In the backseat there’s a traffic accident waiting to happen. Three hot properties are locked in a tongue twist of epic erotic proportions, enticing me to keep an eye off the road but rather locked in the rear-view mirror. “Are you enjoying this?” inquires one, while coming up for air. I just nod and smile. “Perhaps we’ll get a nice discount?” “Perhaps,” I reply. Then the groping starts. I avert my eyes from the fiery femmes and turn them to the road ahead, struggling to think about old people and waste treatment. Or old people engaged in waste treatment.
A couple emerges from a dinner party. The woman is souped up to the breaking point. Struggling to retain her dinner, she hangs her head out the open window and delivers verbal abuse to her long-suffering mate. He’s taking it with a pinch of salt and merely interjects the odd consoling comment while rubbing her shoulders. Then the inevitable happens. She turns to fire off some final derisive blow, but instead erupts in a red geyser of strawberry vomit. Her indiscretion settles like a pool of blood on the backseat covers, oozing the smell of digestive acid and red-hot shame. I get these fuckers home at double the speed limit and keep the meter ticking as the boyfriend goes to work with a sponge and a bucket of hot water, egging him on with some Pig Destroyer blasting at hyper speed on the stereo turned up to an ear-shattering volume.
Minister for Foreign Affairs Össur Skarphéðinsson enters my cab bound for a party at the American Embassy. Not worth mentioning, were it not for the fact that the right honourable Mr. Skarphéðinsson lives within walking distance and this is back when we were approaching the $200 oil barrel. Furthermore the Prime Minister had just the previous day recommended through national media that people resort to walking our biking whenever possible. Since this reeks of wasted tax money I ask Össur, arguably our coolest Minister of anything, to date, if he’s in the habit of ignoring his closest superior. “Oh, you’d rather not have the fare?” replies the Minister of witty retorts. “Touché”, is all I can come up with.
Outside Q Bar two gay men enter, one of who had recently achieved his allotted 15 minutes of fame for shaking his awesome girth in the music video for a Eurovision song contest entry. Shit was hella funny I admit, so the sexual rewards he has coming to him inside my cab are well earned. Unfortunately I have not a smidge of bi-curiosity in me, so the face sucking taking place on the way to the boy’s house does not distract like the aforementioned encounter.
Apparently his hook-up is soon put off as well, as no amount of enticement will lure him inside for what I can only assume would’ve been a close encounter of the anal kind. Instead we about face right back to Q Bar, where he might scout an alternate piece of ass.
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