Getting to Know Him


Photos and scraps of paper peeked out from folders scattered across every surface of the small, dimly lit office. Jerry paced the room flipping through the file he was handed shortly after he arrived. “What am I supposed to do with this?” He asked the heavy-set man.

“Peter Maslow, that’s our guy’s name. That’s his life in there, well the good parts anyway.” Davis was leaned back in his chair , eyes half closed, with his feet on the desk. “That’s one you’re gonna go toe to toe with. That’s who we start with, so you better start learnin’ a little somethin’ about him.”

“I thought you said we already had this guy, that he was looking to get out.” Jerry tossed the file onto one of the piles. “We make him disappear, I take over for him right?”

The old man put his hands behind his head and shut his eyes the rest of the way. “Yeah, he’s lookin’ for a way out but, until we get you in position we can’t approach him. If you took the time to do your homework you’d see he probably ain’t bright enough to act his way out so we got to make it real for him.” Davis sat up and reached for a bottle on his desk, he waved it at Jerry who just shook his head at the offer. “How ’bout I give you the cliff notes, just to get you started.”

“His  family’s been middle management for some years now. He kinda just fell into it when his old man had a heart attack a while back. Kid barely finished the college degree that got bought for him and, bam! He’s swimmin’ with the sharks. He’s only got a basic understanding of what his dad was into and now he’s supposed to run the whole show. His mom’s not much help to him, when she’s not loaded up on Xanax, she’s in Miami doin’, well you get that picture. He’s come so close to exposing other people in their operation on a few occasions, including being put under investigation for a small time racketeering charge over an idiotic book-keeping error that he’s afraid he’s gonna get removed, and not the nice way. He’s probably right except they ain’t figured on who to replace him with yet; besides he’s still more valuable to them scared than dead, at least for the time being. So he’s faced with a long and miserable life under the thumb, or a short, messy and probably painful death if he screws up again. This poor kids life was ruined for him, comin’ outta the gate. Now here we are, coming to screw him over just a little more. It’s kind of sad, once you wrap your head around it. 

“What? Now you want me to feel sorry for this jackass?” Jerry shrugged, he gave into the temptation and poured himself a drink.

“Kiddo, how you feel ain’t got a damned thing to do with what I want,” Davis answered bluntly, raising his voice a couple of notches, “or what you have to do. I’m just sayin’ you get a guy like this, you know; well-connected, raised in a family that’s been basically morally bankrupt goin’ on three generations, only marginally intelligent. How’d you expect him to end up.” Leaning forward he squared his face up with Jerry’s “What I am saying, is before we make a decision on how you’re gonna to deal with him, we all need to take some time; watch him, listen, ask few quiet questions about him. Try and get up a long side him and find out who he really is, and how he thinks, and what other people think about him.”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Jerry said picking the folder back up “I’ll look it over and take some notes.”

“Good, be quick about it kiddo, your boots are on the ground in a couple of weeks. This Maslow guy is the weak link, if we don’t compromise him it’s only a matter of time before someone else does.” Davis sipped his bourbon and smiled. “Still go ahead and take a couple of days to read that through, really get inside his head. ”

Jerry nodded, slammed his drink, and headed for the door.


Inspired by a Weekly Challenge

Slight Return

This is a continuation of Fall, which is a memoir.

The manager of the restaurant I worked at before my accident is sitting across from me in an old church pew, cut down and re-purposed as a dining booth; I want to smack the smug look off this entitled prick’s face. I can’t because I am basically interviewing to get my old job back.  He studies the scrawled note clearing me for work; it’s four lines long but he acts like he’s reading a freaking novel. He casually tosses the note off to his right, right and explains how he is concerned about my knee “blowing out” while I’m working and that the other guys have “stepped up their game” since I’ve been gone. I know this is bullshit, ,if these guys were capable of stepping up enough to replace me even after four months of practice we would not be having this conversation.

“I got you, and don’t worry the bone’s knitted back together already, I’m pretty sure that can’t happen.” I unthinkingly run my hand along my right thigh, that leg is still half the size of the left. I know it’s not going to re-break, but I don’t tell him about my uncertainty about how long I can stand on it before the muscles and tendons give out, and my knee buckles from fatigue. “I just don’t have full flexibility back yet, so I shouldn’t work the line right away. I’ll need to start back on pizzas or the salad station.”I’m not trying to knock anyone out of position; besides it’ll be a while before I am able to work enough for that to even be issue.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking man.” he says, all I can think about is how likely it would be that he’d be my boss if he wasn’t the son of one of the owners. “Cool bro, tell you what, check back next Wednesday. I’ll see where I can fit you on the schedule.”

