The sound of creaking wood and squealing nails pryed by an overzealous crowbar echoed off the cramped walls of a shipping crate. Re-born onto the world, coated with a crust of grease, sawdust, and rat sh*t. 30 years in that hole would be enough to kill anyone, and Henry had lost control long ago. The alter persona of The Cretin had firmly grasped lucidity. As the box was opened, The Cretin could hear the voice of his would be rider…”awwoh schweet, I bet we’ll get ‘r runnin in noo time, eh?” You see the bike was never shipped anywhere. F*cking JR’s estate had been in arbitration amongst his children until his daughter finally hung herself in the barn last month…near The Cretin’s stall. Unsuspecting Canadians purchased the entire estate at auction and were busy ‘sprucing it up a bit eh’ when they found the box containing The Cretin. New grips were fitted, tubes patched, and the headlight got a new bulb, parts seemed to be drawn by magnet to the now prized TT. Metal wasn’t the only thing drawn to the bike. Albert, the degenerate 27-year-old son of the family had taken a liking to The Cretin. Since his release from prison for meth smuggling, horse molestation, and syrup counterfeiting, he’d been a bit lost in life, struggling to find a persona, a direction. This is what The Cretin had been waiting for. With a sawed off muffler and a dry rotted front tire, Albert rode off on The Cretin, away from the farm, down the highway and into the night.
After the gas ran out, Albert walked for a few miles to the next station, but when he returned, his bike was gone. The Cretin had found another rider. For the next 5 years The Cretin would do the same, relentlessly, vainly attempting to silence the demons that had developed over the last 30 years in that shipping box. One after another, local teenagers, mid life crisis prone 40 year olds, even drunken bar sluts were glamored by The Cretin, he craved the rev limiter, he needed the affirming scrape of pegs and bars grinding concrete. It was never enough, he wouldn’t stop until he hit bottom. And bottom he hit. CraigsList. Sold to the Slabtown garage team for the princely sum of $400 and a used motorhead. Even in the relative comfort of the Slabtown garage, The Cretin’s influence lurked, and soon he would reach his true physical iteration. A retro, neo-mod-chopfighter-supermotard with a sissy bar. The Cretin finally felt comfortable in his own skin and began to flaunt his influence. “A helmet” he hissed, “a special helmet, with horns” he whispered, “horns and sonar, and a big f*cking tongue” his exhaust rattled out. It was undeniable, The Cretin had taken over, there was no stopping, only satisfaction. After his helmet was created, a new plan arose, a coup de gras, a death blow to end the suffering of this wounded creature before modeling would take over for his riding duties. A bit of irrational fun to be sure that there were no moments of fleeting regret in his elderly years. The Wall of Death would be the only appropriate destination. With almost the same lurid past as the Cretin himself, the WOD, would be the bastion of fate for the final ride of the Cretin. Special fittings were attached to capture the moment on film, but no mechanical preparations were made, he wanted to go in raw-dog. Flying around the wall at 500 mph, his rider, a new one that day, was polluted by the Cretin’s will.
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