Seatbelt clicks. 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. 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. Midnights on the all-night Yonge bus. I’m living the life!
Second stop, four more. They all look the same. Third stop. One, two, three, four, yes good evening to you, too, five, six, damn! Look at this beautiful bitch! I have about 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! I try to decide how old Miss Beauty Queen is. 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 like that wasted on these young fucks that don’t know what to do with their peckers. Goddamn.
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. That’s possible. Lucky sonofabitch. Oh shit. Maybe she’s a he! 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. Anyway. She gets off at Wellesley. Well that was exciting. Helped me get through ten whole fucking minutes. I check the clock. Two thirty in the morning. What I’d do to that sweet little bitch.