my (once) lovely SV650.  My sad. beaten up moto.  Details?  Sure.

Setting: A wonderful sunny, albeit cold day on Queen Ann right outside my new to me apartment.  It’s the first day in forever that it hasn’t rained and I’m looking forward to hopping on the bike to have a ride while not getting soaking wet.  After taking off the motorcycle cover now that my bikes are sad outdoor motos, I stuff it under the cover of my little GS500’s cover, put the key in the SV and turn it on.  The bike roars to life and with it’s fuel injection is ready to go.  Looking forward to carving some asphalt, I put my still wet gloves on from the night before, then my helmet.  Giving a couple of unnecessary twists of the throttle, the shift peddle gets kicked out of neutral and off I go.

It’s one of the shortest rides I’ve ever been on.

Knowing that it’s cold out, I back off the throttle coming up on my first corner of my ride, a mere couple hundred feet away from where I started.  “I have cold tires, I need to take it easy,” goes through my head.  As I go around the turn, my back tire starts to low-side and I can’t help it.  The cold tires can’t stick to shit.  The back of the bike goes down.  Sliding on my ass I look up to see a large SUV coming right at me.   I’d say that has been one of my less enjoyed views that I have seen in my life.  Not long after that, impact.  My foot is wedged into the front of this SUV.  Did I mention that the SUV wasn’t parked, but coming at me?  Maybe I should have mentioned that.  Fortunately, he saw my wipe out and began to slow.  To his credit, no cellphone or TV, but actually paying attention to the task of driving.  Point for you, sir.

Here I am, mid-calf deep into a car, my bike on it’s side with it’s gas tank dented to all hell and plastics blown everywhere.  Me?  Alive with what I thought was a one way ticket to having my meals ingested through a straw for the next couple of months avoided.  Thinking that I still need to get out of the road, I tug on my foot to try and free it from the monsters grill with no success.  I’m stuck something fierce.  Oh, and in shock too.  That’s fun.  At this point, the SUV occupants get out of the car and are freaking the hell out.  It takes them a few moments to understand that I’m not dead, bleeding, or unconscious and help me get my foot out of their car.  I give myself a quick systems check, note that I’m not in need of any medical aid and talk to the guys after yelling a few choice expletives.

These guys are almost worst shape then I am mentally and they were in a big metal cage.  Talking to them a bit makes me realize that they are a bunch of pudgy frat boys.  Wonderful.  My sort of people.  I limp over to my SV and pick the damaged bike up off of it’s side.  Bluntly, my darling motorcycle is fucked the hell up.  The tank is beat to shit, the tail plastics have exploded into many different little pieces, my license plate lays nearby.  Not a pretty sight.  A bit of jiggling around and it starts.  Holy hell it starts!  That’s looking up.  I make a phone call to my friend while still in shock, but not freaking out too terrible (I hope) letting him know that my journey to meet him at the coffee shop has a bit of a detour.

An older couple walking by ask if everyone is ok.  They didn’t seem to care awfully much, but I’m sure they felt better that no one was bleeding on their nice afternoon walk.  A few more people my age do the same, but with a bit more feeling.  After learning everyone is OK, they point out on the side of the building we’re in front of  marks of previous marks from vehicles that have failed to make the turn.  He gives us his information and leaves into his apartment happy I’m sure that no one is dead in front of where he lives.

I see a familiar blue car come around the corner at us and lights go on.  Goody, the police.  Because I need a ticket on top of all this.  The cop takes his time getting out of the car, ensures that everyone is OK and that SFD doesn’t need to be called, then asks for everyone’s driving info.  Asking me for my plate number, he looks to the ground and noticed that it’s laying in front of him.  (Chuckling) “Never mind, I got it,” he says as he picked it up and hands it to me.  He then takes all our information and goes back to his car.  The officer doesn’t seem much for words as he honks on his horn and summons the driver to him.  After talking to him, he beckons me over with a wave of his hand.  Handing me a card with the incident number he tells me how he’s glad I’m alright.  Me too man.  Thanks for not giving me a ticket too!  That’s something I’m pretty happy about.  Bike starts, no ticket, and I’m still not dead.  wOOt.

The rest of this encounter has nothing noteworthy.  I talk to the guys, and give information as my friend who showed up earlier takes pictures of everything.  He grabs a bag from my house to fill it with the various assorted pieces of motorcycle that are no longer attached.  We say our good-byes to the dudes after exchanging information and I begin my power walk of shame to return my bike to where it started off a stone throw away.

