I’m going to save up for a new motorcycle by running a scam where I bet straight dudes at bars twenty bucks that I can get a girl’s number in under five minutes and then politely walk up her and say, “I just bet that asshole twenty bucks that I could get your number. I’ll split it with you if you pretend to laugh like I just said a good pick up line and then write a fake number on my hand.”
Like, I never understood those kind of bets in those shitty teen movies. Everybody loves being part of a scheme, man. Use your head.
If anyone ever does this to me I’ll call them out on being a con artist.
Joke’s on you, buddy. That’ll only have consequences the first, what, couple dozen times? I can take a punch.
But then eventually, I’ll have money for the bike, and whenever I get called out, I’ll just speed off, and, sure, maybe I crash and die in a gutter and the police can’t figure out why I have hundreds of fake phone numbers stuffed in my jacket and it launches a huge investigation that becomes sort of a local legend, but you know whose problem that is? Not fucking mine.
Because I’m a slutty motorcycle ghost, and who’s gonna’ stop me then? The ghost cops? Nice try. Everybody knows cops can’t become ghosts because they just go straight to hell. It’s basic math.
Moral of the story, don’t be a con artist or you will die in a horrible accident and become a lonely ghost.
First of all, don’t you ever accuse me of having morals, narrative or otherwise, ever again.
And second, where did I say I’d be lonely? I’d be a ghost on a motorcycle. That’s the sexiest thing that there is. You look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn’t bone Ghostrider. Look me in the goddamn eyes.