I’m pretty sure there is a special fate in store for people who use the word Bro, if there isn’t we should make one up.

I leave through the empty kitchen, the cooks won’t be in for another hour. They’ve got the busiest weekend of the year coming up and he’s trying to play it cool like he can do it without me. It’s possible, but I know that my career longevity to date has been based on ensuring that the job sucks just sightly more without me there than it does with me.

Later, that night I track down Danny, the sous-chef, at the bar down the street after his shift. Through a haze of smoke, cheap beer and shitty bands I manage to confirm that my replacements haven’t quite matured the way needed to me and adding to the staff a quite likeable, but functionally illiterate hill billy has not improved things in my absence. I leave the bar dunk and self-satisfied.

The week crawls by and I show up for my first shift back, an insulting short waste of one, but I’ll take what I can get. Chef is sitting out back playing some idiotic game when I roll up.

“Welcome back, you drinking again?” Since most people haven’t bothered to visit me they’ve had to rely on social media to keep track of my life. I haven’t made a public matter of my slip back into the world of my vices yet.

“Yep, cigarettes too.”

“Thank God.” He breathes, clicking off his iPhone. He’d make hell of a support group sponsor; good thing I’m not looking to join one.

“Hey Doug!” Luke yells as I walk in the back door. They promoted him out of the pit and onto the oven in my absence, not sure on what merit; kids basically a snot nosed turd with delusions of wit. “How was your vacation?” I’m fairly certain he thinks that shit eating grin on his face make him look clever.

“Tell you what, I’ll go ahead and break your knee. Then, I’ll drop a three-year old off at your house and you can tell me how much of a vacation it is, asshole.” So this is how we’re gonna start it off. Fine we’ll play it hard.

I spend the two and a half hours allotted to my schedule doing menial prep work, verbally sparring with my coworkers who missed how good I am at it, and telling these guys, who’ve obviously stepped it up oh so much, what they were forgetting to do; what with us planning on doing tens of thousands of dollars in business this weekend and all. As I’m wrapping everything up we’re looking good going into tomorrow.

The manager comes up and asks, “So you think you got your bearings back?”

What an ass bag. “I broke my knee, not my skull. I could do this type of work with on arm.” It’s true, I once worked the grill with my arm in a sling for more than a week. “I could have done it from home, except it’s not legal.”

He laughs nervously and I clock out. I return to the comfort of my front stoop where I ice both my knee and several glasses of scotch and water. Tomorrow starts the main event and I need to make sure I’m properly hung over for it.

In a sick, sad way, it feels good to be back.

And now I’ll just spend the next 500 or so words saying nice things about other peoples blogs

I am not in the habit of writing round-up style posts, and I really don’t intend to get into one. I have however, recently been asked make a collection of a few posts others have written that I’ve enjoyed , so I thought I would share it with everyone, despite how oddly self-conscious it makes me feel.

I realize that lately I have not made much mention of my sobriety, which is still and always will be a thing. Quite frankly I find that aspect of my life somewhat dull outside the capacity of my experiences have of helping other people who might need to know that they are not alone. I am currently trying to step away from the “Dear Diary” type of entries I have  used to speak about this subject and focus more on storytelling, but I am sure I will touch on this subject again and again as I live and write. If you are in need of a direct perspective about pursuing sobriety I recommend checking out Sober Courage, perhaps starting with her recent post “Can You Take it or Leave It” which offers a sort of litmus test about alcoholism.

In the same vein, many people have read my posts about cycling, and I will continue those on occasion, provided they offer some sort of tale, whether it be amusing or cautionary. For those of you with an interest in cycling and would like to read a journal from someone who really loves it I present The Human Cyclist who published “More Cycle Paths or Fewer Psychopaths?” which explores driver/ cyclist relations.

Where I am really trying to go with my writing is to explore and develop my storytelling skills, fictional or otherwise, and who doesn’t love a good story. There are several blogs of this type that I like, and not to slight anyone I am only going to mention a couple.

