let me attack this with all the things my writing prof told me never to do, under penalty of death and failure.
It was a dark and stormy night. Hush, a generally mild-mannered Kiwi, was in the shop with a wicked gleam in his eye. When at long last he finished his work of madness, an 8mm spanner hit the floor.
ting!cling!
"I'VE DONE IT!!!" he cackled, raising Blondie's severed head from its bottom end and thrusting it into the air, showered by droplets of spent oil. A flash of lightning revealed the glistening naked base gasket. Pistons, naked in the air hung blackly thick with carbon. A single tear ran down his cheek, the product of the moment, the trauma of his 650's decapitation. A tiny baggie of dak fell from its hiding place behind the rego plate, as if the bike had defecated itself when the last of life left its chassis.
Hush eyed the head from beneath, mirror-like cylinder walls reflecting keenly in the dim light.
"That'll fix ya!" he chuckled, "That'll teach you to leak..." The head went to a clear spot on the counter, and Blondie remained bolt-upright on her mainstand, disemboweled and tankless.