I get phone calls and texts the rest of the day from the assorted folk of the UTMC wishing me well and happy to hear about my lack of death.  That helped to cheer me up a wee bit.  Thanks guys.

Sad, beaten motorbike.  It looks bad, but I have a feeling that it shouldn’t be too hard to get it road worthy once more.  Not as pretty, but I’m not too worried about that.

But that’s just the beginning of the shit storm.  I’m far from done getting screwed over by this foul week.

Moving on from a very loved bike, to my hated GS750.  The hand cramping bike that I’ve neglected since buying my SV.  Needing to rid the Hanta Haus of it after nearly a month of me moving out, the day after my wreck myself and a few others of the Cult gather to revive the bike.  Needing a new battery, spark plugs, and a tire to get back on it’s bead, myself and my friend in his truck venture towards a battery shop in the Rainier area.  Remembering that Twinline Motorcycles has moved, we look about for it before discovering that they’ve camouflage themselves well by renting out some space to some cages for parking.  It sounds quiet and all the doors are buttoned up, we approach the door with spirits low only to open the door easily and a bell sounding our arrival.  They are in fact open and happily shoot the shit, find everything that I need and only charge me the low sum of 30 bucks for a decent amount of effort and talking to the mechanic working on the beast back home a couple of times to assure the parts that I need.  With much thanks, we had to the battery store thankful about not needing to venture towards the money grubbing dealership all the way down in Renton.  We arrive to the battery shop and leave a short while later.  I lose $40 for a trade of a brand new battery filled with fresh acid poured out of a box that looks akin to the sort that the shitty wine comes in.  Yummy.

We return back from to the Haus victorious with our finds and get to putting them back into the bike where they belong.  Everything is ready to go, the key turns annnnnnd….

The bike fails to turn over.  Splendid.  Fastcat the mechanic gives it a puzzled look and goes back to tinkering.  A short while later, she sits back and unhappily says, “I have no idea why the fuck it wont start.”  Well…shit.  So a bit of stressing and talking about what the hell we are going to do with it and the plan is to go down to Oly where another of the Cult lives to stash it for later work on his garage.  My vote for setting the beast on fire was vetoed for some damn reason under the guise of a “learning experience.”  Let the flames take it I feel.  So I give Fastcat a bill, then myself and Calamari Kid make our way Southbound.

The day after the non-working GS, my bottem left molar looses a chunk of itself while I’m brushing my teeth.  This week, is offically the worst week I’ve had in my life.  Well, FUCK YOU LAST WEEK OF NOVEMBER.

Blug.  Currently, the fat boys have yet to contact me about the repair costs for the SUV and I’m waiting to be bent over leaving me with an empty bank account and scrambling for a job.  My poor SV is still not at riding status.  I’m on the search for a new gas tank and making a choice of making a bobber out of it or lopping the sharp parts off of the subframe and constructing some sort of luggage system.  Things are looking pretty good right now for that.  The GS750 is in pieces and still not functioning.  I’ve wrote it off as parts and scrap.  People are hopeful, but I am not.  As I’ve told others, it’s dead to me.  I think the bloody thing is cursed.  My tooth has yet to regrow and there was an appointment made today, for a month later.  I’ll have to deal with the pokey, temperature sensitive pain in my ass, broken tooth until then.

Yeah, eat a dick last week of November.  I hate your face.

There is one thing I can say about people, they never fail to upset me.

Last week while at the nightclub it was going pretty smooth for a Saturday night as crowded as it was.  No brawls, no one being drunk enough to be an issue, looked like it was going to be a chill night overall.  Thankfully, I see the ugly lights go up and the music is coming to an end.  The other members of security start to push the people towards the exits and out of the club.  Being the wonderful patrons that they are with nowhere better to be, they take their sweet effin’ time.

As I’m BEING VERY POLITE because that’s what I do, I notice one of the patrons spit on the floor.  I paused.  There isn’t much expectation out of any of these idiots to be courteous, but spitting on the floor is where I draw the line.  Walking over to the fuckstick, he looks as if he got hit with a stupid stick.  A lot.  When asked “Why the fuck would you spit on a floor indoors?” he responds by pointing to a bottle on the ground.  I tell him to get moving out the door and the hell out of my sight.

