Whisper in the Dark

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It was a pretty uneventful night until the naked lady tried to kill him.

Dubosky was just coming off a twenty-hour shift, had just dropped off a couple of Latino kids who had gotten frisky on his backseat, when he decided to forgo the usual last lap around the neighborhood and head straight for the cab shack.

His dispatcher, Freddy, a waste of space if there ever was one, was on the radio trying to get him to respond.

“Hey, numbnuts, I got another pickup for you.”

Dubosky ignored him.

He couldn’t count the number of times he’d heard that phlegm-throttled voice telling him to get his ass in gear, telling him he was one step away from the unemployment line, telling him if he put even a single dent in his rig, it was coming out of his own pocket.

Numbnuts, huh?

Fuck him. And fuck this job, too.

Dubosky didn’t know whether it was age or sheer exhaustion that made him feel this way, but after eighteen years on what seemed like an endless circling of the city, he was ready to crash this friggin’ rig, grab a shotgun, and start blasting away.

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