Chester, a transplant from the East Coast via New Mexico, came to the Farm shortly after Geoffrey. Chet, as he liked to be called, was an affable and ambitious twenty-two-year-old Italian ginger who was looking for a cheap place so that he could start saving money to buy a house for himself. The Legacy bedrooms were perfect for him as he was George’s height, but only half of George’s weight.
Chet has had an interesting time with different modes of transportation, some of it testosterone-fueled, some of it bad luck, and some of it by personal choice. As soon as he turned eighteen and his parents could no longer control him, Chet switched to motorcycles as his main source of travel. At the time of this decision, he was living in Maryland and frequently commuting around the DC Beltway for work. What could possibly go wrong?
Apparently, the East Coast takes its road repair about as seriously as North Idaho does – that is to say, almost not at all. Due to winter, snowplows, and frost heave, potholes are quite common, both here and there. While back there, Chet had the misfortune to find one of these potholes.
This was not your ordinary type of pothole, oh no. This one should have been fenced off much in the same manner as one would fence off an abandoned mine shaft. It was one of those potholes that destroys suspensions, and front-end alignments, and causes cargo to be launched from the backs of truck beds. In this case, it swallowed the front tire of Chet’s Buell motorcycle whole, causing him to slow from forty-five miles per hour to zero miles per hour in the space of half an inch, and launched him promptly over the handlebars.
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