Whats fair in fares - 5 minute fiction
Part 7 in 5 Minute fiction – Using the first idea that comes to mind getting inspiration from a phrase given to you by a 3rd person.
Whats fair in fares - 5 minute fiction belongs to the following groups:
SydneyRigby’s ass stuck to the cheap vinyl seat as he sank down and shut the door, muting the squabble of street noise. The car stank of sweat, air freshener and old spice. The driver spoke to him with his eyebrows through the rear view mirror, hairy arches up into the hairline that was universal for ‘where to?’
“Hotel. Crab Street.” Rigby heard himself say, and suddenly they were off. The city bled past the window outside, all metal and concrete and gaudy bright lights. But Rigby noticed none of it, instead focusing solely on the small flag dangling from his fingertips. Someone had given it to him earlier, Martha maybe? He wasn’t sure. All he remembered was it being pressed into his hands and a voce saying it was for luck.
Luck, he mused. Luck was checked at the door along with coats, umbrellas and depleted copies of the Herald. Luck wouldn’t have helped him in there. Those bastards turned on him like jackals, and he remembered bitterly all the promises he’d counted on leading up to it. All the veneer smiles and papery handshakes, sharp collars and breathe mint lies. God how they’d turned. Rigby let the flag drop to the sticky cab flor and loosened off his neck tie.
“To hell with it.” He said, met by a set of eyes in a mirror. “I didn’t give two honky shits about that bill in the first place.” Rigby stared out the window without seeing and though miserably of the small mini bar waiting for him at the end of this trip. Thought about its mini bottles and mini ice. It wouldn’t do at all and he knew it. Not on a night like this.
“Say, whares a good place for a drink?” He asked the driver.
“A drink? Plenty of bars. Plenty. Guess it depends what you’re after.” He replied. Rigby clicked open his brief case and sifted through the paperwork, all letter heads and double spaces that he no longer gave a good goddamn for, and pulled a yellow folder out on his lap.
“Something quiet? Dinner maybe?” The cabbie asked. “You got Borlium’s on Market, that’s a nice quiet place. Good food.” Rigby delicately opened the folder and let his watery eyes dance over the contents, reading words that spilt into a jumble of doom. Malignant. Chemotherapy. Non-operable.
‘Wonderful’ Rigby thought. ‘God really is sticking it to me right in the ass.’
“What about something a little more colourful?” Rigby asked.
“Colourful?”
“Yeah colourful. Two words friend, ‘Titties’ and ‘Beer.’” The cabbie smiled and checked his mirrors before indicating a sharp right to where the lights are a little brighter and the windows that much darker.
3rd party phrase: the Bill had jsut been defeated in the house of representitives and Senator Rigby thought his night couldnt get any worse until he got the news that his hemmeroids were diagnosed as malignant tumours.
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