If I’m strapped, I’m safe, right? Wrong. Things happen in white suburbia. Rough things, mean things with teeth like uncomfortable wood splinters and eyes that could definitely use some drops, here, I have some in my satchel. Lawn signs go missing. Pink bellies are given out gangland style in the treehouse. Could I really trust this “Gerald”? Where there’s smoke, there’s Fire.

My mind is racing a mile a minute, but my Buzz Lightyear mountain bike a more leisurely 7, perhaps 8 per hour. The final stretch flies by like an egg from Super Mario World 2: Yoshi’s island. I park up under a street light and light up a smoke. A small group of children approach; agents of Gerald?

They surround me, intimidate me with the flashing glint of touch screens, they came equipped, equipped to play the hottest games on the console that changes all the rules, Playstation Vita.

“Nice bike, fag,” shatters the silence. Son of a bitch, I’ve been lured into a turf war. Did Gerald ever truly exist? It matters little now, as in one continuous motion I flick my cigarette at the eldest boy and reach for my revolver.