There is a girl - attractive, brilliant, ripe, fucking hilarious. Mind-blowingly amazing. Picture the perfect woman.
Wait, real quick - what are the two greatest numbers in existence? Pi and 47. Right.
Okay, once again, picture the perfect woman. Assign her a number. Cube it. Multiply by pi. We just bumped her up to the next dimension, you geometrical geniuses. Add 47. Okay, now take that number and convert it back into a lady. See how she's like part unicorn, part dragon, and she can fry bacon with her eyes? She smells like butter and honey and spices that totally go with butter and honey. She can definitely fly just by the sheer force of her will.
Now imagine some asshole snatching her bike from inside her highly fortified (bricks and baseball bats) apartment building. Aren't you sad for her? Don't you want to just help her, comfort her?
No? You wanna tell her shit she "should" do, all the shit she did wrong to lead up to that moment, as if she isn't fully aware that leaving her bike unlocked in the hallway where it's been stored all winter is still risky? Bitch is part dragon, she knows what's up. She knows it's her fault. Stop reminding her. Fucking jerks. Tell her a joke, and then tell her she's pretty, and when she glares at you say something like, "pretty funny lookin!" and then if you're lucky, she'll give you a high five.
She's lounging lazily in ill-fitting cut-off sweatpants and a junior high 1994 Science Olympiad t-shirt, and on her it looks Awesome. Yeah, she was totally on the trivia team. She worked it back in 1994. In fact, she worked it on Thursday. It could be more realistic to suggest that she was drunk enough to think she was working it (but we all know she wasn't). Also, why do guys have girlfriends? Stupid. They should all just be sitting around waiting for her to show up and rip their world asunder, because she totally would. Seriously.
Fucking whatever, so she's easing herself back into the real world following a long night and an afternoon of rash decisions and Black Dynamite, when her mind slips over to that thing, that thing that happened earlier this week that she suppressed to keep herself from punching people that don't deserve to be punched (with the power of a unicorn/dragon/bacon-cookin' lady).
A friend was in from out of town. A good friend. And he brought good-looking friends that served as an adequate distraction for several days. They were in town for this, because they are brewers, and the beer was always savory and lush. So she didn't get her shit done because of beer.
But now she has to find her missing Schwinn. Do not put it off just because it's depressing, she says to herself. Le sigh.
She tackles the interwebs, powering through every single Craiglist post regarding bikes in Chicago and the surrounding area. She is determined to fight some fucking crime.
Twenty minutes later, she finds it. Well, she thinks she does. Someone is selling her bike (or something eerily similar) and a matching men's Schwinn Suburban as a vintage duo from their "grandparents' garage." But the bikes differ enough that she smells something dark and sinister in the corners of Craigslist.
The men's bike has a new seat, a headlight, and a storage rack above the rear tire. It's clean. The ladies' bike has the original mattress seat, rusted wire stays, loose brake cables. She wonders if the rear fender is dented. She zooms in on the picture: impossible to tell from the angle. She believes it's intentional.
Fuck these fucking fucks, she thinks, trying to SELL MY FUCKING BIKE with their douchebag Craigslist ad. "I really love these bikes and they ride great, but they just won't fit into the Prius!" Gag.
And they live in the Gold Coast, which means they pay about nine million dollars a month just to exist and brag about living in the fucking Gold Coast, which they totally pay for it by stealing bikes with heavy emotional mojo threaded into them and sell them for way more than they're worth, why? Because hipsters will pay asinine dollah dollah bills for anything "vintage."
She views the ad about fourteen times in thirty seconds, clicking back and forth on her browser before growling "fuck it" and sends the seller an email that asks too many questions. It's from the same email address that she posted around her apartment complex.
Rookie mistake. She regrets it almost immediately. Yes, she should have created a fake email address. She knows. You don't need to tell her. She was just so excited about stickin' it to 'em.
That's the only ad for a Schwinn Suburban in the past ten days, and Atticus has been missing for less time than that, so prior ads are useless. She obsesses over the picture posted by the Alleged Gold Coast Bike Burglars, willing it to reveal something, anything that proves this bike belongs to her.
She goes back to lounging and dreaming of punching those honky bastards with their bike-thieving treachery, hoping to get an email response.
Hours later, they alter their ad on Craigslist and say the ladies' bike was sold. They never respond to her email.