On your left, p.1
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       On Your Left, p.1

          Robert T. Belie / Humor / Horror
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On Your Left






On Your Left

Robert T. Belie









On Your Left

Robert T. Belie

Copyright 2014 Robert T. Belie





On Your Left



Table of Contents



Title



Beginning



End



About the Author





***



“On your left.” I don’t necessarily know if I’d consider this my catchphrase, per se, as I don’t say it all the time, and catchphrases on the whole tend to trivialize the efforts of true heroes. Simply saying, “on your left” also doesn’t conjure up a bottled genie or give homage to a demonic being who may or may not have provided me the powers, or at least the inspiration to do what I do. Nope, it’s just something I’ve become fond of saying.



Besides, even when I do say it, it’s not often very audible. It doesn’t have to be though. Just a little whisper to myself, accompanied by a smirking, devilish grin of satisfaction. When I say it, I’m not speaking to an audience or warning anyone that I’m passing them by. Just to myself, in my car, for a bit of closure after the deed is finished. A little something for daddy. A tap on the back for a job well done. I suppose saying, “touchdown!” or “remember the Alamo!” would work as well, but while expressing a similar feeling, “on your left” is much more apt for the type of work I do.



I kill people for a living. But let me explain a bit more. When I say it like that in general terms it sounds cold and heartless, without meaning. What I do for a living is run over cyclists with my car.



It’s really more than just a living in the sense that it’s more of a completely satisfying and fulfilling life-calling, and less than a living in the sense that I don’t get paid a dime for the services I render.



No payments. But that’s expected. Most people are thankless fucks. You can give them all sorts of freebies and protection, and you’re more often than not repaid with a sticky, outstretched hand and a cry for more, rather than a simple, “thanks man.”



I don’t get any medals for the public service I provide either, but I guess that goes without saying. Although I wouldn’t decline an honor or two if ever offered, I mean who doesn’t like a bit of recognition after a long-ass day of doing the Lord’s work? A little recognition would be nice to be sure, provided of course it came with a well-stocked, catered reception. And maybe some nachos.



Admittedly, I’ve thought about my humble acceptance speech from time to time, as day dreaming occurs even amongst the best of us. Hunting of most sorts is an all-consuming endeavor. Even when actively pursuing one’s prey, there is going to be a bit of down time. Long stretches on the open road provide pause to drift away and think about dabbing a napkin ever so slightly against the edge of my nacho-cheese encrusted lip before rising to the podium…



“…I want to say it all began with a dream. But that would be a lie. I didn’t grow up wanting to do what I do. But like many public servants, my calling came from witnessing a need and then finding a way to fill it...”



Every year we take out a healthy number of these obnoxious spandex-clad fucks. Somewhere on the order of two percent of all fatalities on the roadway. Most of the 600 to 800 knocked off are more or less “accidental looking” in nature. The rest are flat out bullseyes.



A good portion of these come from people like me. While I haven’t met anyone to date who is a kindred spirit, I have to think they exist and are out there somewhere carrying on the good fight. You can catch the tell-tale signs in the news articles easily enough…clear day, open road, beautiful angles, otherwise unexplained acceleration.



One man can only do so much though. Still the spandexy wave of cyclists continues. It may very well all be a futile effort on my part, with no chance of long term success. But all I can do is just keep up the fight. Continue the noble cause. Make cyclists go crunch.



There are about 50,000 non-fatal accidents involving cyclists each year. I can take credit for exactly zero of these. None at all. Not one. This is because I’m not an amateur and I take pride in my work. When you shoot, you should shoot to kill. Plus if you just clip them and don’t finish the deed you stand the chance of the douchebag cyclist becoming a douchebag witness. And even worse than having them prattle on-and-on on the witness stand is the very inexcusable potential of them getting back out on the road in full spandex. Or worse yet, starting some god-awful charity for crippled, legless cyclists that gets play on the local evening news. Besides, if you can’t completely take out an adversary with a speeding metal cannonball by blindsiding them with a 20:1 weight ratio, then you pretty much fucking suck.



You might come to wonder how it is that I don’t get caught. With such bravado. With such flippant disregard for the laws of society. For literally not staying between the lines. Even with skill there’s a chance that some cop might finish sucking off his partner and glance up in time to see my handiwork. Certainly valid inquiries. Well, the short answer is fuck you. The long answer is fuck you, I’m fucking good at my work. If I were to sit here and elaborate on every detail about how I keep my hands clean, I would only be inviting some gents from law enforcement to pay me an unnecessary visit. And any time they spend away from smearing the shit from neighborhood to neighborhood or issuing seat-belt infractions would be a disservice to taxpayers.

I don’t mind discussing my contributions to society in general, especially if my speaking up will raise awareness and inspire others to action. But needlessly revealing which car (or series of cars) I use, tire replacement protocols, vehicle repair and repaint procedures, if any, specific locations where friendly and like-minded compatriots offer assistance and nourishment, and any number of other means I use to remain undisturbed in my work wouldn’t serve in anyone’s best interest, particularly my own.

The details on how I’ve been successful to date, on how I’ve evaded those seeking my apprehension, won’t be discussed here. However I will touch on the basics, the building blocks. Money, connections, carefulness and calculation, and drive (read: driving) are the keys. Yeah I know they are probably the same bullshit bullets found on the slides at most self-help seminars, but whatever, I’m not selling shit. I’ve found success and meaning and these elements were the primary factors for me. So apply them to your own life, don’t apply them, go fuck yourself, don’t go fuck yourself, I don’t really care.

Money. Money buys things. And people. It doesn’t engender loyalty, however, but it can buy silence. It’s fucking great. It’s just not a catch-all. You have to use it wisely. Don’t go and eat in the same place where you turn a cyclist into a puddle of shit.

Having connections is just as important as having money. Know who the fuck you’re dealing with. It’s not about finding people you can trust. Like JC said as he was being nailed up by a bunch of dirty Italians as his friends watched in the background…you can’t trust anyone. It’s a matter of finding people who value discretion, appreciate money, and understand that I’ll fucking destroy them should they ever decide to cross me. Sometimes a simple look is enough to convey this message, other times I might have to casually mention that I may have to force their significant other to perform oral sex on their headless corpse before I call it a day and light them all on fire. I don’t threaten sexual violence on my own, however, as that would be vulgar. Also a lot of the folks I deal with tend to have some of the ugliest, clammy, untouchable donkeys as lovers, and even my untamed and adventurous penis has boundaries.

Intelligence is not a prerequisite for having money. A lot of morons have a lot of money. A lot of morons also have connections and connect with other morons. These first two elements are useless unless you are careful and calculating. You have to know how to use your resources, whether they be of the financial or living variety. Many with wealth end up consuming their gains, not on avoiding getting caught, but rather on paying their way out of trouble that should have been avoided in the first place.

Drive is the last key element and it touches on all the others. If you don’t wake up each morning loving what you do, then it’s hopeless. Sure sometimes you may feel tired or sick or discouraged, but you just have to dig deep and summon the inner strength to get out of bed and think about who the fuck you’re going to turn into a pretzel next. All I can tell you is that the “on the left” at the end of it all is so worth the effort.

Now you might also be thinking that cycling is just a hobby for a good many. That not all cyclists are pricks. Not all of them are pretentious yuppie fucks, cutting people off, banging on trunks, leaning against the sides of vehicles, making random left turns, running red lights, weaving to the front, taking roads at their own slow-ass pace, and just generally doing their own fucking thing. But at the risk of stating the obvious, simply putting on a ridiculous clown custom does not
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