They race toward their unsuspecting victims like savage beasts out of hell. The night echoes with the shrieking of their mechanical laughter as they bear down upon their prey. Their faces fail to show the slightest hint of emotion, and their hearts are made of stone-cold steel. There’s no need for these demons to consume food. They feed off the tortured cries of the unfortunate souls who cross paths with them.

Nobody escapes their wrath. These bicycle riders inhabit the majority of campus, and there just doesn’t seem to be enough room on the sidewalk for the rest of us.

Innocent bystanders are harassed repeatedly by bicycle riders who insist on demonstrating their ability to skid to a complete stop just inches before impact. Many students no longer have to worry about the test they just failed. Instead, they’re more concerned about making it home without tire tracks on their backs.

How did it come to this? Has it gotten to the point where parents have to keep their children locked safely inside the house?

Things were getting bad out there, and I wanted answers. I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went out to investigate.

Surveying the scene sent chills down my spine. Campus was empty, and the atmosphere was gloomy. The smell of burnt rubber brought back memories of baseball cards snapping against the spokes of my bicycle’s back tire. Yes, I used to be one of them. I used to ride a bicycle. I sighed.

Suddenly, I sensed distress just ahead. My search brought me to the outskirts of Founders Memorial Library, where art major Ameesh Shah sat with his face in his hands. Apparently, Shah had just been accosted by a bicycle. I placed a hand on his shoulder and offered my sympathy.

“I can’t even begin to understand the pain you’re going through,” I told him.

Shah replied: “I just feel so violated. What did I do to deserve this?”

I shook my head and grimaced, offering Shah my hand to pull him up. I had to get away from the scene. It was too much for me to handle.

My slow walk brought me to the fountain just outside Cole Hall. I saw business management major Michael Glab walking toward me. Suddenly, Glab’s face contorted as he was clipped from behind. It happened in the blink of an eye, an apparent bike-and-run.

I cringed in disgust as the grisly scene unfolded in front of me. I ran to the scene of the crime to offer assistance. Glab turned out to be fine, just a few cuts and bruises.

That was it for me. I couldn’t handle it any more. I played the game, and I lost. As I headed back to the Northern Star, I replayed what had just happened in my mind. My daydreaming was put to a sudden halt by the sound of my last name. I looked up. It was electrical engineering major Keith Simpson.

“Meno, I just want you to know that we appreciate what you do,” Simpson told me.

“Thanks. I needed that.”

Editor’s note: This column, while based on events that occur on campus, has been fictionalized for dramatic effect.

Columns reflect the opinion of the author and not necessarily that of the Northern Star staff.