Why did the migrant chicken.
by Coleman Brixby
I had decided. I was going to march myself, chin up, through the blind-bend.
The inertia I had mustered from years past meant the safety of the curb would now be, at most, an entry in ink between roughly bound leather. My honest hope was that a vehicle of some sort would plough into me as it flew past, veering me into safety, rather than letting me slip over and into the abyss.
London Town is frantic enough to assume a collision is probable; highly so. Countless tragedies skimming past one another at light-speed; a two-way thoroughfare to a cold, wet, grey, first-world STD.
A poorly tattooed arm Limped out a Transit van’s window vomiting Kozel into oncoming traffic, or the recipient, sinking deeper into her luxury-import’s automated passenger seat avoiding eye contact with the lads as they plunder past.
I would have been content with interception by either; anything, really: Igor and his mates, or her Majesty. Even a hybrid double-decker flooring it in guzzler mode, Christ, a free-wheeling fire truck, on fire, spewing Ebola from it’s high-pressure hose would have sufficed! Anything but the humiliation, and void, of deportation. Anything.
Mere seconds from the edge, with the abyss beginning to creep over the tip of my nose, impact split my lungs into a fit of relief! Floundering inches from the edge I appeared to have survived banishment-by-Border-Agency.
It could have been worse, way worse. In contrast to the low flying A380 I had prepared for, my collision was with a bicycle piloted by a fat man. Soft, a little moist from the hill-climb; rosy cheeks and a heart condition meant I would not have to tuck-tail and fall prey to expulsion.
Thank fuck. There’s no place like not having to go home. Even if it meant time spent between the two plump ginger nipples of amateurism, I thought, curling up comfortably in it's bosom.
Mope along three years later, suffocating under the same weight, the same job, the same restrictions from a greener than acceptable passport; cheekbone gorged against the same fucking patch of fucking road, and now, admittedly, I’m well fed up from struggling to get out from under this fat cunt.