[ WP ] You 're a taxi driver . One day a mysterious passenger asks you to drive him to his destination via a certain haunted road .

I wake up. Shower, eat, stare blankly at the wall where the TV used to be. 
 I look at my watch. 3:34 AM. I stare at the wall. I drum my fingers on the counter. I look at the empty bottle on the counter and then dart my eyes away. 3:35. Fuck it. I grab my keys and clock in for another shift on my phone on the way out of the door. 
 
 
 The soulless yellow bucket of bolts in my driveway greets me with a blink of it's foggy headlights as I click the doors unlocked. Even another day drifting through the streets, generating a meager income as a pathetically apathetic observer into the lives of those around me beats sitting at home expecting them to come back. What day is it? I check my phone. Sunday. 6 days they've been gone. I twist my melancholic mechanical monster into life. The sound of the thing is like the earth wheezing its last breaths, perfectly encompassing the slow death with which the greed of man has cursed the earth. 
 
 After 3 there's no business to be had anywhere remotely respectable. Anyone with a normal job or real responsibilities is at home, asleep in a house full of family and love. The rest of us are out here doing something we probably should n't be. If I get lucky, it's a night of escorts kicked out by their clients post-afterglow and alcoholics with more money than sense. If I'm unlucky it's some punk with a gun, the loss of the $ 50 I leave in my wallet, and a small sense of satisfaction that I get knowing that none of them have yet found the actual money in my socks, and of course another unanswered report mailed to the cab company. 
 
 
 Tonight it's different. Strange. Not even the usual suspects prowling the corners and alleys. I coast down Mckeele through the post-rain fog and there's not a soul in sight. Everybody must be resting up for church in the morning. I manage a smile at the thought. I turn a corner and see a man in one of those 80s detective trenchcoats push through a doorway and wave me down. 
 
 `` Just in time.'' 
 He flashes me a smile. 
 
 
 `` Where to?'' 
 
 
 `` Hold on a sec.'' 
 He goes back into the doorway, then returns a few moments later dragging one of those big-ass hockey bags. 
 
 `` Pop the trunk.'' 
 I pop the trunk with a familiar clunk, and the man heaves the bag inside and slams it shut before getting into the back seat. I look at him through my rearview. 
 
 `` Where to?'' 
 
 He gives me a quizzical look. 
 
 `` How long have you been doing this?'' 
 
 `` Long enough. Where to?'' 
 
 He smiles. `` 63 Woodsmouth.'' 
 
 I punch it into my GPS. It's a ways out of town. 
 
 `` I'm assuming you can pay for this Columbo.'' 
 
 He looks at me for a second before giving a hearty laugh. 
 
 `` I like you.'' 
 
 I start driving. The fog makes it hard to see but the streets are empty. The writer falls asleep. 
 
 *I'll finish this after I get some rest*
