He drove it like he stole it. He drove it about as fast as you could drive a moped of that particular make and model. He drove it about as recklessly as the route - a pothole-littered backstreet of an unnamed inner-city suburb - would allow, switching his frame from side-to-side with elegant hip glides like the skiers of Blue Cow, dodging prime examples of under-invested infrastructure, a patchwork of patched-over council road repairs here-and-there, crates covering gas, water and cable television services, any number of places his two-inch front tyre could get lodged. Such focus downwards that he didn't see the ute (early-2000s make, without any cameras or notifications for impending collisions) reversing from a garage, all viewpoints obfuscated by kerbside bumper-to-bumper beemers and kias of this particularly income-diverse block. He hit without brakes, smack on the centre of the ute tray, flew metres up-n-out ahead of a head-cracking touchdown, some four houses further down, and dying, almost instantly, they would later say to next-of-kin, ahead of a soul rise many had read about, judged and organs, skin etc blendered and remoulded, the entire unit being remade, reincarnated as the motherboard inside the computer on which I type this.