Mikey stole a motorbike, a high-revving rice rocket, weaving through traffic, leaning this way and that, quickly dodging the slow and the still, riding toward an inevitable fate, rapidly surpassing any chance for a destiny other than a beastly crash, a tumbling and fiery maniacal kind of crash, one resulting in screaming vehicles and flashing lights, punching their blunt red noses onto the scene, disgorging fast moving men and women with hoses and bandages, pretending the hoses were for the burning machine and the bandages were for the rider, but knowing that the hoses would be all they’d need on this run.