Yes, I Admit I've Got a Lincoln Problem.....

(A violence gang typical of the streets of Lincoln.)

Lincoln was not at all what I expected what with all of the violence gangs roving around the city challenging decent and hard working citizens to bicylce jousts to the death. I came across one such bicycle joust, a rite of passage for fledgling members, as I was entering the city. Sadly the loser was shunned by his entire family and cast out into the surrounding wilderness which I will discuss later. But at least he was allowed to live. I should have known what was to come as it is a well established fact that it is bad luck just seeing a thing like that. I made a quick change to another street but my dreams will be haunted by the experience until the end of my days.

The city of Lincoln was built in the mid 1800's by a large gypsy clan attempting to create a modern day utopia. It is well known today as both the capital of Nebraska as well as the birthplace of Jazz. Jazz being a popular bland mush eaten with poached eggs and turnip juice as a restorative during the harsh Nebraska winters. Today Lincoln is surrounded on all sides by a quarter mile strip of barren land known as the Wastelands. Many have led excursions in search of fresh water supplies yet none have returned. Some say they were eaten by some kind of mutant humanoid while others theorize that have made new lives for themselves in any one of a number of nomadic tribes, feeding on grubs and tubers while worshipping a large undetonated nuclear missile.

I quickly made my way through the city stopping only once at Antelope Park to visit the infamous Lincoln Children's Zoo where over 300 children of a variety of ages and temperment are on display in their native habitats. My particular favorite was the spoiled suburbanite enclosure. Antelope Park is also home to the Sunken Garden, a beautiful building which houses a collection of colorful tropical plants and is slowly sinking into the earth below it. Ancient prophecy reveals that the garden will be ultimately swallowed by a huge sinkhole only to be replaced by a similar structure with a larger gift shop.

(A large gift shop not unlike what has been foretold in Lincoln Foklore.)

As I approached the large wood and stone gate, covered with the decaying bodies of many years of bicycle joust victims, that serves as the perimeter of Lincoln proper I felt a sudden jerk and had some difficulty maintaining control until I could ease to a slower speed. My back tire was completely flat, likely a result of riding over a large area of broken turnip juice bottles. I can still smell the rancid odor of turnip juice and pulp baking in the hot Nebraska sun for days. Had there been an accident? Why were there so many broken bottles? I came to a stop on the side of the road.

"Need a lift?" A voice from behind me said. It was a voice I knew that I had heard before and it brought bile into my mouth. I turned to see Deaf Jim and for a brief time could only marvel at how a man who has been deaf his entire life could move so steathily. Perhaps he has had some kind of formal dance and/or martial arts training, most likely in the deadly art of ballerinate a long forgotten mix of ballet and karate. One expert believes that the wild west was won not with a heavy iron six-shooter but with the light yet lethal toes of the ballerinate masters that had come to this land from the mysterious orient. I knew then that I would not survive a skirmish with this audiologically handicapped brute.

"What do you want? Come to rub it in my face that you stole my woman?" I croaked.

"Nope, just passing through on my way to Omaha to pick some steaks up for Agnes. You know how she likes her steak!"

"Bloody as hell and still mooing!" We said together and I resented the feeling of comraderie I briefly felt for this statuesque if not imperfect rascal.

Deaf Jim threw my chopper into the back of his truck and took me the nearest auto mechanic outside of the city limits. We said nothing. When he wasn't looking I slipped a few bucks into his glove compartment and winced at the side of a nude photo of Agnes. With my cycle soon road ready I headed out once more along Highway 80. I couldn't help but wonder if I had seen the last of Deaf Jim or of Agnes. Only time will tell but for now the road awaits.

Sincerely,
Spooner Jenkins