Tired of the Racket
SHEFFIELD, IA, June 16, 2008 — A local resident was seen today taking a crowbar and beating the living tar out of most passing motorcyclists. When approached and asked what he was doing, he calmly replied, “I’m tired of these posturing pricks gunning their throttles every damned time they go around the corner.”
Nathan Pralle, 30, hefted the 4-foot implement onto his shoulder in a casual pose as he waited on the curb for his next target. “You see, I’m a guy — I appreciate the macho things in life as much as anyone else; football, hotties, and the roar of loud engines,” he explains languidly, “but these bikers are really squaredancing on my last very last nerve in stock.”
The curve of the road that passes by his house, Pralle explained, has a fairly high traffic load for this small 900-odd person burb in central Iowa, especially on the sunny days of summer when everyone and their dog is out enjoying the few brief moments of gleeful warmth. But such giddiness is not to be found in Pralle who has clearly had enough of the noise.
“They turn the corner and then hit the throttle as hard as they can. Doing it once just to hear that roar is fine, ” he says as he shakes his head, “but what the fuck are they trying to prove by doing it EVERY SINGLE TIME??? ARGH!!! And god help them if they ever wake up my baby son from his nap. Do they have kids? No, they have a chrome dick extension and it’s having size issues. Time to change that stinky diaper, and I am not handling out Huggies,” he growls.
An approaching two-wheeler from the east halted our interview and the vigilante lined up to see what would happen. True to his predictions, the Harley, complete with leather-bejeweled rider, turned the corner and started to lay on the typically loud YAP! YAP! YAP! from the straightpipes. Pralle suddenly sprung into action, sprinting into the street, yelling like a banshee on a bender and waving the crowbar wildly over his head in a war cry. The biker barely got turned around to inspect the commotion behind him when he was promptly beaned senseless and the bike’s exhaust was flatted into linguine before Pralle placekicked the muffler and yelled at the fleeing motorist, “Let’s hear the sound of those pipes NOW, fucker!”
Puffing heavily, he returned to his post, setting his “justice stick” down and against a
maple tree, but not before he added a small notch to a growing list on the trunk. “Looks like today might be a great day to be me, a really crappy-ass day to be a biker,” he grinned with a smile that would send sane men scampering into the foliage.
So, if you like to surf the pavement on a crotchmobile in this lovely weather of summer, enjoying the beauty of the season before plunging back into the freezing cold of winter, a simple word of warning goes out to you — avoid main street Sheffield at all costs or at least, for heaven’s sake, don’t forget your helmet.
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