Here's another chapter for you.
There were once two motorbikes that had fallen into bad ways. One was an ancient Matchless G3L ex-Army bike, and the other was a Triumph Hurricane with three exhaust pipes splayed out in a fan at the rear. They were cheery companions, always making coarse jokes and poking fun at the world, but they were, in truth, either as bad as the other, and that was very, very, very bad indeed.
It was many years since either of them had had owners, and they had grown used to the freedom of the road and to living without moral restraints of any kind whatsoever. For many years they had got by with stealing a little petrol here and there, when they needed it, and robbing the occasional charity shop.
But one morning the Triumph Hurricane found the old Matchless G3L Army bike leaning against the wall of the alley in which they had spent the night, looking very sorry for itself.
“What’s up, Sarge?” asked the Triumph Hurricane. “I thought we was going to run over a few orphans today.”
“Ha ha,” wheezed the old Matchless. “Very funny…But look here, lad, I don’t think I’ve got enough left in me for this sort o’ caper.”
“What are you talking about, Sarge?” exclaimed the Triumph. “You got miles left in yer tank! Let’s go and hang out by the petrol station…you never knows yer luck! Maybe get a chance to fill up on the old spirit!”
“Nah! Nah! I’m done for, I tell you,” wheezed the ancient bike. “You’re just a young whippersnapper - but I was built in 1942 and my brakes are worn through, my gears are starting to go and - to tell the truth, me old sport, I think me cylinder’s gone and cracked.”
There was a silence, after the Matchless had said this: a cracked cylinder head is not the sort of thing any motorbike can survive without serious mechanical attention.
The Triumph Hurricane looked at his partner in crime for a few moments. “You’re going to need a mechanic, Sarge,” he said.
“Don’t make me laugh, lad!” wheezed the Matchless. “Mechanics don’t work for nothing do they? They costs money - where are the likes of you and me gonna to find enough dosh to pay for a mechanic?”
The Triumph didn’t say anything for a few moments, and when he did speak, it was in a serious undertone. “You knows how like we’ve always planned to do ‘the Big One’…Well, maybe now’s the time.”
“Gor blimey!” The old Matchless Army bike collapsed in an explosion of laughter and coughing. “You are a caution, you are! ‘The Big One’! Didn’t I tell yer I can’t move a wheel? I’m done for!”
“I’ll give it a shot,” said the Triumph.
“But you need two for that sort of lark!” said the Matchless G3L. “You can’t do it on yer own!”
“Perhaps I can help?” said a voice.
The two old motorbikes turned to find that a smart, silver bicycle had emerged from behind the rubbish skip that filled up most of the alley.
“Shove off, push-bike!” growled the old ex-army Matchless.
“No wait a minute!” said the Triumph Hurricane, and then turning to the bicycle, he asked: “What sort of machine are you?”
“I’m a Raleigh Metro GLX Gents, with an Airlite aluminium sports city frame and semi slick tyres,” said the bicycle.
“But you’re just a pedal bike,” sneered the Matchless.
“Yes! How could you be any use to us?” asked the Triumph.
“Well, for a start I’m a lot younger than you two old farts,” said the Metro GLX Gents.
“Now look ‘ere, you…you… fairy cycle…” began the Matchless.
“I am not a fairy cycle!” exclaimed the bicycle. “I’m a top of the range Pioneer Metro Gents, with 24 speed Shimano gears with fingertip controls!”
“Yes, yes…” said the Triumph Hurricane, who had zero interest in push-bikes, “we can all see you’re a very fine bike. Maybe we could use you.”
“You gone soft in the head or somefink?” snapped the ex-army Matchless. “He ain’t even a mountain bike…and he’s still wet behind the handlebars!”
“Excuse my friend,” the Triumph smiled at the bicycle. “He’s an old army bike, but his bark’s worse than his bite.”
“It’s all right,” said the bicycle. “I expect you motorbikes to be a bit on the rough side…But that doesn’t matter to me. I’ve run away, you see.”
“Some little kiddy must be crying his eyes out over you?” sneered the ex-army Matchless.
“Excuse me!” replied the bicycle indignantly. “I am a full adult Gents model!”
“Pardon me, I’m sure,” scoffed the Matchless.
“Now break it up, you two!” said the Triumph. Then it turned to the Raleigh GLX and asked: “Now you’re sure you’re not stolen? We don’t want to go into business with some bike what the police are looking for!”