The first I’d like to tell you about is The Convoluted Menagerie the author there often relates tales from his past one of which is “Blowing the Dream”. That particular story amused me to no end as I to have an urge to use a particular device as well. You’ll have to read it to find out what I am talking about.

I have been a long time fan of Catastrophe Jones, author of flash fiction and… other works. Her writing voice is well-defined, beautiful, and at times slightly unsettling. I would be hard pressed to pick a favorite entry of hers so I will just recommend her recent post, “The Price”, once you’re there I am sure you find a reason to lurk around a bit.

Lastly I would like to mention The Yard Men’s Station. This blog explores a well thought out steam punk world and the characters that dwell with in it. It is the product of an imaginative author, who is invested in her work and is intent on publishing it as novels; and is worth checking into. “The Yard Men’s Case Files: Uprising” is where I jumped into this setting, so that is where I’ll point you.

I’m sorry if I have neglected to mention anyone, but this is just a sampling of who I’ve been keeping my eye on lately.

Smell the Witch


He woke slowly, letting the pain going on inside his skull take its own sweet time to register. The aromas of cigarette smoke and scotch hung in the air, while the smell of sweat clung to the sheets of the empty bed.  I can still smell the witch, Jerry thought grimly as the perfumes of last night swirled around him; it was the scent of the woman whose enchantments he could never seem to break free of. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, as he sat up on the corner of the bed and held his head in his hands.  He groaned and began to rub his temples. It was like this every time.

Nights with her always started out full of excitement and promises and concluded with him falling into slumber in her embrace. When the sun came up, she would always be gone leaving him hung over and tangled in the sheets; drained of everything but anger, shame, and regret. He rose and staggered out into the kitchen, there was coffee waiting in the pot, the warmer still turned on.

He poured a cup and made a silent vow this would be the last time, he knew from experience that it was a futile gesture, but he felt compelled to swear it anyway. In a few days, or weeks, or whenever the whim would strike her, she would show up out of nowhere and he would fall under her spell again.

He stood there staring out the window of the cramped apartment, sipping from his mug, mulling his thoughts. She was trouble, a dangerous liability he needed to be free of. After all, he still had a job to do.


This story was written in response to the Song Title Challenge hosted at If all else fails…use a hammer.

Don’t Let Me Detain You : My brief opinions on The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork

 Terry Pratchett’s Discworld is quite possibly my favorite series of books. Pratchett’s satirical style is superbly draped across the backdrop of an anything-but-ordinary fantasy world. One of the more refreshing things about this as opposed to other long running series is, in my opinion, the ability for a new reader to be able to pick any of the books practically at random and not feel like he had missed anything to the point of being lost; the books are so much more connected by characters and setting than they are by a timeline of events, and though there is a bit of developed background to some stories the author does a wonderful job of  filling in the need-to-know in a quick, entertaining and plausible way.

Recently, I opted to post a quote from one of the earlier books on this blog in the interest of trying something new. The character whose line it is, the ruler of the City of Ankh-Morpork, quickly became one of my favorites in the series. I would sincerely doubt that one might find in fiction or reality a politician so honest and pragmatic as Havelock Vetinari, from. His approach to matters of state are humorous largely because how elegantly simple his solutions are.His rule embodies  many of the principles of  “benevolent dictatorship” but, he is not the lest bit squeamish about making hard examples in cases where it is required.When faced with the ordinary problem of what to about rampant crime, he put the criminals in charge of policing themselves; once the cities criminal leaders got everything nice and organized he let them know, politely and in no uncertain terms, that he was well acquainted with all of their personal affairs. This unique arrangement (which you will have to read the books to fully appreciate) is a cornerstone in the foundation of life in the fair city which he oversees.

"If it ain't broke, Don't Fix it.

“If it ain’t broke, Don’t Fix it.

Despite an obviously, deserved reputation for being a ruthless, manipulative, and intimidating tyrant Vetinari truly cares about the city and it’s citizens. What he knows about his people is, that regardless of what they might cry out for (equality, justice etc.) what most of them really crave is to feel safe in the knowledge that tomorrow is going to be the same as yesterday. This is a lesson he may have learned while studying his own family coat of arms.

