The Adventures Of Campy Girlymann Continues

The cobblestone street that Campy walked echoed the clatter his bike shoes made. The  shadows were strong on the small street and crept up one side of the shops and apartments along the way.  With the debris that blew about from the frantic fans of the Tour, it gave the rue an emptied appearance.
Girlymann was still in a daze over the disappearance of his bike, as if he was missing his right hand when suddenly he entered the court yard of the of the town's plaza. Almost everyone had left the staging area except for the cleanup crew. Campy looked for a familiar face in what was left of the crowd but instead, once he was recognized, the stares back were of anger.

For the first time, Campy felt unwelcome, and he didn't understand why. His confusion worsened, not sure as to go back to the cafe and see what Pierre came up with, or to ask people if they saw anyone with a blue and yellow De Rosa. He walked to a group nearby who seemed ambivalent toward Campy.

"Bonjour, gentelmen, did you enjoy the race?"

A man with a German accent, dressed, as the others, conservatively with tie and coat answered, "Yes, very much, especially to see the Belgian win. And you, were in the race, yes?"

"No, I'm not with any team."

"I see. You must be Campy Girlymann. We asked, when everyone talked of the upset and how it happened."

Girlymann felt his face go red, in the excitement of the challenge, he had caused an upset in the race dear to the French.  "I guess I owe an apology,"

"Well, not to us, we were quite pleased to see the Belgian domestic win the stage. Jean Claude lost a few seconds and the Yellow Jersey. But he will get it back, I'm sure."

"I should apologize to Jean Claude then."

"Well, Herr, Girlymann, this was his home town. I'm surprised you are still here, you were not talked about in, how should I say this, a friendly way."

Campy now realized just how fucked he made things. He smiled at the German and said,  "I'd get out of Dodge but my bike is missing."

"Ah, well my friend, you are in some trouble. Good luck, in finding your bike and you might, how do the cowboy say--lay low for a while."

The Germans began to speak to each other in German and ignored Campy who was now, persona-non-grata. Girlymann turned to go back to the street that he came from and noticed that a crowd was forming near the plaza's fountain, they were looking back at him and none too pleased.

Campy walked to the cobblestone street as quick as he could and as discreet as  possible, if that could be possible when clad in bike shorts, bright jersey and flowing locks of hair. When he rounded the corner, the sun had set and clothed Campy in darkness. He quickened his pace just as the last rays of the  sun left.

The clatter of his shoes seemed louder than before, the wind had died and Campy kept an eye out for the lights of the Noir Chat Cafe when, from a doorway, a large man appeared and beamed Campy with a club. He felt at first stunned and then the cobblestones came into view next to his face before he lost consciousness.

To be continued.....