“Oh no,” said the bicycle. “I fell off the back of a lorry. You can see the dent in my mudguard.” And he turned round and showed his rear-mudguard, which did indeed have a dent in it. “So tell me about the ‘Big One’?”
“ ‘Ere! ‘E’s bin listening-in to our conversation!” exclaimed the Matchless. “I’ll soon sort out his saddle-bag for ‘im!” And he made a lunge at the bicycle, but the Triumph Hurricane stopped him.
“Hang on, Sarge!” he said. “This ‘ere bike is going to join our gang!”
“You must be joking!” cried the Matchless.
“No. From now on we’re going to be buddies!” and the Triumph put his handlebars around the bicycle to show he meant it.
Then the Triumph Hurricane told the bicycle what he and the army Matchless had been planning. “You see?” it concluded. “And if you do your bit ok we’ll even give you a small share in the loot.”
“What are you talking about?” retorted the Raleigh GLX. “We split it 50-50 or I’m not interested.”
“50-50!” exclaimed the two motorbikes together. “There are three of us!”
“Yes but one of ‘us’ isn’t coming on the job!” said the bicycle glaring at the Matchless. “One of ‘us’ is so useless and clapped-out that it isn’t capable of doing and honest day’s work!”
“Now listen ‘ere, you jumped-up pedal pusher!” exploded the ex-army motorbike.
“One of ‘us’ is just a free-loading heap of rusty metal that’s no good even for the Scrap heap!”
“I’ll teach you…you…snotty-faced, unisex bell-ringer!”
“Oh give it a rest, you two!” said the Triumph.
“I’m going to be doing half the work so it’s only fair that I get half the profit,” went on the bicycle.
“But you’re just a push-bike!” exclaimed the Matchless.
“That doesn’t give me less rights than you!” yelled the bicycle.
“Put a sock in it!” shouted the Triumph. Then, turning to its motorbike colleague, it said: “The bike has a point. It may be just a bone shaker, but it’ll be doing half the work, so it deserves fifty-fifty of the profits.”
“But…”
“You and I can split the other 50%. It’ll still be enough to get a mechanic to see to your cylinder.”
Eventually they agreed to split the proceeds 50/50, and the Triumph motorbike and the bicycle set off together for the centre of town, leaving the Matchless leaning up against the crumbling wall of the alley, helplessly fuming with resentment and hatred towards the push-bike.
*
When they reached the High Street, the motorbike and the push-bike, hid themselves behind a dust-cart and looked across the road from the bank.
“There! Don’t it look lovely!” muttered the Triumph Hurricane.
“Yes! I imagine there’s plenty of cash in there!” sighed the Raleigh GLX Gents.
“Right!” whispered the motorbike. “Now remember the plan, and don’t be too greedy. A couple of bags will do nicely. It ain’t worth going for more and risking our saddles for it!”
“Wilco!” said the bicycle.
“Hmph!” grunted the motorbike, and with that the two of them charged across the High Street and the Triumph Hurricane burst into the bank, while the bicycle skidded across and blocked the entrance.
Once inside the motorbike started to drive round and round the banking hall in circles, opening up its throttle and making a terrible noise that echoed around the hall. Terrified customers dived under tables and chairs, while the staff panicked and fled into the back of the building.
The bicycle, meanwhile, had been counting up to six, as instructed by the Triumph. It now shot inside the bank, across the hall, where the motorbike was causing such mayhem, and the then it hopped over the counter and started opening up the draws and cupboards with its handlebars.
Alarm bells had, by this time, started to ring, so the motorbike tried to drown them out with its powerful roar - as it glanced anxiously across to check how the bicycle was doing.
The Raleigh Metro GLX Gents had finally located a couple of bags of cash and had them swinging from its handlebars.
“That’s it!” shouted the Triumph. “Let’s get out of here!”
“No! Wait!” cried the bicycle. “I can see one more over there!”
“No!” called the motorbike, still driving round and round the banking hall in circles. “The police’ll be here any second!”
By this time, some of the customers had recovered from their initial panic, and realized it was just a riderless motorbike that was causing the confusion. One young man had already leapt to his feet.
“Leave this to me!” he shouted. “I know about motorbikes!”
“We gotta go!” screamed the Triumph to the Raleigh Metro. “Come on!” At this point, the young man leapt at the motorbike as it sped past him, and managed to grabbed the handlebars. But the Triumph increased its speed, skidding round the banking hall with increasing desperation. Yet still the young man held on…trying to get his hand to one of the brakes.
