Dan Tells Me a Story at 4 a.m. While We Wait for Our Cabs

So I’m up in the fucking foothills and I get a call over the computer, that little beep comes on to tell me a fare is in my area. We never know what we’re getting into, do we, just the general area of the call, that’s it. Could be fucking Charles Manson for all we know. Still, naturally I accept it; there’s just not enough calls to reject one, you know that. You accept them and you take your chances.

The address is way out in zone 584, which isn’t where I’m at at all, I’m in fucking zone 457! You know how the dispatch system does this sometimes, these mistakes, but I figure what the hell, I go for it. Takes me 25 minutes to get there, and I can’t find the place at first, my GPS system takes me straight at a brick wall and insists I go through it. That female computer voice of the GPS navigator is always sending me down dead ends. Reminds me of my ex wife, ha ha. They might as well program that voice to say, “Turn right in a half mile on Grant Road, you worthless idiot.” Ha ha. Anyway, I find a way around it and find the other part of the road and find the right address.

It’s a fancy house like all the houses up there, those rich fucks and their fancy houses, but the first thing I notice is a burrito laying in the yard. It’s just laying there half open, chicken it looks like.

Then I notice other things in the yard: lettuce, carrots, something that looks like oatmeal, a freezer pizza, all just thrown about. What the fuck? I think. I try to call the number but of course there’s no answer. So I get out of the cab and head for the door, I mean, hell, I drove all the way up there. As I’m walking to the door I see other things in the yard: a pile of Tums, beans, rice, a broken bag of flour, an opened can of ravioli, some broccoli, and other things too.

I knock on the door and a lady comes and opens it half way. She’s very short and old and has a cigarette in her mouth about 2 feet long. Whacko! I think.

“I can’t come outside,” she says.

“What?”

“I can’t come outside, someone is trying to poison me.”

“Don’t you need a cab?”

“I need you to go to Walgreen’s for me,” she says. “I need some Bling H2O and some cigarettes. Marlboro Lights.”

She stuffs 50 bucks in my hand.

Shit. So, ok, I drove all the way up there after all. I head down to Walgreen’s which is only about a mile away and go in there. I leave the meter on of course.

Turns out Bling H2O is just bottled water, so I grab some of that. Then I wander around and look at some magazines, go to the bathroom, you know, to get that meter up a bit. Then I go to the counter.

I’m not a smoker so I don’t know about this shit, but I guess there’s a few kinds of Marlboro Lights. So I call the whackjob up. She answers this time. What kind of Marlboro’s you want? 100’s, she says. I tell the clerk. 100’s are the long kind. Learn something new every day.

Well the water and cigarettes are 9 bucks, and when I get back out to the cab the meter still only says 17 dollars, by the time I get back to her house it says 22.

I knock on the door again, standing there with my little sack. She opens up, and I give her a five. I kind of peek into the house and I can see the floor is covered in what looks like Cheerios. Must have been 20 boxes of Cheerios I swear to God, they were like an ankle deep. She was wading through them in her house slippers.

“Where’s the rest of my change?” she says.

“That’s it,” I say. “9 bucks for your crap, 22 for the trip and 10 for being your little errand boy.”

She scowls. “But that’ 41.”

For a nutbag she sure knew her math. I peel off 4 ones and thrust them at her. Some people.

She closes the door and I go back to my cab, looking at the spinach and the fish sticks and the bread thrown around in the yard. The javelinas are gonna have a feast, I think. Then I see a can of coffee there. I pick it up, it’s half full. Folger’s. So I take it with me, why not. Shit, maybe it’s poisoned, maybe it’ll kill me, put me out of my fuckin’ misery. But it wasn’t, I drank some this morning, tasted pretty good.

So, how was your day yesterday? You make any money, or what?

Pretty Girls

One college night, Stacy sat at a small café counter in little white shorts, her legs long and fresh. She licked at an ice cream cone, lapping around its edges, her tongue dappled creamy white. Her friend Nancy was dressed more modest, in jeans and a low-cut sweater. She ate a banana split with a spoon, slowly cutting into it like a soft phallus. The two of them sat on their stools together, swiveling like schoolgirls and laughing.

