Satan's Cab Company

Getting hit on the head so many times in the past twenty four hours would lead any average person to their couch. They would crawl up with a soft blanket and lay their fragile head onto a chunky pillow of crushed ice. Remaining there, numbing out for an indefinate amount of time with a book or a dialed down television flickering off of their frowning face only to inevitably awake in a warm puddle of disorientation hours later.

But that just wasn't for Marty. After all, if a smack on the head meant something, and it certainly does, then multiple smacks to his own head and the witnessing of smacks to other heads must absolutely be the grand work of some seriously, monumentally groundbreaking, mentally striking stuff! Right? So you will excuse Marty if all he wants to do is find the recent apple of his eye, the redheaded beauty, recalled in his jostled memory often and fondly so as to get to the bottom of all of this head smacking activity.

Katie, hah, why can't I picture her without a seductive wind carefully splaying her flirtatious red tendrils?

His thoughts, recently Frisbee, stapler, and bag of money rattled as they were, were focused primarily on the mystery that surrounded Katie and his own blossoming infatuation with her. She swam in his thickening head-struck-haze amidst a hurricane of sexy hair dashing wind.

Marty punched the numbers to Carl's Cab Company,1-800-666-CABS, lethargically, feeling like he was phoning Satan for a ride home from jail. Perhaps its not the first time the devil has answered this call. Marty thinks. They really need to change that unfortunate number. On the other hand, my head feels like hell, so maybe this is the right cab service for me. Maybe they'll put me in their commercial as Marty: the meat-headed mascot with the headache from hell... who are you going to call? Carl's Cab! They could prop me up in the back seat and brand 666 on my forehead, filling in the rest of the phone number with computerized, fire enhanced, flashing numerals as I drool from brain injury. That's the kind of sarcasm drunk college kids would really take to-- who in which most likely comprise the bulk of their business being so closely located to campus.

The cab arrived in a timely fashion and Marty climbed in totally forgetting about his funny commercial proposal. It smelled of leather and the unmistakable stench of vomit and Febreeze. Marty's head swirled as he cushioned in. The cab driver strained an eye over his shoulder and spoke fast with a faint sense of humor overpowered by urgency.

"No pants today, kid? Get out of the cab if yurr gonna puke. I mean it, or I promise you I won't be pleasant."

Marty lazily peers down and greets his well-loved crazy striped boxer shorts, floored by his own lack of self awareness. The driver's voice faded away promptly. Marty's eyesight blurred and his face paled to white, collapsing in a strange, rump-in-air sprawl, as his consciousness deflated from under him. He was out cold and out of time, lost in the backseat of Satan's cab. His blotchy thoughts flew like fire-flies-- little circling lights of memories afloat in the dark recesses of his mind. The smacks to the head had finally caught up to him, and the hits, relentlessly, kept on coming.

The End

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