The suburban loser takes his family to his brother-in-law’s barbecue. One of the kids in the neighborhood just bought a GoPed, a loud gas powered scooter with big rubber wheels. As the adults sit in the back flipping steaks and drinking wine coolers, all the children line up at the edge of the driveway taking turns on the GoPed. Soon, the other children accuse the suburban loser's youngest son of hogging the GoPed. He rides it further down past the blue house and does three loops instead of two. He says dirty words to the other kids when they tell him to stop. As the night falls and the tiki torches light up, the suburban loser’s youngest son tells him how fast the GoPed goes, how loud it is, and how he can control where it goes if he turns the handlebars. The store has a few models, so the suburban loser picks the most expensive one with a bright green frame and a special type of grip tape on the riding board. His youngest son notices both of these details right away. The suburban loser sits at the kitchen table with his wife later that summer when his youngest son comes stumbling through the garage door, his arms outstretched with limp wrists hanging downward. His face is frozen in fear and incomprehension, as if he needs the suburban loser or his wife to tell him the right reaction to the situation. The skin from his chest to his stomach is flayed and hanging off his body in flakes and strips. Dirt and pebbles stick to his bloody flesh. On their way to the hospital, they pass the Goped overturned next to a high curb, the engine still running. In the waiting room, the suburban loser sits next to his wife, tapping his feet. She blames him for buying the GoPed for their youngest son, when really she should be blaming her own brother for having the barbecue in the first place, or maybe the guy at the scooter store who didn't tell the suburban loser how fast that thing could really go. But what type of kid rides such a powerful machine without bothering to wear a shirt in the first place.