He finished closing up the kitchen at the Irish pub near campus,

Knocked back his (several) shift shot(s), clumsily climbed on the borrowed bike,

And slowly made his way home.

Weariness and ethanol conspired to rob him of momentum

He pedaled weakly and even more slowly, until

Snake felt the bike slither out from under him,

Foiled by the lack of forward motion and consistent uprightness;

The rider fell right on his side near the curb.

In the postlapsarian seconds, Mr. Conrad heard mean laughter

Bellowing out from the equally besotted gentleman across the street.

As he pointed and jeered at Snake, he strode nonchalantly

Straight into a Stop sign, cracked his bald pate,

Sprawling him out, legs akimbo,

And into oncoming traffic.