»Can’t you make way, bum?« The fat cyclist in the green coat insults me as she almost grazes me while overtaking. Before she disappears around the corner, she turns to me briefly and gives me the evil eye. Watch your language! Bum, my ass! She was illegally riding her bike on the sidewalk where I was going. I couldn’t see her; she was coming from behind, but the sassy bitch rang the bell a few times to be let past. Let me pass, my ass! Cyclists have no business on the sidewalk, unless they are small children. However, this person wasn’t young but more of a pensioner, and the hippo did not like the fact that I hadn’t cleared the path for her. That’s why she had to take a tight turn around me and almost crash into a fence. That will not have amused her. Obvisiously, my true words, »Since when is this a mixed-use path?« did not suit her either.

Who behaves properly in the world today? Nowadays, people do what they want. That’s what laws are for—what’s allowed and what’s forbidden. But who abides by them? People set their own standards. That’s the way it is, isn’t it? You open your mouth, complain in some way because you are absolutely right, and what happens? You get nasty words, and you get insulted. That’s how it is in our world!

I continue my walk into the city center and think about what I could do about it—against such hooligans. A great idea comes to me as I pass the bike store. This shop has been around for as long as I’ve lived here in the city. I get the necessary parts for my plan there and then continue on my way.

The sky is blue, and the sun is shining. When I arrive in the city’s pedestrian mall, I treat myself to a hot drink in a street café. Although it’s a little chilly, sitting outside in this weather is fun, and you can spot interesting people—familiar people and unfamiliar people. Luigi, the Italian waiter, serves my order. He is a nice waiter and always ready for a chat. To maintain the cliché of a foreign worker, he deliberately speaks broken German. At the same time, the rascal does everything in his power to keep up the appearance of being a thoroughly honest guy who frowns upon all wrongdoing.

Sipping my cup for the first time, I spot the fat one in the green coat again as she locks her bike in front of the supermarket opposite and disappears inside. The purchase is sure to take a while, as she has a lot of products to buy and will be eating a lot of calories every day. I was hoping for an opportunity like this, and I am seizing it immediately. I quickly get up from my chair, hurry to her bike, and attach the newly purchased cable lock to the rear wheel. Clack! I quickly make my escape and sit down comfortably at my table again with an innocent face to wait and see what happens. I play with the two lock keys like a Greek with a komboloi.

Two Jehovah’s Witnesses are now standing at the entrance to the supermarket—an older man and a woman. I know the woman from my neighborhood. She is around forty and once told me that we shouldn’t judge people because that’s how we will be judged. No one is free from guilt, and she mentioned the following saying that Jesus had uttered: »You see the mote in your brother’s eye, but you do not notice the beam in your own eye.« »That certainly doesn’t apply to my self-knowledge. I know who I am«, I said to her. I also do yoga regularly; it helps with self-reflection.

After a good 20 minutes, my quarry comes out of the store with a bulging plastic bag. The woman puts the bag down to unlock her bike. Now my lock jumps into her eyes, and she is baffled. She pulls on it, but it’s no use. You can tell right away that she does not really know what to do at the moment. The woman sits in the trap and thinks. She probably does not have a cell phone, so a short time later she speaks to a passer-by and explains her precarious situation. She actually gives her hers. Now she makes a phone call. Someone will probably come soon and try to help her out of her predicament.

Another 20 minutes later, a man just as old as the lady appears. He has a bolt cutter in his luggage. Now it’s time for Luigi. »Quick, Luigi, come here, hurry up!«, I shout. He comes shooting up like an Italian sports car and asks me: »Che cosa succede?« he asks in Italian. »Look over there, they’re cracking a bike!« Luigi recognizes the situation and sprints the twelve meters to the scene, but there was already a crack. The ring lock is broken and can no longer do its job as an anti-theft device for bicycles. Luigi arrives at the scene of the crime three seconds too late, and a heated conversation ensues. An area in which Italians get along brilliantly. They are truly world champions in this field.

The police I called arrived like lightning. Now that’s what I call fast! Two uniformed men jump out of the car. I stand up, wave them over to me, and say a few words of explanation, leaving out important details while pointing at the pair of gangsters with the keys in my hand. After my brief description of what happened, the policemen thanked me. I sit down again and sip my third cappuccino.

The officers go over to the crime scene. Then the green coat and the colleague with the bolt cutter shave have to identify themselves. One policeman takes photos of the bike and is probably looking for a frame number, while the other checks the suspects’ personal details by radio. During all these actions, Luigi is asked several times by the police officers not to obstruct the investigation. He should please keep his mouth shut. In the end, they let the woman go on her bike. The police keep the borked lock and then also disappear. Luigi now trots back to his workplace. »Probably a false alarm«, he tells me. For me, it wasn’t a false alarm at all, but the whole thing was a really great experience for me and well worth the money for the lock. I shall stock up on locks like this for my future vendetta against bicycle hooligans.

A week later, I’m on a bike myself, racing through the hilly landscape. As my stomach growls, I stop off at a restaurant. I leave it well-fed. But what's wrong? Both tires on my jazzy, gaudily mountain bike are flat, and there's a note stuck to the saddle. Bum, ride properly! I'm shocked and think about it. The note could be from the hiker I almost knocked down on the forest path earlier because I was speeding down the hill.