He felt his scrotum levitate off the seat of his 250cc SYM Motorizer, his hands peel from its handlebars. He felt every suspended bead of polluted humidity lick at the dark hairs on his body as he sailed, perpendicular into the pink-purple Saigon morning. Glee shot from his asshole to Adam’s apple as he hung suspended in space and time, wincing in anticipation of his collision with the dreaded Jollibee. The tension left him like a lost fishing lure when his greasy head finally buckled the shiny granite tile glued decoratively to the wall of the hated Filipino burger chain. When Guido and matter collided, matter won. All of his most essential equipment for navigating the world broke in an instant. His eyes popped from their sockets, the tiny bones of his inner ear sailed through his timpanum, millions of unsung nerves in his mouth and nasal cavity tingled with a final ecstatic taste of tin foil flavour as they fragmented into the bloody oatmeal of his brain. Systems failing, lights blinking, he felt no pain. His body lay like a lead apron over his essence.

• Tags: fiction, Guido done gone, Issue 29, Vietman