He is greatly aware of the psychological  gears and levers that drive human nature and makes great use of the carrot-and-stick method of leadership. His rule is also largely effective due to a policy of thinly veiled threats to motivate civic leaders to sort out their own problems. When that fails he does have his methods, a favorite of mine is forbidding the city watch to get involved in the matter.

Lord Vetinari is a character that is able to find the order in an apparently mad world. His style of governance is applaudable in his policies of just letting people get on with their lives and only intervening when they insist on things being done the hard way; or as Pratchett writes in his novel Sourcery:

“He didn’t administer a reign of terror, just the occasional light shower.”

Havelock Vetinari, Sourcery, The Discworld, and all other things related to it mentioned in this article are copyrights of Terry Pratchett (And you should rush out immediately and read as much of it as possible)
Vetanari Family Crest By MichałRadecki (Own work) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I was unable to find a suitable image of Lord Vetinari that I could be certain was legal to use so here is a link to his Wikipedia Page which includes an image by Paul Kidby

A Brief Overview of Politics

“I believe you find life such a problem because you think there are the good people and the bad people. You’re wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides.”

Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork

From the novel Guards, Guards by, Terry Pratchett

Street Credit

“Reputation, it’s all about reputation,” Mr. Davis began, “And that, my friend, is just a matter of perception. You can spend years and years trying to build a reputation but if no one buys into it you are screwed. That’s where we come in.” He took a long pull of his bourbon, draining. The ice clinked together as he set the glass back on the table. “We could use a sharp-looking kid with a good head on his shoulders, much like yourself to head up this project. You got the chops, boy let me tell you we seen that, but what you ain’t got is the standing in the community.We can make that happen for you.”

Jerry looked down at his own, untouched drink and scratched his nose with his thumbnail. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well for starters, no one knows you around here, so we work that to our advantage; build you from the ground up. You’re from New York right?”

“Trenton, New Jersey. It’s the capital.” Jerry replied and reached for his glass. He held it but didn’t lift off the table.

“You’re from New York now, one of the boroughs. Doesn’t matter pick one.” Davis waved his hand to get the waitress’ attention. “You ain’t touched your drink. Whats the matter, ain’t you thirsty?”

Jerry picked up his gin and tonic, swirling it a couple up times and then put it back down. He watched the lime bob around for a moment and said, “I’m plenty thirsty, I guess. I’m just trying to pay attention here.” He picked it up again and took a short sip of it. “Go on, what else?”

The waitress dropped of another drink for Davis. he picked it up, took a sip and began to gesture with it, his index finger pointing out as he spoke “Right, that’s good. Just a little advice though, don’t fiddle with your drink so much. Makes you look nervous, it’s bad for appearances Where was I?

“New York.”

“New York,” Davis leaned back and a small burp escaped his lips, “Well, we got a guy in New York who’ll vouch for you. He’ll say you did solid work for him, nothin’ too heavy. Moving product, maybe a little strong-arm stuff. We can fill in the details later.”

“That don’t sound like it’d do much for my reputation,” Jerry scowled.

“Just the beginning my young friend. We got a guy here that’s looking to retire, you know get out. Now normally that ain’t easy to do but, we can make that happen. We set you up in his territory, there’s a small power struggle, you win. He leaves town for greener pastures, it looks like you ran him out. I don’t maybe we make it look like you whacked him, we’ll play it by ear.”

“Won’t that piss his bosses off?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. He’s kinda screwin’ things up on his own as it is but, they just don’t like getting rid of people unless they have to. Kinda makes the rest of their herd nervous,” he looked down through the ice at the bottom of the glass. “Point is they’ll notice you, they’ll do some digging and they’ll find what we set up for them find. They’ll look at your credentials and try to avoid a problem by getting you to work for them.”

“That easy, huh?” Jerry took a long swig off his gin, “You really think for one minute that if I waltz into their town, start working their streets, and get rid of one of their boys, that they’re just going to up and offer me a job? Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“We’ve done it before,” Davis replied. “I ain’t talking about you marching in like some damned storm trooper. We’re looking at a slow burn here, months of set up. Really take the time to build up your reputation, see. But you’re right it is bullshit. A whole great big mound of it, the trick is that we pile it up high enough that no one’s able to see around it. ” He finished his second drink and pushed the glass to the middle of the table. “So how ’bout it kiddo, you in?”