“But Mark has such a huge cock!” Stacy whispered to Nancy. They covered their mouths to keep from spitting.

Nancy swallowed, then whispered to Stacy, “Johnny has rhythm, but he always wants to titty fuck. God, I can’t stand it much longer! My heart’s gonna bruise!” She put a hand over her chest as they both cracked up and ice cream dribbled down their chins.

Meanwhile, the owner of the café was busy washing dishes back in the kitchen, periodically turning an ear (and an eye) their way.

“Well,” Stacy said, “you think that’s bad, once Mark was giving it to me doggystyle and he slapped me in the back of the head! Called it a donkey-punch!” They both keeled over, dying.

As Stacy regained her composure, she locked eyes with her BFF and had one of those weird moments where she wished she was bi.

Then, cone in hand, she looked over at the tables lining the wall where a lean, older man sat in a frayed, dirty green coat. The bright lights reflected in his dark sunglasses, and long strands of greasy salt and pepper hair hung around his ears. The only other customer in the late-night café, he stared steadily at Stacy, slowly drawing on a cigarette with perfect, unwavering accuracy, though his gaze never seemed to leave her naked legs.

Stacy quickly swivelled in her stool so her legs were beneath the counter, out of the man’s line of sight.

Nancy studied her disgusted expression and asked, “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“That guy,” Stacy said, her voice barely a whisper. “Behind us, in the sunglasses. He’s been… watching me.”

Nancy pretended to brush a loose hair from her shoulder and casually glanced over. The man took another drag off his cigarette, its tip flaring like a smoldering eye, and blew the smoke her way. She pretended to focus her attention out the window at the passing traffic.

And under the table, had she really seen it? The man rubbing his crotch?

“Creepy…” she said, cringing as they both sat with their backs to him.

It was then that the owner ambled out from the kitchen and began to wipe the counters. He leaned over and whispered to the young ladies, “Be careful with that one over there. He’s a real kook…”

Nancy slowly pushed her banana phallus away with disgust. Meanwhile, Stacy’s ice cream had begun to melt; it wove around her fingers.

“What’re we gonna do?” Nancy asked. “I’m sick of old sick fucks… Remember what happened to Clara, in that alley? How’re we gonna to get home?”

“Uh, I know,” Stacy answered. “The dorms are seven blocks away, but I don’t think he’ll be able to catch us if we run…”

The owner was walking all around the café now, cleaning off tables before close. As he approached the man’s table, the man said, “Get me a beer for the wait, would yuh?”

“Sure thing, mister,” the owner replied. “What yuh waitin’ on, anyway?”

“Heaven,” the man said, still facing the two college girls.

Bustling off with an armload of dishes, the owner cast a sidelong glance at them on his way back to the kitchen.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Stacy gasped.

Before Nancy could reply, the owner came back around and brought the man his beer.

Still staring at the girls, the man grabbed it off the table without even looking down. And then, draining it in several slow, steady chugs, he licked his lips, set the empty bottle down, and took another long drag off his cigarette.

“What’re we going to do?” Nancy squealed, pulling down the back of her top to make sure her thong wasn’t showing. “Just leave?”

Stacy chanced a quick glance outside. “There’s a gas station across the street,” she said. “We can run over there and watch to make sure he doesn’t follow us. If he does, we’ll call the fucking cops.”

Nancy faltered for a moment, then gave Stacy the briefest of nods.

“We’ll just leave it on the counter!” she called to the owner as they jumped up and bolted for the door. “Keep the change!”

Jaywalking between headlights, flashing by in the misty night, together they made it past the pumps, through the parking lot, and into the safety of the gas station. They pretended to peruse the shelves, periodically glancing back at the brightly lit café where the man still sat, unmoving at this table.

“He’s not getting up,” Nancy said.

“Let’s stick around a little longer,” Stacy said, “just in case.”

And they did, until they saw the man slowly begin to rise from his seat, pulling something long and knob-shaped from between his legs.

