Do you know anyone who commits the motorcycling equivalent of cold-blooded murder? KarlB knows a few criminals…
I have a confession to make. I know people, I even call some of them friends, who are killers.
One of them lives not very far from here; you probably have someone similar living near you. These killers start their murder early in the morning or late at night, they really don’t care what time of day they commit these crimes. It starts as soon as they open their garage or shed doors or the moment the covers come off their victims. The crime they commit is full-choke murder in cold oil.
Now the killers have started using modern synthetic oils to mask their heinous crimes. What would have been apparent to us all in the past from the incriminating evidence of pooled mono-grade on the drive is now hidden for months, if not years. But we still hear the screams of the victims as the perpetrators wring the living daylights out of their helpless victims.
Of course the victims don’t remain silent for long; soon they can be heard rumbling and sometimes rattling in protest, but their tormentors don’t listen. Later the rumbles become knocks and on the open road, snatched away by the wind, the odd scream of protest can sometimes, just sometimes, be heard.
But surely this is not murder? How can it be if the criminals don’t know any better? That’s a fallacy. We have years of evidence and reams of proof which are available to all.
But how does it all end, you might wonder?
Well sometimes the criminal gets bored waiting for their victim to die and passes it on to kinder, gentler souls.
Other times, the victim is passed on to a younger and far worse criminal. Then the outcome is final and sometimes dramatic.
Before the end, the victim might try one last fling to get the attention of the perpetrator. In dramatic fashion it will scream its last moments and maybe — just maybe — catch the attention of a more sympathetic ear.
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But in other cases, the end is brief and loud as the victim leaves its lifeblood and innards strewn over the highway of its existence.