JOHNNY BIKE LANE

In the shadow of the Flatiron Building, the traffic light was steadily red. The walk sign was illuminated. A hunched-over elderly woman pushed her grocery cart in the crosswalk. Before the wobbling wheels hit the curb, a man in a spandex onesie and jerky sunglasses skidded towards her on a road bike. He narrowly avoided her, but almost sideswiped a “GET ’EM OUTTA HERE” moving truck waiting at the light.

“GET OUT OF THE BIKE LANE, GRANDMA.”

“Eat a grizzled sack of cocks,” replied the elderly woman. She hit his head with a tomato as he pedaled off.

The video from the cyclist’s helmet cam was posted to his social media page under the name of “Johnny Bike Lane.” He titled it: “PEDESTRIAN AGGRESSION.” It had already received twenty-five million views in just a week.

His plan to shame her had backfired. The elderly woman was only identified as “Bethel,” and had already acquired an agent. “Eat a grizzled sack of cocks” had now emblazoned every imaginable piece of merchandise. It had become America’s newest catchphrase.

The next day, Johnny Bike Lane pedaled in and out of traffic, and sped past every red light. He yelled at anybody he assumed wouldn’t fight back. Two large male inmates with face tattoos, clad in orange jumpsuits, cleaned the bike lane with trash pickup claws. He said nothing as he pedaled around them.

Johnny Bike Lane saw an unconscious man up ahead. He yelled, “Clear a path!” As he got closer, he eyeballed an ambulance. Two paramedics jumped out and started shocking the man with a defibrillator. He yelled, “You’re all blocking the fucking bike lane!” The video was later posted and titled “PARAMEDICS BLOCK BIKE LANE.”

Selfimportantbruh commented, “You really need to get equal rights for cyclists.” The wheels started spinning for Johnny Bike Lane. He believed he would lead all cyclists into the Promised Land.

Johnny Bike Lane’s next video showed him in his spandex onesie, jerky sunglasses, and bike helmet lobbying the state legislature in Albany. He was attempting to “get bicyclists the same rights as motorists” and to achieve “bicycle liberation.” To his surprise and delight, the state agreed to extend bicyclists the same privileges.

From that point on, all bicycles had to be inspected, insured, registered with a license plate, and pay tolls. Johnny Bike Lane would no longer be able to run red lights or speed without receiving camera tickets or points on his license.

The next day, Johnny Bike Lane stopped his bike at a red light for the first time. “Are you Johnny Bike Lane? I saw you on the news,” said an attractive female cyclist.

“Yeah, of course that’s me,” he proudly responded.

“Thanks for costing me an extra two thousand dollars a year, asshole!” She rode off.

As he pedaled, a bright red Bugatti supercar blocked the bike lane. He stopped beside it and knocked on the tinted glass. The window slowly rolled down, and his eyes met Bethel’s.

“Eat a grizzled sack of cocks,” she proclaimed. Johnny Bike Lane coughed on the exhaust of the revving engine as the car peeled off.