Dead Rider, Mad Lady – Colt Karpman

May 6, 2025

after Michael Hamburger

 

 

I think I might have told you this, but here is how every day used to go.

Awakening next to my beautiful and fertile cousin, Diotima. Just another Arabian night, I’m thinking. Diotima, in her slumber, absently twisting her hair around her finger, like spaghetti around a fork. I’m thinking, put some ketchup on it; make a real meal out of it. But no. No. Let the woman sleep. She must be tired, after all. She’s the one who has to look after the boys day-in and day-out, while I’m mucking out a living riding delivery.

UberEats, Deliveroo, Grubhub, Postmates. You name it, I ride it. On my seven speed, souped up with a lithium ion battery, drop-shipped via Amazon from China and chock full of semi-volatile compounds. Five Huawei phones strapped to my handlebars, each hooked into a different food delivery app. Huawei blacklisted from Google Maps on account of concerns that the Chinese government is collecting consumer data, so I’m using the backdoor mapping apps. This food’s not going to deliver itself to slick indie designers.

As I leave for work, I see all thirteen of my baby boys sleeping in their bunks. My honeys. My champions. All strong, all mine, all with decidedly unbiblical names. Lance, Brayden, Kaysen, Liam, Mason, Webmaster Landon, Cameron, Austin, Bryce, Aidan, Carter, Rylan, Cayden. My babies. I might only be 5’6, but I can pump. Seriously.

And I’m sure I’ve told you about my boys before.

There’s the effervescent Lance: a very handsome young man with thick chestnut hair and the happy-go-lucky smile of a child pickpocket.

And Brayden—ah, Brayden. He might not necessarily have the looks of Lance, but the boy can work. Gets it from me. He’s a regular everyday blue-collar grind-it-out down-and-dirty first-in-last-out gymrat clock-punching film-junkie dirt-on-the-uniform lunchpail hard-hat nine-to-five playbook-studying coach’s son who never wins any games but has every single goddamn one of his teammates come to his birthday party.

Then, there’s the imperturbable Kaysen. Although I think that Kaysen has an underrated body, other than that, he is Falstaffian in every respect.

And then, my pride Liam. A lot of people think Liam is fucked-up and twisted in the head. He’s had it rough. If I may be honest, Liam isn’t true blood of mine – he’s adopted. I remember when I found him. “Please, please,” he was sniveling, wearing ragged overalls and clutching his pathetically thin lunch bag as the other schoolboys kicked gravel at him, “don’t tease me! It’s not my fault my dad’s only a postman!” The other schoolboys just smirked and threw him into the river, laughing all the way. His real dad, the postman, was going to leave him there, but I fished him out. And, boy, did I get lucky. Little did the bullies or the postman know that he would be bitten by a radioactive carp in that dirty water and turn into the silver-age superhero “Captain Carp.” Liam used to be the postman’s boy, but now he’s mine.

Mason has bona fide charisma. In every relationship, the Big Cheese is the one who cares less. And Mason doesn’t give a fuck.

Next is Webmaster Landon. He’s a tech whiz. He used bleeding edge time travel technology stolen from federal government office servers to mastermind the notorious Bataan Death March and other U.S. war crimes not yet known to the general public. But that’s behind him; now, he’s using his powers for good.

Oh, then there’s Cameron. Being in his presence gives one the pleasure of associating themselves with a Living God.

I can’t forget the mercurial Austin, either. He wears a suit, funny glasses, and a top hat, and just generally looks like the Monopoly Man.

Bryce’s flowing yellow locks shine through the duskiest night, making me swoon like a poodle skirt at a Ritchie Valens concert.

Aidan has his pith helmet on.

Carter: a powerhouse of libido and erotica. His presence in the family makes everyone feel better about themselves.

And Rylan. He was choked by the umbilical cord during labor, consequent of which he has contracted various developmental disorders. The silver lining is that, owing to this incident, he also has total recall, but only for landlines and license plates. He has a heart of gold.

Finally, my favorite: the most beautiful rhododendron that has ever blossomed: my Cayden, whose personality the Lord Almighty crafted out of bubblegum and cotton candy.

I remember the last time I saw them. The boys gathering outside our tasteful garret to greet me as I return home from work. Thirteen sons, all mine. Proud Diotima behind the boys, holding a plate of heavy Italian food.

As I am locking up my bicycle and removing the thermal box sitting on the rear-mounted rack, the lithium-ion battery zip-tied to the frame of my bicycle begins crackling and popping. Spitting. A white spark. And, all of the sudden, like a white dwarf going supernova, a blindingly bright conflagration. Which is very dangerous. Everything goes dark. Then, I’m waking up. I have no legs or arms. I am only a torso now. Blood is pouring out of the holes where my limbs used to be attached. I know that I am perishing. My boys are all strewn around the lawn, mourning what has become of me. Using what’s remaining of my life force, I’m approaching my boys to bless them with parting kisses. Because I am now a torso without arms or legs, I’m moving toward them the same way that a phone buzzes across a table when set to vibrate-mode. I kiss Lance. Then Brayden, Kaysen, Liam, Mason, Webmaster Landon, Cameron, Austin, Bryce, Aidan, Carter, Rylan. Finally, reaching Cayden, my favorite, I’m whispering, “You were the best of all. You never got to ride with Papa.”

Diotima. I’m reaching her at least last. My queen. My cousin. Her hair is still twirled around her finger. I’m thinking, there is ketchup now, on account of how violently the blood spurts out of my holes into her long hair. I’m chanting her name, and I do not stop until all of my blood leaves my body.

This is what the Inexorable Axe of Fate will do to a man: it will hack away at him until there is nothing left but an ungainly stump. That said, an ungainly stump might still pose some threat, in that a blind person or an uncoordinated small child might trip over it and break one or more limbs. Which raises the following two questions: am I that ungainly stump? And are the enemies of my boys that blind person or uncoordinated small child? To both of these questions, I answer “Yes.”

In the end, I am alone. Here, in this weedless garden. Not a dandelion, not a thistle, not a nettle, not even a daisy grows here.