“Is that his cock!?” Stacy gasped as the attendant glanced their way.

“No…” Nancy laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. “It’s his cane…”

Tapping it from side to side, combing the floor for obstacles before him, the man set off in the general direction of the cafe’s entrance. The owner came around the counter and took him by the arm, gently guiding him out and closing the door behind him.

Once outside, the man waited on the curb until a car pulled up and took him away.

The girls giggled hysterically, embarrassed by how wrong they’d read the situation. Once they’d regained their composure, they decided to just forget about it, instinctively wandering over to the magazine racks for some much-needed distraction.

Meanwhile, back in the café, the owner flipped over the closed sign, then proceeded to shut off the lights. There would be no more customers for the night, so he undid his apron, removed his cap, and went back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up.

The girls bought a magazine with a shirtless pop singer on its cover. Together they strolled out of the gas station, smiling despite themselves. Traffic had slowed down quite a bit. It was getting late.

As they began their walk back to campus, Stacy couldn’t help but glance back at the café they’d previously just escaped with their lives.

Suddenly she stopped and grabbed Nancy by the arm.

“Look…” she said, pointing.

Inside the darkened café, there was owner, sniffing the stools they’d been sitting on.

Best Bra Ever

Hippie Manson freaks wrote in their victims’ blood—

PIG
DEATH TO PIGS
RISE

—but there was no blood, so he couldn’t do that. He didn’t stab or slash, didn’t care for the mess. Strangulation was his thing. It was more intimate, watching them slip away as he tightened the garrote. There was nothing like it in the world.

Still, he always tagged the wall: pentagram, inverted cross, 666. He kept a canister of black spray paint in his kit. He wanted to shock and offend. In fact there was nothing satanic about his motivations. He just liked to kill women, rape them and kill them. It was a compulsion, a savage force within.

The rapes had started years ago. But like an alcoholic, his tolerance had gotten higher and higher until that was no longer enough. Murder was inevitable.

Now, spray paint in hand, he stood there in the bedroom eyeing the wall above her headboard. He started to spray the number of the beast, but decided against this. As much as he liked the occult angle, he had to admit it was getting a bit stale.

Something fresh was needed. But nothing would come. He was at a loss. The white wall mocked him. So this is writer’s block, he thought, peering at the surface with mounting frustration.

Maybe a snack would help. It was part of his M.O., raiding the victim’s kitchen for food and beer. For some reason the media had made a big deal about this. He had no idea why.

He opened the fridge and smiled. Beer and a fresh loaf of bread, egg salad, pickles, any and every condiment a person could want. He made a sandwich, took it and a beer into the living room where he dropped into a plush sofa.

She had a large, wall-mounted flat-screen. Remote in hand, he leaned back and surfed. Fifty zillion channels and not a goddamned thing worth watching.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

He ate his sandwich and nursed the beer, blazing through program after program. Shit, nothing but shit. Until…

Some high-maintenance blonde was modeling a bra for three other high-maintenance blondes, all of whom had gym-toned figures and perfect TV teeth. They talked on and on about the bra, its remarkable features, what made it superior to other bras on the market.

“This truly is,” one of the blondes said, “the best bra ever.”

He actually choked on his beer when he heard it. Suds dribbling from his mouth, he hacked and coughed and slapped his knee before finally regaining his composure. He couldn’t believe it. That his problem had been solved by an infomercial was just too much.

He got up from the sofa, leaving the bottle on the table. They could swab it all they wanted, but it wouldn’t matter. He had never been arrested, never even gotten a lousy speeding ticket. His DNA wasn’t in the system.

Entering her bedroom with purposeful strides, he grabbed the spray paint from the nightstand and shook it vigorously. Ball bearings clicked and clacked. He raised the canister to the wall. And pressed the nozzle…

BEST BRA EVER

After it was done, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. Perfect, absolutely perfect.

He regarded his victim on the bed. “What do you think, baby? Fucking hilarious, huh…”

Of course it was a different make and model, the bra wrapped around her neck.