Ride of Fear

Just one out of a hundred on the busy street, the cab pulled to a stop and I placed my luggage inside. I barely glanced at the driver, but spoke my destination clearly the momentum of the cab taking off thrusts me back into the seat. I hastily fastened my seatbelt, fear of the cabbies driving only a small concern.

Glancing out the side window was exhilarating; this was my first trip to San Francisco and I was going to have so much fun. As the gay ‘Mecca’, it held so much promise and excitement. Some of the men on my agenda I had met in online chat rooms, but most were just fantasies and expectations of the perfect man.

Looking forward, I notice the driver for the first time. His hair covered, muscular arm draped the seat in front of me almost completely. His fist was clenching and unclenching, I could see the veins in his forearm throb with each tightening of his fist. A baseball hat covered his head, attempting to hide or control the black, wiry, mess below it. He was wearing large sunglasses, mid 70s style with wire frames; they managed to conceal his eyes and almost mask his face.

A feeling of danger emanates from him, I didn’t notice when I first entered the cab, intent on my own excursion I didn’t consider my own safety at all. I glance up at the rearview mirror to try to gauge his expression and catch his attention; a dark grin escapes his lips.

The fist strikes swiftly, flying straight back into my face, blood starts to spurt from my nose. Pain is dampened by fear, I barely notice the throbbing as escape and retribution come to the forefront of my mind. I barely see the fist move toward me again when everything goes black…

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