Greg was irate. It had been the second time in a week he had been cut off like that. His car recovered from the swerve, the offending gaggle of cyclists barely paid him notice. He pulled into a nearby service station, checked his tyre. All seemed alright.

“Those pricks think they own the roads,” he said loud enough for a nearby man to hear.

“Yep, like a plague.”

The men agreed while others looked past their conversation including two Lycra clad bike riders who looked Greg up and down as he entered the service station. A pair of police officers were entering as he was leaving, Greg nodded and greeted them with friendly sincerity. He was fond of the hard working boys in blue. He had grown up being told to trust and respect them, his traditional values ensured he still did.

Later that night Greg sat on the couch, flipping through his phone. The social media feed gorged him with random and cultivated images and clips. A short video of cyclists cutting off a semi trailer truck caught his eye. They rode on while the truck crashed into a tree. He could not help himself, he shared the video with a comment, “these bloody cyclists think they own the roads. Enough is enough!”

Later that night Greg was about to set himself to bed. It had been a long day. In his seventies, his dear wife had passed away three years earlier. A photo of her watched over him as he smiled in it’s direction. He looked at a collection of her rare dinner plates she had restored, they belonged to her mother and were precious to his wife. Now to him.

He yawned while he flicked through the channels, fifteen stations of the same thing. His empty screen gaze was broken by heavy knocks on his front door. His heart pounded, carefully he walked to answer, robe concealing his naked torso and faded pair of underwear.

“Greg Smith? Police, can you please open your door regarding a post you made earlier this evening.”

Greg complied. Four police officers stood armed and ominously in his front porch, “can I help you?” he asked.

The senior constable, a burly man with twenty years of service held up a printed paper inside a plastic sleeve. It was Greg’s post from earlier in the night.

“At approximately seven PM this evening, someone from your account made an offensive and intimidating post, was this person you?” The senior constable asked.

Greg nodded, “yes.”

“After a responsible member of the Bike Riders Awareness Group reviewed this post, they concluded that it was hurtful and contained elements of hatred. They felt intimidated and in danger from this post. We are now placing you under arrest.”

“But I have done nothing wrong,” Greg defended.

A female officer, much shorter than the senior constable stepped closer with a hand on her sidearm, “at around two pm, while entering the Lamewank petrol station did you mutter the comments, ‘Those pricks think they own the roads’. In reference to nearby cyclists?”

As two police officers secured his hands behind his back he replied, “Um, I may have but they cut me off. They blocked my car and I had to swerve.”

“A minor traffic incident like that is hardly cause to use hateful words, you are aware of the implications of your speaking?” the female officer said.

“No, not really,” Greg frowned.

“You are under arrest for a hate crime. A review board will consider your situation. We will take you into custody for a period of up to forty-eight hours.”

“Do I get a lawyer?”

“No, due to the severe nature of your words and how much it hurt the feelings of a responsible member of the targeted community, you will not be allowed any legal council. A review officer will consider your case and severity of what you have done.”

“But, it’s a free country, don’t I have rights. I didn’t hurt anyone,” Greg pleaded as he was stuffed into the back of the lockable cell of the police panel wagon.

“The price of living in a free society is obeying it’s laws. Offensive and hateful speech is akin to terrorism.”

The police left his house unlocked for the two days he was inside their prison cells. He returned home, tired, confused and sore. He had been handed a caution and a fine, any further offences of such a nature would result in severe jail time. He found his house a mess, belongings stolen and his personal effects vandalised. He sat with sadness as he looked at his wife’s photo ripped among the pieces of shattered dinner wear. He felt a terrible sadness as he picked up her picture, then delicately placed her mothers precious dinner wear into a container.

When he filed his police report about the robbery of his home, he was told, “it’s unlikely we will locate the offenders as they are likely long gone. Perhaps in the future you may find it wise to lock up your house.”

Greg sat at his phone later that evening with a sense of dread. He was unsure what he could look at, what he was allowed to say. He deleted his social media and turned the television on, he would watch the State approved stations and hide inside of his home. He was too old to fight and but one man. He did not know what he could or could not do any more. He felt hurt, in pain and sad.

Later that week while he drove his car, a bike rider cut him off, Greg looked the other way and pretended as if it never happened. He thought what he might say, mumbling inside his own mouth, “those pricks.”

A police car drove past a moment later, “fuck you cunts too,” he whispered with a hatred he had never before felt.