There was a guy who used to rev his obnoxiously loud bike super early and super late round my way, it was so loud it would leave your ears ringing even inside with the windows shut.

He died in a bike accident and everyone was happy, so many neighbour’s I’ve barely spoken to shared a quiet comment about it.

We do though get a ride through every year from the chapter of the gang he was in because he died ‘a heros death’ according to them as he had been fighting a different group of manchildren on motorbikes earlier that day and they were possibly chasing him at the time.

The family have a shrine to him by the road (not where he died, just near their house) with empty beer cans, burnt out candles, biker patches, cheap plastic skulls, and slogans about how tough or cool bikers are. It’s a fascinating testament to how we form groups and make our own reality, I think he and they really believe that when we saw him on that stupidly loud bike we wished we could be as cool as him rather than everyone viewing him as nothing but an annoyance.