Actually, my beloved bike was stolen since I don't anticipate a ransom.
I was returning home from seeing a play around 10 last night when I noticed a late-model Jeep carrying two white guys with short-cropped hair idling near my car. I hit the alarm to let them know I was watching them (just in case my standing in the middle of the road wasn't enough) and they sped off.
This morning, on my way to a funeral, I saw my Diamondback hybrid was missing. They must have cut both locks. Looking here and yon, there weren't any other bikes hanging from their HOA-mandated hooks either. I walked over to the police station next door, but they were closed for the holiday. On the phone, I was told to use an online form to report the crime. I also was told there wasn't much chance of finding my bike and no one was interested in what I witnessed hours before the theft.
This is the second time since moving next to a police station last summer that I've been the victim of crime. The first was when my debit card was skimmed at the Mobil gas station behind the police building. Given how swell things are going, I doubt this will be the last time either. I must now deal with my orphaned Trek helmet and all those miscellaneous bike parts in various closets.
Good-bye, Penelope. I won't be replacing you any time soon.