Cybill hated only one person in the world, and she had never met him. He drove down her street nearly every day on his motorcycle--he called it a "crotch rocket", but she didn't know that term. It had neon green plastic that matched his leather jacket and pants, his sneakers, and his helmet. She had heard the phrase "Loud pipes save lives," but she didn't care. His pipes were too loud. He drove too fast. He squealed his tires. He even "popped a wheelie" on occasion. Cybill hated him, hated him, hated him.
After nearly two weeks without seeing her nemesis, she thought, Good. He was gone and that's all that mattered. Maybe he moved. Maybe he was arrested. Maybe he finally got into that accident he was looking for. Oh, God, maybe he was dead...
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