Chapter Five: The Vespa
Belching exhaust and struggling under the weight of the rider, the vespa was held down through its sputtering across the gravel. Even at the small jump where the gravel ran into a rocky dirt road, it was heldown, the tires gripped, and barrelled down the hill.
The man riding the Vespa was heavy. Very heavy, in fact the vespa was not actually screaming along, but instead providing very good traction. Since the vespa couldn’t run fast enough to over heat, it had been overly detail and was covered with decals. The exhaust pipes were covered with fireballs, getting larger and larger until a single decal wrapped the end of the exhaust pipe. Across the large windshield was a series of masking tape letters spelling ‘VESPA’, though unfortunately the ‘VES’ took up most of the windhield and the last two were written in the corner with sharpie. There was a wire extension built above the front wheel, and it had a cooler bolted on it. The tank in the back was covered so heavily in decals of dinosars, that the overlapping sections were so pure white is was impossible to see the puke green plastic it was shellacked on. The rear “hubcaps” had been meticulously encrusted with cheap plastic rhinestones; a shiny white background with ruby red rhinestone spelling “Elvis”.
The guy riding it was a piece of work, too. He was monstrously fat, pale, covered in cheap tattoos, and wearing a helmet much too small for him. The vespa was compressed under his weight, but gave him great traction. His hair was a complex mullet: the top hair was manicured into spikes, the “party in back” ferociously whittled into a long rattail halfway down his back; the sides were shaved. Like the bike, his helmet was also covered with decals. Well, not so much decals as writing in sharpie. The amount of product used on his “business up front” was so strong that he had to let the chin strap out to the maximum level, but he rode confidently, knowing that if he crashed, his mullet would protect him.
His girth hung on the bike like two harley saddlebags, his shorts were custom made, and his t-shirt so tight it looked like a wife-beater. His skin was ruddy and tough from the constant swath of gravel and dust pelting him while he cruised on his vespa.
But he was tougher than that. He was on his way into the service station to get his grubby paws on a “hand carved” sandwich. They were pretty much universal.