Taxi ride of death

Just endured the most harrowing taxi ride ever. In just 20 minutes, I was maimed four times and killed twice. The cabbie, whom I suspect enjoys watching Speed Racer, drove at speeds which I did not know a taxi capable of. He weaved constantly in and out of traffic, missing the cars in front and on either side by mere inches. The way he turned, you’d have thought that there was nothing between the clutch and the accelerator but another accelerator. Death waited patiently for me at every corner – until the cabbie ran him over. And during one particularly close shave, I even reaccepted Christ as my supreme divine saviour. (Of course, this was quickly rescinded – no one wants to go to Heaven as a hypocrite.)

Anyway, while I was busy changing religions, the cabbie hardly blinked. He just sped on and on, diving out of one lane and into the next with unflinching ease. Once or twice, he looked in the mirror to see if I was dead and, upon discovering that I wasn’t, went even faster to ensure that I would be.

Still, for someone who was intent on killing me, he was exceedingly polite, constantly referring to me as “Sir” and asking which routes I’d like to take. I probably would have appreciated this more if the G-forces hadn’t plastered my face to the window.

I knew he was having me on, though. While taking one bend about 120km/h too quickly, he reached for the handbrake and I caught him surreptitiously looking in the rear view mirror to see if I’d gone white, which I had. And then he smiled ever so slightly. “Is that fast enough, Sirrrr? Bwahahahahahaha!" The bastard. He might’ve had his moment of glory but I will have the last laugh because, tonight, he’ll be cleaning his backseat.