Sometimes imagination wanders through the shadows of doom its glasses fogged by sweat and steam, like a lost soul without a metric wrench it curses Napoleon, gives serious consideration to voting for Trump, welcomes the End of Days, and then as the noon hour strikes it has what might be called a little bit of a heat tantrum. "There's nothing wrong with this drive belt!"
Reaching to steady himself, he calls to the Angel of Greed, who for those who
might be interested is still exiled in the barn, he's disguised as a Velvet Ant,
and then our gallant repairman spots something untoward on Doctor T's left
handlebar. A loose bracket had slipped, leaving the clutch with insufficient
pull. And Oh Yes! To put right it naturally required an allen key, they grow on
trees, you know.