It was the third time my bike was stolen, and a few days later it appeared online, for sale. Maybe it was even the same thief as last time?
I was so tired of society developing in this direction, not being allowed to have your things in peace, feeling unsafe, and having to walk with your head bowed in a city taken over by strangers.
How quickly it had gone anyway – from the world’s most honest country – to mob rule?
I contacted the seller via chat, and asked him why he had taken my bike, why he couldn’t get an honest job and work instead of taking other people’s stuff?
All I got in response was crude profanity and swearing, in broken English. No, he would never return the bike, he was unreasonable.
In my circle of acquaintances, there was one person who apparently took care of such problems. His name was Bo, a bodybuilder who also worked as a guard. He had also done a tour in Ukraine, but on the side of the Russians. A strange but decent bloke. I only knew him superficially, he’d sat with me a few times when I’d had a beer with the floorball team after a match. He knew one of the guys. And lately I used to bump into him in town, he probably lived nearby. Anyway, I was sure Bo wasn’t a nut, and I decided to call him.
An hour later he turned up. Dressed in an unprinted t-shirt, shorts, low boots and a backpack, looking like he was going to the gym. He had blond, semi-long hair and was maybe in his 30s, like a cross between a surfer dude and a former mercenary.
“I called the guy. We’re meeting him in 30 minutes. Do you have a car, or should we take the subway?”
“Okay, we can take the car, no problem. Oh, so you already talked to him?”
“Yeah, let’s just go.”
I was a bit surprised. Bo had already called the thief without coordinating with me first. Didn’t really like his attitude, we hadn’t planned at all what to do when we arrived, how to confront the thief, what to do if several accomplices turned up, etc. But he already seemed to have a plan in place.
“When we arrive, haggle, and pretend you want to buy it. Don’t ask if it’s stolen or anything like that.”
“Sure, but what do we do then? Should I pay for my own bike?”
“Hehe. No, you don’t. Just as you’re about to take out your wallet and pay, I tell you that the cops are here, that there’s a cop car outside. You hold the bike, slowly lead it away; I take care of the guys.”
“What a plan… What do we do if more people show up?”
“Let me take care of it. And by the way, if I suddenly do or say something strange, don’t worry about it. Sometimes you have to improvise.”
“OK.”
“No problem, just take it easy.”
I drove all the way out to the suburbs, and we chatted during the journey. Bo mostly told me about the hot chicks he met in Ukraine and Russia, no talk of war or fighting. He felt more and more like a bullshitter. We parked the car, he put on his backpack, the muscles and tendons in his arms tensed, it seemed heavy.
A half-empty street between some grey dreary houses. It smelled of frying oil and stale spices. Some old women in headscarves walked past.
They were already waiting for us. A black guy with a cap leading the bike, and another black guy without a cap next to him. The latter was a bit bigger and overweight, he sat down on a park bench and stared lazily.
“I want two hundred quid. Damn nice bike.”
“It’s a nice bike, I can give you a hundred bucks for it.”
“Hundred? Come on, man.”
We argued for a while. And finally agreed on 170. I started to reach for the wallet, and saw out of the corner of my eye that Bo took a step forward. He had been standing behind me throughout the conversation, silent and motionless. His huge bodybuilder’s fist hit the cap guy across the nose, it sounded like a coconut falling from a tree.
The other black guy without a cap stood up, but only got halfway, he too got a taste of Bo’s swing. The pork quivered in his body.
I threw the bike into the boot, the back seats were already folded and it was quick. I closed the hatch, and started walking towards the driver’s seat.
People were gathering around, approaching the car; they were speaking some kind of incomprehensible language, it sounded shrill and threatening. I smelled the odour of agitated testosteroned Oriental sweat.
Bo pointed at the crowd with a huge revolver he had taken out, probably from his rucksack. The figures gathered around us suddenly looked terrified. The whites of their eyes glistened. Bo felled the nearest of them with a well-aimed kick to the stomach. They started running in all directions.
Soon we were in the car and driving away. My hands were sweaty and I tasted blood in my mouth. But I made an effort, I knew roughly how I functioned under stress from my days as a volunteer firefighter. It was just a matter of keeping it together. Out of the grey block, down to the main road, and then it wasn’t far to the motorway.
They had parked a jet black BMW across the road. The paint was polished and reflected the dark clouds in the sky. Five or six guys stood beside it. Some of them were armed with pistols. They looked like they were in a rap music video
Bo had a submachine gun in his right hand and a hand grenade in the other. He aimed at the ground in front of the men, skilfully without seriously injuring anyone, then threw the grenade at the car, heavy smoke developed on the port side, while I drove up onto the pavement, rounded the obstacle and onto the path. Bo hung out the window and aimed backwards, his blond hair blowing across his face.
The danger was probably over. The gangster boys were not prepared for all-out war. They ran away, and there was no one behind us.
Under Bo’s guidance, I drove a lot of strange laps back and forth through the suburbs, to check out any pursuers, and then we took a different route home. Bo methodically packed his rucksack, and explained in an educational tone:
“Sorry, I had to escalate. Often it’s enough to kick their arse, but sometimes it gets out of hand. But that’s okay, I’ve had worse.”
He spoke with a kind of working-class accent. In addition, he had added the occasional nasal vowel, much like he had spent some time with the city’s upper class. The combination was somewhat unique, and I began to appreciate his stories about the girls in Ukraine more and more, mostly for the way he talked, and not the content itself. Bo continued:
“By the way, maybe I should have told you this earlier. The Count asked me to keep an eye on you while he’s away, just so you know.”
He promised to teach me how to shoot. I thought maybe it was just as well. Now that society was on the rocks anyway, there was no point in pretending anymore. On the way home we bought a new lock for the bike.
