Stevie The Independent Citi Bike was not like his brothers. They were content with their small lives, shackled to the docking station. They were satisfied with the monotony of the morning and evening commute, the tourist joyride, the occasional gym workout and celebrity sighting. But not Stevie. This life was not enough for him. He wanted more.

And so, one day, with the help of a careless subscriber who forgot to lock him up properly when she ducked into 7-Eleven for a cup of hazelnut coffee, Stevie found, for the first time, that he was free. Away he rolled down Bowery, past the fashionistas outside the Bowery Hotel, the bloggers braving the outdoor tables at Think Coffee, the foodiots feasting on Oyster po'boys at Saxon and Parole. At first, this newfound independence thrilled him, but soon, without a rider to guide him from bike lane to bike lane, the streets seemed alien, like massive tar pits out to swallow him whole.

Overwhelmed by the vast emptiness of life, Stevie rolled into Slainte Pub, hoping a little liquid courage would smooth over some of the terror rattling through his gears. What ho, 2-for-1 happy hour! A Brooklyn Lager here, a Lagunitas IPA there, a few Yuenglings for a taste of real America. Soon, Stevie was feeling much more ready to face the world, which, to his surprise, seemed to be a bit wobblier than before.

Alas, Stevie the Independent Citi Bike had not been fed since the hapless subscriber abandoned him, and he did not know the dangers of drinking on an empty stomach. He tottered down Bowery, his down tube heaving with the weight of a thousand hops. Finally, around 1st Street, Citi Bike collapsed, sad, drunk and alone, until kindly workers came to carry him away.

The End. (And no, we won't read it again, it's bedtime.)