Ubud Nights

When I left the cafe, the wheels were missing on my bicycle. The Ubud Jackal had struck again.

In the last two years hundreds of bicycles have been stolen, stripped, or vandalized in some way by the Jackal. I always thought he was merely an urban legend, a specter thought up to explain the rash of damaged bikes around town, until I stumbled upon him in action one unlucky night.

Months later, I still have scratch and burn marks. The funny thing is, even after his attack, I never got a clear look at his face.

I visited a lead at the Kuta mall. A small-time bicycle part dealer on the side, A.C. Slater was sitting at his electronics stand when I arrived. Upon my mentioning the Jackal he leapt into a sprint. I shouldn’t have caught him, but a group of women fearfully eyeing the escalator entrance obstructed Slater’s escape.

“Give it up—before it gets ugly,” Slater sneered as I pressed him against the wall.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. Don’t want to know. We—he communicated by notes. He told me where the parts were, and I’d leave the money. There’s a warehouse, but I promise the place is clean.”

I arrived at a small abandoned warehouse just before sunset. Immediately, I knew something wasn’t right. I felt it in my feet. The ground was loose—too loose. I dug a little with my hands and found a set of handlebars. Another area of ground seemed similarly loose. I went there and found a wheel.

A bicycle graveyard. The Jackal was more demented than I thought. Stealing parts for the black market is one thing, but it was another thing to bury bike components like chopped human body parts.

Suddenly I felt heat across my forehead. A razor. He’d snuck up from behind. The gash was not dangerous, but bloody. I couldn’t see him leave through the blood in my eyes.

I began to understand. He didn’t care about money—only power. Power over the hearts and minds of Ubud’s people. Power to make the night restless.