With hands still soft, though stained with tar (one nail grown long for when I go home), I turn the wheel as if displeased and double up the customers’ unease their dread.
I hear them talk in a foreign tongue (as if I could mistake their tone!). Some rich boy tries to cut off me. I deal with him with a burst of speed — then dead.
And what a disappointing thing: my final sound these foreigners’ screams. They hit the seats, the scene completes, I finally sleep along the street bled.