He points to a group of friends behind him.

I take another second for a breath before I slap him in the mouth.  I start to talk to him about being a big kid and how we have this thing called “speech” that sets us aside from things lower on the food chain when there is a call over the radio.  “There’s a fight at the door.  We need everyone upstairs.”  Knowing that anything out of my mouth is a waste of time with Mr. Talksalot, I hop up over a VIP section, bolt up the stairs, shoot out the other door and come around the front to see my co-workers on top of a guy in handcuffs and a few others pushing the crowd back.

Seeing little for me to do but crowd control, I pull my pepper spray and start to yell at people to go away.  A group of patrons trying to get to their friend on the ground is pushing at the security.  One of them was more calm to then the other so I pull him aside and tell him he needs to take care of his more pushy friend before he too is put into cuffs.  What normally happens is that the calm friend grabs his friend, they take a couple of steps away, and then the aggressive one is back with a bit more space to throw a punch.  Shockingly, that’s not the case this time.  The guy grabs his buddy and talks to him in a reasonable manner and then begins to question me.  Turns out, the guys girlfriend got punched so he went after the guy who hit his baby’s momma.

I already know how it’s going to go because it’s a “normal” thing here: Guy walked up to girl who looks nothing more then a bit pudgy, hits on her, gets rejected so he has words, she hits him, he hits her, boyfriend hits dude.

Congratulations, you’re all fucking morons!

Instead of dealing with that, I throw one of my nearby co-workers under the bus with “This guy will tell you why,” and walk to the club owner.

The owner grabs my handcuffs off my belt and tries to hand me another can of spray into my hand that’s holding my can.  “I would be happy to double fist if you want me to,” I tell him.  He gives me a jittery laugh and tells me to get people the hell out of there.  I’ve been getting shit about being “nicer” so I yell at people, but I’m not being asshole about it.

I really like yelling.  In fact, I don’t think it’s going too far out on a limb to say it’s one of my skills that I picked up in the Army that I use very well in civilian life.

Yelling Zach is yelling, shooing people back to their cars and off the side walk in fron of the club.  Not knowing who else is going to be dumb and start a fight, I’m shaking my pepper spray up to hose down any shitstick that wants to be aggressive.

“It’s going to be getting hard to breath here folks, so go somewhere else,” I say to a group of five or so.  “Don’t go threatnin’ me motherfucker,” I get back.  “I’m not threatening anyone man, I’m just looking out for everyone.” He starts to turn around and open his mouth when he sees who I am and that I’m not waving at him, but shaking up a can of spray.  “You don’t have to be a dick about it,” I politely say to him, but nice Zach is done being nice.  “If you want to be a dick, then I suggest sticking around where you are.  It’s hard to have an argument when you’re having difficulty seeing and breathing.”

Point: Zach.  They move on.

Walking back to the side walk I already cleared there is a group of three people leaning against the building maybe 15 feet away from where I JUST got done talking to the above mentioned assholes.  A guy, and two chicks.  The guy has one of the decent looking ladies in his arms with her back against the wall.  “Hey guys, I need to go somewhere else.”  “I heard you before and I ain’t moving,” the dude says back cooperatively.  Splendid.  “Maybe you missed the can of pepper spray in my hand that I have been given permission to spray at anyone that doesn’t leave quickly,” I lie.  “It would behoove (one of my favorite phrases I learned in the Army) to move somewhere that I don’t have to see you.”  The girl decides to shoot a quip back about me being bossy.  Well no shit, Princess.  I get a little upset when I tell people to do something and for some stupid reason don’t listen.

I don’t see my request unresonable.  They’re leaning on a wall that gets pissed on by all the local hobos, pepper sprayed by us, and is just a nasty Pioneer Square wall.  My suggestion works and they get to moving, but what comes out of the mans mouth is a mite upsetting.  “Fine.  Me and the bitches are going to go somewhere else.  Just don’t shove the bitches.”

Huh…well done.  Way to be a misogynist without even putting up much effort, I’m impressed.  This guys a pimp, yo.  I considered hosing him in pepper spray for that one, but the chicks were listening to him anyway.  Fuck ‘em.

Just a suggestion for you folks out there.  If someone has pepper spray, why don’t you just politely mosey away.  Not the most tough thing in the world and it’ll be better for everyone.  Just an idea though.