We received this short story from a mysterious writer calling himself Dolph Zakher. We’re sure this is a nom de plume, but in any event, it’s a great bit of crystal ball gazing. Enjoy.
* * * * * *
Colman Sargent
In the end he knew it would come to this, back where it had all started, Plano, Texas.
Colman Sargent had been on the run for five years after the Feds re-opened their fraud investigation following the 2012 USADA report into his activities as a professional cyclist.
Now out of luck and cash, the buzzing and flickering of the motel lights were all he had left to remind him of his past fame and fortune, and the paparazzi that came with it.
In the parking lot was a beat-up 1999 Chevrolet Camaro with fake plates he bought for $100. It was out of gas and he had no idea how he was going to pay for a re-fill or the room.
“No, it ain’t ending here,” he thought. “I’ll always fight like I fought cancer.”
He groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed, scratched his beard and belly and slapped one of the hookers he’d picked up at the nearby truck stop on the ass. They had taken the last three-hundred dollars he had.
“Wake up,” Sargent said as he took a piss. “Lets party.”
He used to be the fittest athlete on earth, but now after a life as a hunted man he was barely recognizable at three hundred pounds.
“Fucking Taco Bell,” he thought. “I gotta get back on the bike.”
He took a peek through the blinds before walking out to the car and opening the door to grab the last bag of Mellow Johnnys Premium Roast he had in the glove box.
“At least I can have a decent espresso,” he murmured.
Nice was a million miles away but every time he brewed a fresh cup it transported him back to the Promenade des Anglais. Good times.
“Fucking French!” he barked as he fired up the last possession of any real value to him.
Twenty-four hours earlier he was blasting down the I-75 after a tip off from Flandis that the feds were closing in. Strange how the Mennonite was now his only friend.
But where to go? Well here he was. He had been in a bad spot before, but it was a long time ago and on the L’Alpe d’Huez when he’d forgotten to eat.
Sargent was on autopilot now, but the three hookers wouldn’t shut-up. He had promised them a good time but he had other things on his mind.
Still one last big night wouldn’t hurt. He had checked in and pulled the black bag from the trunk. In it was a shotgun, a loaded Glock, a box of shells, a kilo of coke, and a bag of dildos.
“Badass.”
“I’ll bet Bullrich is at home in his Lederhosen and Andrew is getting his balls busted by that bitch Betsie,” thought Sargent.
For six hours there was nothing but debauchery.
“Man those chicks sure can party, just like the Holsen twins.”
The glass center table was covered in coke dust and used condoms and the dildos were strewn across the puke green carpet. The guns were under the bed.
“Fuck it.”
He collected the dust into a single line and snorted deeply then pulled a beer from the fridge.
It was 7am.
He crawled back into bed and got one of the hookers to blow him as the other two made out. It took a lot to get him going these days.
“Bang for my buck.”
* * * * *
8am
Thump! Thump! Thump!
“Open up, it’s the Feds!”
“Fuck!”
Sargent grabbed the Glock from under the bed and took a peek outside. Two guys. But at the wrong door. The Feds were always fucking up his case.
“They must be kidding. They’ll need an entire peloton to take me in.”
During the night he had snuck out and siphoned some gas out of a guest’s car and moved it out back. It reminded him of Motoman.
He had an escape hatch and used it. Leaving the hookers behind.
After driving around for an hour he finally found a pay phone but had no cash.
“I know, I’ll call Joyann, he’ll take my call,” he said to himself. “We go way back and he’ll accept a collect call. For fucks sake, I trusted him with my Terrari money.”
Then Sargent remembered how his old Sporting Director Joyann Buehler had testified against him and had admitted to spiking the drink bottles of riders he no longer found useful.
But the Belgian was now back at home in his big house in Bruges, with immunity.
“Cunt!”
“I’ll call Phil Garrett he’s never let me down. When the truth came out, he cried like a fucking baby.”
Click!
Sargent banged the handset ten times against the phone booth glass. Not even Phil would take his call.
“Fuck! If only I still had my Blackberry with Obama’s direct line in it,” Sargent shouted out loud.
Passers-by crossed the road to avoid him.
“Don’t move Sargent,” said a voice behind him.
The game was up and he hadn’t even fired a shot. In a final act of defiance he shot them ‘the look’ that had once felled Bullrich. Wasted.
“I won seven Tours de France, you bastards, seven!” Sargent yelled as the Feds cuffed him. “I beat cancer!”
But it was over. The Tour de France was a lifetime away. Except for the seven asterisks in Wikipedia, no one ever remembered him.
Looks like he was wrong… (illustration by Anders Bendixen)
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