The Raleigh Metro, meanwhile, had shot along the counter to where it had seen the third bag of cash, sticking out of a drawer, where the cashier had left it.
It was at that moment that the Manager appeared. He glanced around the hall at the mayhem, and started to blow a whistle.
The bicycle hooked its handlebar under the third bag and turned to escape.
“Stop!” shouted the manager. “Bicycle thief!”
But the bicycle shot back down the counter, bounded up and over it and dashed across the customer area, at the very moment that the motorbike skidded round for the fifteenth time. The young man, who was still clinging to its handlebars, found himself swung out, and he hit the bicycle full in the middle of its frame, knocking it over and over, head-over-wheels.
The force of the impact, however, loosened the young man’s grip, and he was flung across the banking hall, and banged up against the far wall, knocking himself unconscious in the process.
The motorbike didn’t wait, it shot out of the bank at full speed, down the road and off into the distance before anyone could stop it.
Meanwhile the Raleigh Metro GLX Gents had picked itself up, but in the confusion it had dropped one of the three bags of cash. The Manager spotted it and vaulted over the counter to grab it, but the bike was too fast for him. It got the bag first and hooked it up on its handlebars. This, however, gave the Manager the chance to grab the bike by the saddle.
“Got you!” he yelled.
“Get off!” screamed the bike, and it shook itself and twisted round and with more acceleration than you would have thought was possible it sped towards the entrance to the bank, just as a policeman appeared in the doorway.
“Hello!” cried the policeman. “What’s all this then? Ooooomph!”
This last expression was the result of the Bank Manager, who was clinging to the bike, crashing into the policeman.
“Sorry!” yelled the Bank Manager. But it was too late! He had let go of the bike in the collision, and it was now speeding down the High St. with three bags of cash dangling from its handlebars.
By the time the squad cars arrived, there was no trace of either the motorbike nor the bicycle…and because it all sounded so absurd that a riderless bicycle and a riderless motorbike had robbed the Bank, nobody said anything. The police didn’t report the crime and the Bank didn’t press charges. They both preferred to pass over the whole thing in silence rather than become a laughing stock.
*
Back in the alley, the three machines counted out their haul. They had stolen more than enough to pay for a mechanic to repair the old ex-army Matchless, and to keep them in petrol for the rest of their lives.
“But don’t forget we’re splitting 50/50!” said the Raleigh Metro GLX.
“But there are three bags!” exclaimed the old Matchless. “Why don’t we just have a bag each?”
“Because you agreed to split 50/50,” replied the bicycle.
“But what on earth are you going to do with so much money?” exploded the Triumph.
“That’s my business,” retorted the bicycle. “We agreed what we agreed. You can’t go back on it.”
“I told you not to go for the third bag - you nearly got us caught,” complained the Triumph.
“But we didn’t get caught,” replied the bicycle. “And so thanks to my daring we now have more money than we would have had!”
“A bag each!” repeated the Matchless. “That’s fair!”
“You heap of scrap iron!” said the bicycle. “What did you do? You just sat here on your flat tyres while we risked wheel and frame to get the loot! You don’t deserve anything!”
“Look!” chipped in the Triumph Hurricane. “I’ve said I’ll split my share of the taking with my comrade. OK? Let’s stop this bickering. We ought to be celebrating!”
“But…” began the old Matchless.
“But…” began the Raleigh Metro.
“Look!” said the Triumph. “Let’s divvy it up into two halves and then we can put a bit aside for a celebration.”
So they counted out the money they had stolen from the bank into two neat piles. At the end of it they had some loose change left over that amounted to no less than £50.
“Now, what I propose,” said the Triumph, “is that one of us takes this £50 and runs to the nearest garage for some fuel and oil. I think we deserve a little lubrication after all this hard work.”
“Agreed!” said the other two.
“So I propose our friend the push-bike here goes to get the stuff, while us two motorbike, put the money back into the bags.”
“Now! Not so fast!” exclaimed the bicycle. “I may be new to this game, but I’m not a complete fool. What’s to stop you two escaping while I’m gone, and taking my half of the loot with you?”
“Look ‘ere,” said the Triumph. “We’re not going anywhere. Sarge, here, has a cracked cylinder, he can’t move a wheel until we’ve paid for a mechanic to put him right.”
