Flash-fiction 02: Bus driver (FINAL FINAL REVISION I MEAN IT)

The click of the seatbelt is the start of the misery. The brooding. The automatic pilot. The get me through this repetitive, mind-numbing BULLSHIT.

First stop. Five on. I always count. It’s become a thing. Gives my rotting brain a little something to do. Counting passengers. Woo wee! Well it’s one of the tricks.

Look at me, Coach! You said I had a future in football but instead I have all THIS! Ha ha ha! Who’s laughing now, huh? Look at me now, Coach! LOOK AT ME NOW!

Then there’s the coffee runs when you’re ahead of the clock. So you run in somewhere and grab a coffee. For something to do. The coffee’s always shit. And it doesn’t do a damn thing to help the monotony. Or the anger. The hopelessness. Midnights on the all-night Yonge bus.

I’m living the life!

Second stop, four more. They all look the same. What the fuck. Do the women have to pass an ugly test to buy a bus pass these fucking days?

These fucking days. THESE FUCKING YEARS!

Third stop. One, two, three, four, yes good evening to you, too, five, six…

WELL, GODDDAMN!!!

Look at this beautiful bitch! I have two seconds to size her up as she deposits her fare. Three quarter length tweed jacket, open, with some dead sexy shirt and skirt combination, hooker heels and stockings that reach just above her knee. Full luscious lips and high cheekbones, the kind old cunts pay loads for in plastic surgery and only end up looking scary as fuck. Goddamn! How old is Miss Beauty Queen? I give her twenty-three. Where the hell is she off to in an outfit like that? Is this how kids dress these days? Off to a club, maybe? Fuck me! Girls did not dress like that or LOOK like that when I was young. A truly royal piece of ass. Wasted on these young fucks that don’t know what to do with their peckers.

God fucking damnit.

Fourth stop. One more on.

Or maybe she’s a hooker. Nah. Hookers don’t look like that. Call girl. Escort or whatever they’re called these days. That’s possible. Lucky sonofabitch. Oh shit. Maybe she’s a he! You never can be sure anymore in this fucking fucked up stupid shitty world! I can’t even look in the goddamn rearview mirror to get another look. No chance. Gotta watch the roads. Damn cyclists and j-walkers. The idiots are everywhere!

Whatever. Fuck her. She gets off at Wellesley. Stupid, pointless excitement. She wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire. I’m just the goddamn fucking bus driver.

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À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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