“It’s been an odd night, man. I never like dealing with the cops, but it usually means something interesting’s going on.”
“Oh yeah?” My fare doesn’t sound particularly interested, but I want to tell the story.
So I tell him about my last fare, a Vancouver bed dealer whose panel truck had broken down. Conveniently enough, it’d broken down just a couple of blocks from the crackhouse where I picked him up. He got in and fed me some bullshit about how nice the people at the house were, how they just invited him in and fed him spaghetti. But he also handed me a credit card and told me to take him to Vancouver, so off we went.
We got to his place, and the card was declined. We went to his bed store, and his key didn’t work. The locksmith refused to let him in. We went to his friend’s, and the friend wasn’t there. I called the police. One of the cops recognized him, and didn’t remember him fondly.
The guy then remembered a 400-pound woman he’d sold a bed to that lived in the complex, so he woke her up and she actually paid the fare for him.
“Yeah, that’s crazy.” I’ve completely bored my current fare. We drive in silence for a bit.
“Hey man, I was just at a party,” he says, “is it cool if I take my cock ring off?”
I don’t even blink, just shrug my shoulders. He doesn’t tip well.