“That’s right,” wheezed the Matchless G3L army bike, I’m crooked unless I get a mechanic to see to me.”
The Raleigh Metro looked from one to the other. Then it nodded its front light. “Hmm…All right,” it said. “I’ll go and get the fuel and the oil, but if you try any funny stuff…”
“Honest!” smiled the Triumph, “We’re partners now: the three of us! And this is only the beginning! From here we’ll go on to bigger and better jobs! We’ll become notorious - the Riderless Gang! Our names and makes and models will go down in history as machines to be reckoned with!”
“Very well,” said the bicycle. “I won’t be long.” And with that he looked out of the alleyway, to make sure the coast was clear, and then sped off down the road to find a petrol station.
Once he had gone, the old ex-army Matchless turned on the Triumph. “Have you gone soft in the ‘ead or somefink?” it exclaimed. “Splitting our money with that smart-arsed, two-bit, pedal machine! No way am I going into partnership with a push-bike! Over my dead body!”
“Now calm down!” said the Triumph. “Just ‘cause I says things like that to him don’t mean that’s what I’m gonna do.”
“What yer on about?” grumbled the Matchless.
“You don’t really think I’m a-going to let that little bit of bent tin with its prissy spokes and its tinkle-bell do us out of our fair share of the spoils, do you?”
“Well that’s what you said you was going to do…”
“Yeah but like I say - what I said and what we actually does ain’t necessarily exactly the same fing - is they?”
“What yer saying?” asked the Matchless.
“Well are you willing to let me handle this, so as we don’t have to split nufink with that there push-bike?” asked the Triumph.
“Ok” said the Matchless. “I’m wiv yer till the end.”
“That’s my buddy!” said the Triumph, and they put their handlebars around each other, and gave each other a hug.
*
When the bicycle returned, it was clearly not expecting any trouble. It placed two cans of fuel on the floor and then produced a second can of top quality lubricating oil.
“This’ll loosen you up, mates!” it said and splashed a little on the ancient old Matchless and a little on the chain of the Triumph, before taking a dab to rub over its own chain.
“Oooooer…That feels better!” said the Matchless. “I’m beginning to feel more frisky already.
“Ahhhhh!” sighed the Triumph. “That stuff has never felt so good!”
“It’s the best quality oil they had!” said the Raleigh Metro. “From now on - only the best for us!”
“You’re right!” exclaimed the Triumph. “Only the best for us for the rest of our lives!” and with that it unscrewed the cap to the can of fuel, but instead of tipping it into its own fuel tank it suddenly threw the can at the bicycle. Petrol poured out of the can as it flew through the air and all over the bicycle and the pavement where it was standing. Before you could say “Reg Harris!” the old Matchless had produced a box of Swan Vestas, struck a match and thrown it onto the bicycle, and in seconds the bicycle was consumed in flames. After a few minutes, the bicycles tyres had popped from the heat, the paint had cracked and peeled and the rubber pedals and the saddle had all ignited. Before the flames had finished the very frame of bicycle had begun to twist and the metal to melt until it was scarcely possible to even recognize it as a bike.
As I said at the beginning, the two motorbikes, for all their joking ways, were as evil as evil can be.
But the thing is, they were really no better than the Raleigh Metro GLX. For this is what that evil machine had done. When it went to the garage to buy fuel for its confederates, it did not buy two cans of petrol as it was supposed to, but two cans of diesel fuel. Now diesel is not at all the same fuel that is used in petrol engines. For a start it has 15% more density, and it burns in different way, so that if you put diesel into a petrol engine, the engine will seize up and cease to function.
And that is precisely what happened to the two motorbikes. The bicycle had intended to fill its companions up with diesel and then make its get away, knowing full well that they would not be able to chase it. In the event, the Triumph filled up the old Matchless, and then filled up itself. The moment it did, however, it realized something was wrong. It started up, and because it had some petrol left in its tank it was able to sputter and start…But it didn’t get further than the end of the alley, before it started to seize up. It staggered into the middle of the main road, but there it juddered to a halt and crashed over onto its side, in front of an oncoming bus. In the ensuing crash it was smashed to piece and bent out of all recognition.
It was later scooped up off the road and sold for scrap.
As for the Matchless G3L Army bike - it still couldn’t move, and so it simply lay there in the deserted alleyway, for month after month, in all weathers, and it grew rusty and corroded, until not a single part of it could ever work again.
They were - all three of them - thoroughly evil machines.