This piece of fiction was inspired by a Daily Prompt.

Accident at Second and Union

I was holding my daughter’s hand, waiting for the traffic lights to cycle, at the corner of Second Avenue and Union Street, downtown. It was a clear and all to sunny day, the reflecting light from the store windows making me squint and wish I was enough of a jerk to not have given my sunglasses to the little darling when she asked for them; still sacrifice is the cornerstone of good parenting, so I’m led to believe, and she looks more adorable than me in them. Accepting my fate I lifted my free hand to my forehead to shield my vision as I impatiently scanned east and west along  Union. There was a break in the traffic and I was debating to myself whether or not to continue being a good example or just cross the damned street, walk signal be damned. The rest seemed happen all at once.

A bicycle, complete with helmeted rider jumped the stop light and flew into the section. From my blind spot I heard the sharp blaring horn and I snapped around, instinctively and most likely futilely attempting to yank my child away from the side of the road as I did so. A pick up, wheels screaming through the intersection the burning of it’s brake pads filling the streets with the aroma of death, or something close to it. It was a dualie, an F350 extend cab, Wedgwood blue; covered with dents and scratches, like hash marks, tallying up its previous victims automotive and pedestrian alike. Today it was out for blood and claimed one more. My sunglasses clattered onto the sidewalk as I pulled her face into my stomach, trying to prevent her from seeing his inevitable doom.

A dull thunk, barely audible over the behemoth’s horn and skidding tires, was almost anticlimactic; or would have been if the cyclist, his red and black jersey pegging him as a deliver of sandwiches, had not flown up off the seat of his fixie and rotated ninety degrees; then, as if in a tribute to Gregg Louganis, folded in half, spun backwards before hitting his head on the hood of the truck before sliding sideways to bounce from the bumper to the pavement. With the last of his momentum his body rolled onto his back, moaning, his helmet cracked and scratched the plastic falling away along the rear right side  where he made impact with both vehicle and street, exposing the gray foam padding beneath.

The F350 veered left, skidded and came to a halt, and by some small miracle managed to avoid crushing the prone cyclist; thought I have doubts as to the fate of his bike, or the sandwiches. The door of the truck creaked open and a large woman with the type of build you get from dealing with livestock on a daily basis, half fell out of the driver seat. She was hanging onto the steering wheel with one hand to steady herself while the other clutched the cellphone, from its speaker could be heard another woman’s panicked voice, “Louise? Louise, y’all alright? Answer me girl.” Louise was too dumbfounded to answer, she just stared at the glowing screen on the device and making a slightly inquisitive whimpering noise. Her temple and the driver’s side window both had small smears of blood, the one on the side of her head getting slowly larger as the seconds ticked on.

It being middle of downtown, and lunch hour, there was no shortage of gawkers and rubberneckers gathering around for a good ogle at the carnage. A few of them, not clutching a six-year-old protectively while she tried to peek at what was happening, pulled out their phones; some of them even called 9-1-1 instead of instagraming the event. A few onlookers with quicker brains came to the apparent aid of the fallen bicyclist. “Don’t try to move man, don’t move.” chanted one dreadlocked African american youth, as he stood over the man. One budding paramedic was waving his hands in front of Louise’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up lady?” he kept asking of the stunned woman.

Soon the intersection was a tangle of emergency vehicles as, thankfully, the police arrived. Statements were taken, which confirmed the fact that none of the witnesses had seen the same accident happen and soon my daughter and I were on my way home. We walked a short distance to a bus stop where I sat down shakily. As I tried to steady myself to phone my wife and tell her what happened my daughter hugged me and asked, “Is the man dead?”

“No honey, they took the man to the hospital.”

“Is he going to die.”

“I don’t know Kate.” I replied still rattled

“He’s probably going to die.” She stated calmly, her eyes clear and innocent. She reached out and handed me my now extremely scratched sunglasses.

Sometimes kids are kind of creepy.

This fictional account was inspired by a Weekly Challenge.

