Our cab is stuck in the line of cars backed up behind a pack of cyclists. The ringleader's rail thin physique is accentuated by his faded, threadbare spandex. Rage contorts his face as he rolls down the middle of the lane, and he raises a defiant middle finger to the clamoring car horns baying for his blood.
"The truth hurts, doesn't it, you fucking death machines!" he yells.
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