Pointing in the Right Direction

Recently I was reading through the work of other bloggers and came across a post by Kendall F. Person, thepublicblogger. In an article from January 12th, he specifically cites the Murder of George Moscone and Harvey Milk by Dan White in 1978 and  White’s attorney using expert testimony to shift the blame of the killings from the defendant to his dietary habits, which aided in White being convicted of the lesser crime of voluntary manslaughter. This later became known as “The Twinkie Defense” in the reporting of the trial. It is a very well written piece and I highly suggest reading his full editorial, The Dissection of Blame

It was this passage from that article that gave me pause for an introspective moment:

“When our decisions and our choices, wreak havoc in our lives, we may tend to become more defensive, angry without knowing why. We are challenged in getting back on track, everything we do derails, and everything we try does fail. So we begin the dissection of blame, assigning each disappointment to a family member or friend.”

One of the things I find about my sobriety, is going back and facing all of the things that I had previously blamed on other people in my life. I walked away from the rest of my family when my parents died and later was angry at them for not being there; I watched my business fail from my inattention to the details and claimed my would be associates were accountable for not doing “their part”; I would hurt my friends and loved ones and blame them for being so fragile; I would shut people out and it was always their fault because, “they didn’t get me.”


On and on I shifted guilt for my short comings and failures onto others and eventually, as I fell into my alcoholism, I would cite job stress, relationship problems, and social aspects of bar life as the reasons why I drank. When all of that fell away I wound up blaming the alcohol for why I was so miserable all the time. It was, of course, very easy to claim that I couldn’t stop drinking because I was addicted.

Time has proved all of these notions to be utter crap and now, living sober and relatively clear-headed, I am left to take hold of the responsibility for my faults and mistakes. I have to say it is a liberating as well as, at times, frightening prospect.

Image Credit: ThePointer by Gabe Austin CC-BY-2.0
Thanks To: Kendall F. Persons for inspiring this post.

It’s Just Like Riding a Bike…

Mostly because it is a bike.

I managed to get my ass up on the saddle for the first time in nearly a month, and don’t worry I have plenty of excuses for that; starting with the holidays, ending with the weather, with a whole bunch of B.S. in between them. But I woke up yesterday morning and while I was eating a rather too large breakfast that I took great enjoyment in1 I resolved that it was high time I start in on the cranks again. Quite frankly my attitude has been utter shite lately and it is mostly due to lack of exercise and recreation, two things that my bicycle was built for.

The devil car had other ideas. Oh no, wait, my wife needed me to drop her and my daughter off at the all-inclusive-super-mega-big box store so that she could do some shopping and to possibly get the girl’s hair cut; because despite her protests it is getting a bit shaggy in the front, and she can’t see things right in front of her face2. Which I agreed to because, well it’s what proper and responsible husbands do. Getting a six-year-old ready for a potential hair appointment tends to always take longer than expected, and what with driving there and getting myself back to the house nearly made me miss my time window for a comfortable riding experience.

Alright, getting on the bike was fine once I tracked down where my lock and cable ended up, and my helmet, and that pack of spare batteries for my lights; after all I wasn’t going to be riding home until late at night. About half way down the driveway, right before I mounted up, I remembered to check my tires.Sure enough, the front one was low and I had to stop and put air in it. On the plus side my frame pump was still where it was supposed to be, but it still took a while to get enough air in. After spending a moment fiddling with my phone to get it to track my ride I was off.

On the road I decided I wasn’t going to push myself to hard since it had been a while, this was a good idea. Soon I could feel the grinding of my knee, the one I fractured a few years ago, letting me know just how long it has been since it had a good work out. This caused me to change my route in favor of a slightly shorter one to lessen the impact on my aging and out of shape body. After about a mile and a half more I reached down between my legs and realized I forgot to fill my canteen. The change in routes cut off any option to stop for a bottle so I was just going to have to be parched until I got to the restaurant.

Once at work I checked my time and distance. A measly four miles but not that much slower than my normal pace. Rooting through my bag I realized that I had forgotten to transfer my Ibuprofen from my panniers, one of which had broken clips so I didn’t use them, to my shoulder bag. I sighed and went inside to find that the first aid kit we keep in the kitchen was woefully devoid of any analgesics. I poured myself a tall glass of water and set about my tasks.

I had forgotten how to ride a bike.


  1. I like big breakfasts and I can not lie, other eaters can’t deny… 
  2. Also you can’t see her face at all and she is far too cute to be hidden away behind her bangs, though she does have a nice early eighties mod look going on.